Dad came to me with a box of slides from a house removal. I wasn't sure what to think? I took them, with a smile, thankful for the thought, but I wasn't really enthralled with the idea of going through some random amateurs photography collection.
I sifted, slide after slide, becoming consumed, I could see a narrative, my own, I could see people, a family? Maybe a I was making connections where there weren't any, but I saw love and moments that didn't deserve to be discarded.
I told him to bring me others. I could find a place for them, I'm sure the photographer took the photos to be shared, not to be buried.
But who was the photographer? Going through all the images I was picturing this man, he's in a lot of them see. But then if he's in them, who's taking those? Was the photographer a complete other person never depicted? I know they existed because they left their mark.
This idea of things taken to be shared being discarded as soon as the photographer died worried me. But at least these were physical objects. We can hold to the light and see their beauty.
But what of the digital archives I collected? Who would care for those? Who would find hidden meaning in the crap I make?
I stopped scanning. Not sure if I can continue. Maybe one day?