Triggering a Memory
- ronfstop
- 1 day ago
- 2 min read
"More than any other art form a photograph can trigger a memory" -- Likely not verbatim but one of the rare needles in the literary haystack of Barth's "Camera Obscura" (he takes about 50 pages of rather convoluted text to justify this, to me, obvious statement.
In any case, here are three examples.
Several (ahem) years back I cooperated with a sociologist friend on a book she titled "The Last Human Freedom". We interviewed elderly holocaust survivors not about their experiences as young people caught up in the holocaust but how those experiences and their memories of them had played out in their older lives -- in their children's and their grandchildren's lives. The grant-published book wound up at both in local and the national Holocaust Museums and was part of education kits send out to schools. Simon told us "Hitler wanted me dead but he's dead and I'm alive -- and my granddaughter is a Rabbi.
On a much lighter note:
Cynthia had a booth at the art fair in Ashland Oregon for several years. After some schmoozing she allowed me to photograph her half-hiding in one of her lovely silk dresses adorned with her hand crafted embroidery. (we bought one for our silk-loving older daughter.) I sent her a print and the following year she was, with my permission, using it in her booth.
And on a MUCH lighter note
Marvin, a long time friend, is a author, poet, violinist, art director, art historian, photographer, videographer (two of his short films are in the collection of NY/MOMA). We met when he, all out of character, was a speech writer for an executive in a local aerospace company. He had been called upon to write a short speech on a subject of which neither he nor his boss had a clue. By sheer luck he was directed to me (who did have a clue) -- and 10 minutes later we were fast friends. A mutual friend characterized him as "the least linear person I have ever known". Yep, and me one of the more linear. Until we were interrupted by the pandemic and failing health we would have lunch frequently, usually in South Lake Union. He, white hair and scarf floating, had spotted me sitting at a window table, camera at the ready -- already bubbling over with enthusiasm about whatever project was on his front burner.
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