All of these places which carry specific memories - each landscape a dreamscape, possessive in its absence, solidified in mind. Images of someone else's version of place and time – pictures taken before my birth of places in which I lived, loved, haunted. I still walk across that property, though then it was a vacant lot littered with machine shop refuse, rusty and broken things which got me in trouble when I returned home with my new Keds all marked up by soot and rust.
One picture, of the side garden, is an image of Hollyhocks which I think I remember. Or maybe I remember the picture of the Hollyhocks, the neurological copy of a copy, ever less detailed, a memory which has become my own through osmosis. Or perhaps they aren't Hollyhocks at all.
A pile of boards, the old shed, the big Maple in Spring, the Sea Wall, the salt marsh, the water. Things I remember in my own time and space, pictures made before I existed. The pathways in our brains, the connections which create the feeling “I remember this” are not complete.
We often remember images, stories from before we could possibly remember, told so many times we can taste the cake at our first birthday, icing smeared all over our pudgy infant faces. We have post-memories of our ancestors, emotionally charged moving vibrant images of our grandparents wedding day, dad's old VW, a dog our mom loved and traveled across the country with.
These are not our memories, and yet, they are deeply woven into the fabric of our own recollections. What do we picture when we think of our elders? It's most likely not the most recent visit, an image of them now, but rather their smiling faces in our favorite picture on the mantle – a summer cookout, a family vacation, a wedding.
Lives lived in little slips of paper, charged with narrative, left behind longer than the stories they tell would possibly survive otherwise.
Photographs are our post-memory.
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These images were made from 35mm slides photographed by my father before my birth, projected onto objects of significance as surrogate screens. They depict my first home, the surrounding landscape, and the property behind this house on which my father eventually built the home he now lives in. The slides are projected onto objects of significance: family linens, used coffee filters, hand-painted china given to me by my Aunt, a tide-marker chunk of driftwood. The combinations of these images and artifacts are an attempt to create photographs capable of transporting me to an impossible place and time, an investigation into the context of shared genealogical memory thereby writing over existing memories to fabricate new narratives.