They are strangers to me. I want to know why the boy, aged seven, is so weary? I want to know what casual crimes the woman with full lips and crisp white shirt committed in the name of love?
This process of trying to flesh out a history through the use of objects and photos has been a life long habit. I continually encounter new information that re-shapes my view.
My mother and father were once small, once middle aged, and now old. They had a favorite grandma, a best friend, and a childhood pet. They were made and broken by the hardships that love causes. I was part of that. Maybe I was even one of those hardships.
Their information is being lost, dispersed across time and space. They are becoming unrecognizable to me. They are outgrowing my perception. They are becoming ideas. They are becoming memory. I’m committing them to memory because it is the last safe place in which to have something.
Photos and objects are not memories. At best they elicit memory and at worst act as memory. Time is a relentless friend, always begging you to forget. Always whispering “Let it disappear”.