I have a distant memory of the distinct “ker-chunk” sound of the carousel projector my grandfather used when he wanted to reminisce with us about his memories of a time passed by long ago. A time that is marked by dog-eared tattered volumes of old plastic albums representing countless birthdays, Christmases, backyard bbq’s, confirmations, and whatever other relics of our existence that was captured between shutter clicks.
He would set up a big screen that hooked onto a tripod at one end of the living room, and we would sit huddled across the room, eating popcorn while gazing gingerly at the homemade “movie”, chuckling at his recounts of fathering 8 children. Of course grandma would sometimes chime in with a different version of that day in 1956. Ker-chunk…..ker-chunk.
I still have a big envelope full of Kodachrome slides that have been passed down to me that I hold up to a bright light every now and then, trying in vain to recapture and recreate the exact moment in time I am peering into.
My grandfather treasured those slides, although I’m not sure how often he looks at them anymore. I cannot help but wonder if these slides are lost or forgotten, how soon those memories – ten lifetimes’ worth – might be forgotten as well. Our memories fade over time without visual reminders. At what point do our memories become memories of remembering the memories? Why do we try to hold onto the past so intently?
Of course in the age of this digital revolution, I have the luxury of forever memorializing my photographs into several hundred gigs and passing them down to my children with just a click of a button, right into the electronic wilderness.
These photos can be accessed, archived, forwarded, manipulated, shared, viewed, commented on, linked to, stolen, published, criticized, interpreted, googled, twittered about, laughed at, copied, searched, gawked at, skipped over, blocked, blogged about, written about, posted elsewhere, be set to music, travel around the world, be seen my millions, archived, be turned into a digital slideshow, be printed and be deleted. All with the click of a button.
I have been using Picasa for a few months as a convenient method of sharing photos with friends and family. Photo sites like these give me the peace of mind that if I were to drop my camera into my latte, or spill my latte onto my macbook, then there would at least be one other source for recovering those precious memories. I recently started using flickr and I really admire its handy note feature that lets you comment on any object in the photos themselves.
Such a stark difference between now and the days when I would listen to my grandfather talk about yesteryear with his clicker in hand; it was an experience. Ker-chunk. I can hear his voice, picture their old house, almost smell the popcorn. I suppose my next photo archiving project should be to send my Kodachromes off to have them converted into a digital format so I can upload them to one of my photo sharing sites for posterity.
But there is a tactile relationship between those slides and my memories that take me back to a time that my macbook, even with all its innovative intent, just cannot go.
(I migrated this post over from an old blogger site)
