Lost Memories

This past weekend, C and I spent some time looking through piles and piles of old amateur photographs. We saw them at antique stores and flea markets.

Piles and piles thrown in boxes. Is there care towards their condition? When once they sat proudly in frames on mantles or snug in leather bound books, now they rough it in a sea of stranger's hands and wicker baskets.

Old polaroids with muted colors. Turn of the century prints on worn heavy stock. Family snapshots with dried paste flaking from their backs.

Four women with fake smiles pose on a finely focused beach. A man and his wife hold each other tight in a brooklyn backyard. Scenic shots from New England autumns, the Washington D.C. mall, and then exotic Austrian Alps. Portraits from the 1910s. Wedding parties from the 1920s. Automobiles from the 1930s. Picnics from the 1940s.

Serviceman under the palms in the South Pacific. Enormous oceanliners in New York City's bay. Men with pets, kids with toys and hundreds of smiles for the camera.

Each image was a memory plucked from the (mind's) eye of an individual. For nearly all of those images, the subject is as anonymous as the photographer. C looks at them and sees lost memories.

I don't disagree. I look at them and see a story bursting at the seam -- just looking for the right story teller. Sometimes these stories are true - a document of the life or circumstance or passion. Other times the stories are inspired by the cut of the cloth or the hand on the waist. They take on a life of their own. The best ones combine the two.

C wondered what it would feel like to stumble upon an image that is shockingly familiar -- perhaps a lost family member or forgotten scene. I can't even imagine what that would be like. The very thought of reaching down into these deep paper piles and pulling out my grandfather's face both fascinates and terrifies me.

But perhaps there is hope. Though these images represent memories and times that may be lost and these flat souls now live in the foster care of a weekend flea market, there are still people trying to find meaning in their light and shadows. They may never know the truth, but they will respect the memory they may never have.