The Hidden Life of Pictures

I came across a website about a photographer from the early 1900's named Mike Disfarmer. His photography focused on portraits of everyday people in the Heber Springs, AR area. When he was alive he was viewed as an odd fellow, but whenever people came to town they spiffed up to get a portrait taken. Since his death he has been discovered and celebrated. His photos are haunting, each one begging for a story to unfold. When you look at a couple you begin to wonder, "do they love each other?", "is it a utilitarian union?", and the thoughts go on and on. Many of the photos were taken during the war so there are fathers in uniforms with babies and women with children without fathers.

This same theme was repeated in Elizabeth Berg's newest novel, The Art of Mending. Three siblings in their fifties remember life growing up in their house very differently. Pictures and mental snapshots are a very important part of retracing the memories, the practice of looking into the pictures for the emotions, the body language and the hidden soul smiles as well as the quiet cries for help.

I have some of those pictures in a drawer in the armoire in my bedroom. There is the one were my younger sister and I are sitting on the concrete steps in the front of our house. She is in a stripped nautical bikini made from the 'wonderful' man-made fabrics that were ever so popular in the sixties that itched like crazy when you were wet. I'm in a plain one-piece, I was told it was because I was a thick child. We had been in the blow-up kiddy pool on the patio in the backyard and mom wanted us to come to the front step so she could take a picture of us in our bathing suits. There were pictures of every season, every event, every first day of school. These weren't candid shots, but each one was carefully and painfully choreographed and staged, capturing the perfect family that we weren't.

The concrete was as hot as a griddle and the water dripping from our fingers and toes evaporated on contact. Our little girl bottoms were frying like meat on a grill. My sister started puckering and sniffing. Her nose started running as the tears in her eye welled up. And still we waited for the perfect moment, the correct expression and the smiles that showed how 'happy' we were and how 'lucky' we were to have our new bathing suits. Four year olds are usually not capable of pulling it together and stuffing it like adults can. So, SNAP, the picture was taken, the memory preserved. I remember. There is so much I don't remember, but I do remember the pain, how I wanted to help my sister in my own helplessness. I remember being locked out of the house, because we might mess it up with the dirt and wet of summertime childhood. I remember muttering to myself the unfairnesses of life, my life, as I sat on the hot concrete in the 12', 2 ring blow up pool.

As I look at the stack of photos I struggle to pull out good memories. I know that every waking moment of my childhood was not spent in pain and unhappiness. There is the picture of my great-grandfather. He adored me. There are pictures of my grandparents. They played the game and took the perfect pictures, but my mom's mom told me truth in our special times at her house. My list of happy memories is littered with her face and touch.

I think in all things spiritual there is a balance of good and bad. Babies and children love. There is no guarantee that they will be loved. For every unloving memory I want to take the time and love myself enough to balance the scales with a picture in my mind of being loved. The memories are usually there only sometimes I need to dig through the garbage can to get to them. Almost always it is worth it.