Snap Shots

There is a photograph of my grandmother as a young girl, which was probably taken sometime in the late in the 1800's or very early 1900's. Her chin is on her fist, and she is gazing into the distance.

When I was growing up, the photo hung in my parents' room, and I would stare into her face for long stretches of time. I wondered how old she was, what she had been thinking about, what her life was like. Her mother died when she was eleven. I'm pretty sure she was younger than that in the photo. I wonder if her mother was sick for awhile before she died, if my grandmother had any inkling that she would not have her mother for long.

I find myself doing that with other old photographs, too. Doineau and Atget with their pictures of Paris. People who lived and passed, but who remain fixed in a place and time because a camera captured them on film. I think about their lives and wonder. What they ate, where they worked, whom they loved.

Snapshots of moments.

In this age of digital over-information, I speculate whether people will try that hard to extract our essence in the future. Or if there will be such a glut of movies and pictures that capture every triumph and tragedy and foolish act, to the point where future earth dwellers will become numb to this generation, what we experienced, and what we cared about.

If I am blessed to have grandchildren some day, I hope they will care. I hope they will look into the eyes of my photograph and imagine my days. And wonder about me.