Category: Memory

It’s about forgetting as much as it is about retaining.

Photographic Memory

With the app CCamera, you can take pictures that already exist.

Marco Land had his own work copied first. A couple years ago, as he kept a “visual diary” on Instagram, one of his pictures became an unexpected viral sensation. “Somebody had taken a screenshot of one of my posts,” he remembers. His work was shared and reposted by complete strangers. It took on a life of its own—naturally without any credit to the photographer. “When it happened a second time, I became curious about the strange culture of using photos on the internet.”

A designer in training, Marco ended up writing his Bachelor’s thesis about photography on the web. He studied the staggering numbers of photos taken and shared on social media each day and put them into categories. They were incredibly similar. “Looking at those figures, I began to wonder if it has remained possible to create something truly new.”

Photography, unlike painting, relies on whatever the photographer puts before the lens. There are, in theory, only a finite number of subjects—and with millions of pictures shared every day, it’s more than likely that most of the world has already been photographically catalogued.

Pictures much like yours, but not actually yours

Marco decided to reverse course: “Instead of trying to take more innovative, faster, or better photos, wouldn’t it be fun to go the other way?” Just like his work had been appropriated, he wanted to use what was already there. “I wanted to build a camera that takes pictures, which already exist.”

The app CCamera is the result of his quest. Built two years after Marco had the idea, the goal of the app is extremely simple: Point your camera at something, click the button and you’re shown a photographic approximation. The app produces a picture similar to the one you took, but taken from the internet.

Technologically, it isn’t too complicated either: Once you take a photo, the app feeds it into a Google API to perform a reverse search and produces a match. The original image isn’t retained since all you’re shown is the result: A picture much like yours, but not actually yours.

The results vary between scarily accurate and comically wrong. A picture of a friend might produce a lookalike—just as snapping a broccoli might result in a picture of a tree.

At their best, the results are uncanny: Taking an existing photos is a powerful reminder of how many parallels there are between your life and those of complete strangers—or how many motifs have become a trope. Not all lives are the same, but the way we picture them through photography often is: Recurring images of smiling faces, holiday destination, and coffee cups. Think you’re taking unique photos? There’s probably someone else out there, thinking the same.

Never quite accurate, but never really wrong either

Because of that, CCamera unmasks everyday situations as more ordinary than they seem—simply by showing that the constellation of objects or people before the lens has appeared somewhere else before, if slightly differently.

Meanwhile, all errors show the limitation of even the most sophisticated image recognition technology. When you take a picture of a sheet of paper and the phone interprets it as a pillow, the app displays a childlike sense of discovery about the world. CCamera sees things like a child might, and makes similarly well-intentioned but misguided misinterpretations.
“I wanted the app to be a critical commentary on the way we look at and use photos,” Marco says. Yet it accomplishes much more. It seems to ask “What is a photograph?”

Is it an accurate depiction of whatever happens in front of the lens? Or can it just as well be an interpretation, like a painter’s flattering sketch of a person? CCamera suggests that photography is a mere act of approximation. Never quite accurate, but never really wrong either.

Check out the app and read more about the project at

A Life Well Documented

‘Minutiae’ is an app that prompts users to photograph their lives. In the process, it breaks with all conventions of social media and the internet.

Any life is the sum of small moments: Minutes that become hours, hours that become days and years. “Everything is a fearless process of becoming”, writes photography critic John Banville.
Like him, many inventors and documentarians have grappled with the passing of time and the way it accumulates into a human life. American inventor Buckminster Fuller kept a “rigorous record” of his life: He documented each of his days between 1917 to 1982 in the “Dymaxion Chronofile”, a 700 volume diary of his life in 15 minute intervals.
Much of Fuller’s time was undoubtedly consumed by writing his journal, which is why newer generations of so-called lifeloggers rely on technology to construct a record: In the 2000s, Microsoft engineer Gordon Bell began wearing a camera that took a photo every 30 seconds. Meanwhile, designer Nicholas Feltron used an app that had him answer a quick questionnaire about his activity several times a day. At the end of the year, he assembled the data into “Yearly Reports”, breaking life down into beautiful graphs.
In recent years, the notion of lifelogging (or flogging, its rather unfortunate abbreviation) has become rather commonplace: It’s something many now voluntarily do on social media, building a record of their days through incremental status updates or Instagram posts. And as technology becomes so pervasive that it starts disappearing, it’s easier than ever to live a life well documented: Phones already seamlessly track such diverse data as location, physical activity, or even health.
Artists Martin Adolfsson and Daniel J. Wilson have taken on lifelogging from a completely different angle: They argue that it’s the unremarkable, random moments that are worth documenting – and have built an app to do just that. I sat down with them to talk about how their app Minutiae does it, and how they broke with all conventions of social media in the process.

My dictionary defines the word ‘minutiae’ as “the small, precise, or trivial details of something”. What’s so fascinating about triviality?
Daniel: We began this project through the New Museum, which had a theme called ‘The Invisible City’. Part of that was a focus on big data, which was on the rise in New York City. We realized that big data always means you lose the small details: The outliers, the round edges. When we created the app, we wanted a name that hinted at recapturing moments that would otherwise disappear. Moments that seem like they don’t have an impact, even though they do.
What do you mean?
Daniel: We won’t know what the impact is until the experiment has run its course in four years. But studies have shown that an old photo triggers memories. We don’t want to show you something you remember, like the birthday from four years ago. We want to show you something like the sink you used to wash dishes in four years ago. Chances are you won’t remember that – but now that you got it documented, it’s going to bring back a bunch of other memories. The photo is a memory trigger.

A photo taken with Minutiae.

Another photo from Minutiae. The kitchen sink you might remember in a few years.

Social media networks like Instagram work by showing life as a succession of exceptional moments. You are suggesting that’s an illusion.
Martin: We can all just look at daily life around us. Every now and then there are highlights, but most of our daily lives are made up of routine moments, repeated day after day. Over time, we tend to not think of these moments as significant, even if at some point they might have been. When you first move into an apartment, everything feels new and exceptional. But over time, it becomes routine, just like everything else. Minutiae helps us document those moments we wouldn’t consider important when we experience then, but over time become more and more valuable.
The unexpected ones
Look at what happens on Instagram: People share highlights, but I believe that ordinary moments are more valuable in helping us gain an understanding of a person’s life that unique highlights do – just because they’re more relatable.

Since you mentioned the word ‘routine’: Your app relies on routine as well. Once a day, it prompts users to capture and upload whatever they’re doing. Walk me through that.
Martin: Once a day, all participants receive an alert, regardless of time zone. This means all participants take part in a routine, or rather a ritual. You have a window of one minute to respond to the notification. Once you open it, you have five seconds to actually take a picture…
…to prevent artful composing?
Martin: …and to make people more spontaneous. The more time you have, the more you can overthink your photo. We want you to document what’s in front of you with all honesty.
What happens with the picture?
Martin: Slowly but surely, you build a own timeline consisting of 1440 pictures. Each represent a minute, and all those minutes add up to one day. Since you only get an alert a day, it takes you 1440 days to collect all the minutes. When you access the app outside of the alert, you just see a screen, a grid of 1440 squares. If you miss an alert, you just get a black square and a new alert the next day. Each square represents a day of your life, so if you’re asleep for one third of the day, one third of your squares are going to be black.

There’s also a social component.
Martin: Once you’ve taken the photo, you can peek into someone else’s timeline for 60 seconds: To see someone else’s photo taken at the same time as yours, and to scroll back and forth in their timeline to build a short narrative about that person’s life. After 60 seconds, the app shuts you out, and the next time you take a picture, you’ll be matched with someone else.
You play with the assertion that this is an unsocial network, which departs from everything we think of as a social one. Why add the social component at all?
Daniel: It is social, but also not social. You get to peek into someone’s life but there’s no way to connect with them whatsoever. It is more of a voyeuristic experience.
To see how normal their lives are?
Martin: That’s the point. You take a step away from the curated self, from the highlights, and actually peek into a mundane, everyday moment. I’ve been using the app for three, four months now and it’s remarkable how similar everyone’s life is, regardless of whether you get matched with someone in South Africa, Israel, Egypt, or Sweden. Everyone shares a similar routine.

Normal life, randomly captured.

In the early 2000s, Gordon Bell experimented with lifelogging, wearing a camera around his neck that took a photo every 30 seconds. He stopped his experiment after eight years, saying that the activity “wasn’t bringing a lot of value to my life.”
Daniel: There’s no guarantee of value, but what we find interesting is both our own experience and the results of the Harvard report. Nobody denies that a photo album or taking photo has a value to it – it’s good to document your highlights. But we already have multiple ways of remembering highlights already: Camera, Facebook, Instagram, and our memories.
None of those mediums captures the mundane moments.
Martin: Exactly. The Harvard study found that people who were instructed took both ‘highlights’ and ‘boring’ photos. After just six months, they were asked what they wanted to see – which was the boring moments. Because they don’t remember them. That’s what the Minutiae project is trying to experiment with. It is an art project, an experiment, after all. For some people it might be more meaningful than for others.
Isn’t €16,99 a bit high of a price for confronting me with how unremarkable my life is?
Daniel: A lot of the ideas in Minutiae go against what is the dominating business model of apps: Trying to maximize the amount of users, trying to maximize the amount of time spent with the app, and trying to sell as much user data as possible. Our app is not free, we’re paying for bandwidth and server cost. What you get for that is never getting advertised to and never having your data sold. I like that some people are upset about the price. It reminds us that when something is free, you are the product.
Martin: It’s actually $14.99 in the U.S. But Apple charges more money in other countries and unfortunately we are unable to change it. But we’re not a start-up and out business model isn’t that – this is an art project and art costs money.
You’re getting a lot of attention because you’re so radically departing from what we consider an app should do: Users aren’t pushed towards perfection, they barely even have agency.
Daniel: The most common rating we get on the App Store is five stars. The second most common one is two stars. You either love it or hate it. Some people think an app should be free, on their own terms, trying to make their lives more interesting. But Minutiae doesn’t fall into any of those traditional categories. Some people find it ridiculous, others love it. This isn’t Facebook, we’re not trying to get everyone on the planet on board. This is a project for people who are into it and actually go through with it will have an interesting experience, something meaningful in the end.
Martin: Everyone is participating in the same ritual at the very same time, regardless of nationality, religion, or gender. I think that’s pretty unique, and that makes it fairly unique. And to make it more democratic: The Android version is in the works.
Check out the artists’ website or download Minutiae on the App Store.

An Inkling

Pictures from a world at the brink of change.

Sometime last year, I stumbled upon a rather simply black and white image. It shows three young men, dressed in formal attire and tilted hats, standing on an open field.
It’s a simple enough historic image, but it has a way of grabbing you: The white colors and the pale hands jump out at you, the dark suits hint at a lush velvet, and the facial expressions, solemn, if slightly amused, are perfectly framed by the rim of the wide hats. If I didn’t know better, I’d consider it staged, taken with a modern camera before a painted backdrop, as the three gentlemen seem to hover on the path they’re on, with the background a delicious blur.
I saved the photo on my phone, but I had no idea who had taken it until a few days ago when I read an article by Teju Cole that briefly mentions the German photographer August Sander:

In the work Sander produced around and just following the First World War, he created a catalog of images that stood in for an entire generation in Weimar Germany. Farmers, cooks, stevedores, teachers, priests, and manual laborers were all represented in their full dignity, and Sander achieved something like a double-portraiture in each case, because each actual individual was at the same time a representative type.

I punched Sander’s name into Google and there the three gentlemen and their lopsided hats showed back up – theirs is a fairly iconic picture, it turned out. Sander took it in 1914 during that mammoth quest to portray his fellow countrymen and entitled it “Young Farmers”.
Ironically, the manner in which I stumbled upon this photo, more than a hundred years later, mirrored the words I quote above: The picture immediately seemed representative of something. If not of a compendium of work, then at least of the keen eye of a photographer who knew exactly what he was doing and how to work his camera.
I poked around for more of his pictures and found a surprising number of striking photos by Sander. Here’s his shot of “The Architect Hans Heinz Luttgen and his Wife Dora”:

I had gleaned this from looking at his photos, but I didn’t quite understand what caused that uncanny sensation in the first place – not until I read Katherine Tubb’s article for the Tate, which goes into the history of Sander’s project and the political surrounding it.

“(…) Sander sought to depict an old identity in a new world that could no longer accommodate it.”

Sander happened to take photos right as the world stood on the stoop of a new age. His Young Farmers were to walk right into an age of machines and industrial production, the architect’s wife stared right into a future that would roll back all the rights she had gained during the Weimar Republic. The world in Sander’s images is about to collapse, and maybe, just maybe, his subjects even had an inkling.

Mental Souvenirs

The Parisian photographer Isa Gelb collects visual impressions of seemingly unremarkable things. The resulting photos are strangely arresting.

Can you introduce yourself?
I’m a French art director, graphic designer, and a self-taught photographer, based in Paris. I drink too much coffee and smoke too many cigarettes. I’m probably the laziest person on earth, and the queen of procrastination. I would have loved raising tigers or being a horse whisperer. I’m learning to be at peace with myself and how to feel more love for the world I live in. 

Film or Digital?
Definitely film.
On your website you write: “I have a camera and I take pictures. That’s it”. Is it?
My motto sums up very well how I approach photography. I find myself at a loss to talk more specifically about my pictures. They are just unspectacular moments taken while wandering here and there. I don’t try or want to document anything. I take photos because it makes me feel alive and attentive to my surroundings. 
Isa Gelb
Isa Gelb
Isa Gelb
Isa Gelb
In what way?
I feel like I don’t fit into this world, and taking pictures is a way for me to escape. I lose myself when shooting, and all my worries melt away. Saul Leiter once said “I go out to take a walk, I see something, I take a picture. I take photographs. I have avoided profound explanations of what I do.” I couldn’t agree more.
Is is a form of record-keeping? Or even building memories?
Not really memories because they are not connected to important things or people – but rather mental souvenirs. They are like a diary to me, I snap them and move on. Now that you ask, I realize that I seldom look at old pictures. But in some way, I feel happy they do exist because it means I exist too.
The reason why I’ve been so fascinated with your photography is how you can turn the mundane into something surprisingly poetic. Unwashed cars become a rich tapestry. Two barricades, barely touching, become humanized.
It’s funny because I’m often told that my pictures are “poetic” but that is never my intention. I don’t see them that way, but I guess viewers have a different interpretation because they are not familiar with what is behind the images that I take.
What is the process like?
I walk a lot, and look carefully. I pay attention to details, to things I find beautiful in their ugliness – if that makes sense – or to things that are naturally beautiful and attractive. I don’t think much while I wander, I just let things come to me and shoot as soon as something catches my eyes. That’s why I always carry a camera: At every corner there can be something interesting that I wouldn’t want to miss.
Isa Gelb
Isa Gelb
Isa Gelb
Isa Gelb
You seem to have a particular fascination with light: The way it falls through a window, draws figures on the carpet, or illuminates a scene. Is light another one of those seemingly mundane things we too often overlook?
Light makes photography. Light creates interesting ephemeral patterns that not much people, except photographers, pay attention to. I like the idea that when you capture a picture, you capture a piece of space but also a piece of time because these patterns created by light don’t last long. So you have a particular piece of time in your frame. Photography has to do with light, but also with time.
Your description of your walks reminds me of the flâneur, that iconic figure of the early 20th century, who walks around the city, quietly observing. Is this a role you recognize yourself in?
Yes and no. Yes, because I see myself as an observer and a solitary walker. But no, because  the flâneur feels comfortable, “at home”, everywhere he or she goes. I don’t. Also, because I don’t think I belong to the street photographer community, in the noble sense of the term.
Why is that?
Street photography is a broad subject with many different opinions. In my eyes, it’s about taking photos of life, most of the time including people. To be interesting, these photos must leave a strong impression on the viewers because of the power, the energy and even the drama they produce. My work is far from that. Anyway, I don’t want to be defined by a style or a genre. Being labelled is be the worst thing that could happen to me.

Isa Gelb
Isa Gelb
Isa Gelb
Isa Gelb
You also run the photography magazine Underdogs – a showcase of new photography talent.
I’ve been looking at tons of online magazines over the last few years. And, it seemed to me that in each one there is a frustrating dissonance between what I like and dislike. This frustration spurred me on to produce my own creation among the countless photo zines mushrooming online – a place where I could feature, to the fullest extent, photographers and their work which I personally appreciate and admire.
The most difficult issue that I was confronted with was deciding on a concept for Underdogs. I have often discovered, with my many encounters with artists over the years, the reluctance or even dread that the interview or self analysis of work can produce in the mind of an individual. Sometimes, this comes from a photographer’s belief that the work speaks for itself, or that explanations can limit the imagination of the viewer’s own interpretation of the work, or they are bewildered with what to say about themselves. So I thought why not let them decide whether they like to write about themselves or their work? Contributors are given the option to explain their motivations, or to just leave their images as is.
The eleventh issue has been released in January 2017, and I’m very happy to receive positive feedback, and more subscribers. This gives me the energy to keep going on.
Isa Gelb
Isa Gelb
Isa Gelb
Isa Gelb
To see more of Isa Gelb’s pictures, visit her website. And while you’re at it, download a free issue of Underdogs.

"I chose the Oprah story"

Stephin Merritt by Marcelo Krasilcic

Stephin Merritt, the mastermind behind The Magnetic Fields, is not a man of many words. And yet, his new album tells the story of his entire life. A conversation about false memories, big post-its and Kate Bush.
As the title indicates, your new album 50 Song Memoir is not just an album but also your autobiography. Each one of the songs mirrors one year in your life. I must admit, I was quite stunned to hear that the least autobiographical person in the music business is about to release one.
I am not the least autobiographical person in music.
So who is?
Kate Bush. Unless she actually robs banks.
Like in her song There goes a Tenner
Or was trapped under ice. But I doubt that. It’s not an experience most people survive.
So this album …
…I wonder what she does all day long … what is her personal life like? I hope she writes a memoir. A song memoir maybe. Like mine. Maybe it becomes a thing. I hope so.
I wonder why musicians would go and write an actual book memoir when they could just do it through music. Why would they choose another medium for this?
[long pause] I don’t know. I did it. But it took some convincing. I would have never done it if my record label would not have suggested it to me – not a chance.
Because it is not something you would have come up with or did you need outside confirmation that it is a good idea?
Both maybe. I think I have a very boring life. All musicians do once they become famous and turn 21. The whole thing is more just a frame for me to work with. It was the same with 69 Love Songs. I mean who wants to listen to 69 love songs?
Was your life more exciting before you became a musician?
Of course. It was more unique.
Because life as a musician always follows the same patterns?
You record, you go on tour, you come home, you break up, you start writing about the break-up, you record, you tour. You miss Canada, you write a song about missing Canada in the middle of which you realize you are actually re-writing White Christmas which is about missing New York. It’s a cliché of a cliché.
You mean Joni Mitchell’s River.
Yes. It’s an example of how being away on tour makes you miss home and then you realize that it is the same for every musician. Touring is an essential part of our life and other people don’t have a clue about it. So what’s the point of writing about it? I spend so much time in airports, I practically live there.
Would you do another song memoir? Like a follow-up?
[pause] 100 song memoir is going to be the next. 75 is too soon.
Have you read Grace Jones’ memoir?
No, I have it but I deliberately made sure to not read any biography-related stuff during the making of this record. When I’m finished with this tour and have nothing to do, I will gladly take it up and read.
Are records not by definition biographical? Lyrics do not form in a vacuum but often reflect situations you lived through.
Your musical taste is in there too. Being influenced by music from your past is also biographical in a way. Every song is autobiographical because it reveals what you want to hear. Unless you just want to make money. There was a rumour in the 90s that Madonna does not like her own stuff and is actually just a funk fan. I hope that is not true because it sounds very bleak.
Listening to the record, I noticed that there are quite a lot of musical references, but none regarding your own music. There is no song about recording an album or things like that. Why?
[Long Pause] There are a lot of things I did not write about. I did not want to write about the other people in the band. I also feel that so much has been written about us already, that I saw no need to add anything. There were more interesting issues.
Like what?
In 1999, our album 69 Love Songs came out. But it was also the year I was put in contact with my real father for the first time. So for 1999 I chose to write about that and do the song Fathers in the clouds. The album had more impact on my life but is it also the better song? I was 34 years old and had never met my father. There is more emotion in that. I basically chose the Oprah Winfrey story. The human interest story always beats the Wikipedia story. It’s the same with other bands. There are no songs about the experience of making or even listening to Pet Sounds or Revolver. You wouldn’t want that to become a thing.
I would.
[Pause] A genre of songs that are actually record reviews. It is a good idea, yes.
Some songs of the record are pretty straight forward but others, I am completely clueless or at least puzzled about.
Which ones?
Judy Garland for example. I know what it is about, but you were four years old and probably not able to understand the significance of Judy Garlands death and the Stonewall riots.
True. The song is actually more about us trying to get to Woodstock and being stuck in traffic. But of course Garlands death and Stonewall became significant to me much later and so I wanted to incorporate it.
Some of these songs are based completely on personal memory, others draw from collective memory …
…my memories from when I was four years old would not fill the lines of a 200-words-song.
Have you seen it in the snow? Is an interesting one because it’s 2001 and it’s New York but it sort of leaves out the big event: 9/11.
That song I actually wrote in 2001. It is an artefact from that year. The same is true for Ethan Frome which is a song from 1988.
Memory is something we use to make sense of the past and to learn for the present and future. Have you reached any conclusions about the past fifty years while working on this album?
[long pause]No, not really. Maybe at some point in the future, I will learn something about my past by listening to this album. I have not gathered deep insights about my life nor can I give advice on ageing.
Were there memories you were reluctant to use because they would put you in a bad place mentally?
[long pause] My first memory is me rolling around in a birdcage under a big piano and on a Persian carpet.
Very visual.
There is every reason to believe, that this memory is completely made-up or from a dream. The other memory from that time is me at a tennis court in Baden-Baden, where we lived, facing a castle in the light of the setting sun.
Sounds a lot less frightening.
But does not make for a good song.
The birdcage on the other hand …
…would make a great video.
Is there a memory from making this album that might be important to you many years from now?
[pause] The importance of whiteboards. And post-its. Colour-coded. Also: having an assistant.
I doubt that will make a good song for your 100 Song Memoir.
I will not, no.
Maybe a good video.
[pause] You can buy really big post-its. Like ten inches. Very practical when you have big group meetings, so even people in the back can read them. As my vision deteriorates, I will probably need those. A whole wall of giant post-its that my assistant will constantly re-arrange.
Maybe there is a song in there after all.
Assistant wanted: must be good with ladders.

Spatial Awareness

Between the 1970s and early 1990s, British photographer Joe Dilworth regularly peeked behind the iron curtain. His pictures are visual memories from a parallel society – and documents of a deep fascination.

“As a kid, I used to get in trouble for staring at people,” says British photographer Joe Dilworth. In photography, he found a way to channel his curiosity – but without staying completely out of trouble.
In his youth, he had visited Czechoslovakia as part of a scouting exchange with the Pioneer movement – a experience so memorable that he wanted to repeat it. “You weren’t supposed to go… which exerted a huge pull on me,” he says.
After studying Fine Art at Saint Martins and Goldsmiths in London, Joe regularly returned to Eastern Europe, an area that was then still firmly behind the iron curtain.

Berlin, 1989

Budapest, 1986

Budapest, 1989

Joe’s photos from the time document everyday life in the region over several years. He made multiple trips to cities like Budapest, Prague, and East Berlin, where he shot photos on the streets. But his photos are less accurately described by their individual subjects than they are by their overall theme. Taken together, these photos all revolve around space: The open space these cities contain, how people fill it, and how public life takes a hold within it.
“Going there was a way of slipping back into the past,” Joe explains. “When I was growing up, post-war London was an underpopulated city, with lots of ruins and emptiness.” But taking pictures there was more than just an act of remembrance – it was also an investigation of the differences. “The world there was a mirror image to capitalism, everything worked in a completely different way.”
When the Cold War had ended, Joe returned to these places and took more pictures. Thanks to his remarkably consistent style, the more recent photos fit neatly with the older ones. In fact, it often becomes difficult to tell which decade the photos were taken in.

Berlin, 1996

Budapest, 2004

Moscow, 2000

Many photos resulted from the way Joe himself interacted with space: The Rolleiflex camera he continues to use takes pictures from a waist level: It’s a unique angle that gives even his contemporary pictures a certain vintage atmosphere. And shooting from below allows the photographer to get close to his subject: “It’s a submissive gesture,” Joe explains, “and it automatically makes you part of the environment without imposing on others.”
It’s the difference between looking and staring, if you will.

Berlin, 2009

Buadors, 2007

Joe Dilworth is a photographer from London. He studied Fine Art at Saint Martin’s College and Goldsmiths in London. He also spent several years playing as a drummer in several bands, including Stereolab. He now lives in the German capital, where he is one of the co-founders of the photography book store Bildband Berlin. See more of his work on his website and make sure to follow him on Instagram.
Many thanks to Maya Hristova for help on this piece.

Sixty Frames

We take photos to remember. But which frame should you choose to capture, which to recall?

Taking pictures is savoring life intensely, every hundredth of a second.
― Marc Riboud

A human lives, on average, for 25,915 days. Each day contains 86,400 seconds. Each of those contains trillions of instances, of frames. Of these we exist in all, remain in none, remember, perhaps a few. Each second, our brain is only capable of perceiving an average of sixty frames.
We see sixty out of trillions of moments of life. We must choose our frames wisely. So smile for the camera. Be still. Look at or through the lens. See.
We are here, we are here now, but we and time are fleeting.
Quick, take the photograph. Snap the shot.
The only proof this moment ever existed will be in our memory.
The first frame: the beauty spot on the left temple, slightly below the eye, of a little boy sleeping in my arms on a Sunday afternoon in June. Second frame: the angle at which the eyelashes curl, the barely visible crow’s feet. Third: the light, at the most perfect of a trillion angles, capturing the gold in his hair.
Pause in this frame. Stay an instant in this instant. Then move on to the next.
There are the obvious frames and moments that shape our lives. The time-stopping, happy milestones at which we take photographs. The family portraits in Sunday clothes on birthdays, weddings, lunch on Christmas Day, college graduations, anniversaries. The flash-infused commemoration of ourselves, inevitably solemn and confused, against the white or blue background of a passport, driver’s license, student or voter’s card.
Then there are the broader frames that define our lives, with their own obvious protagonists. The zoomed-out shots of inaugurations, revolutions, jubilees and celebrations, crowds in the streets on New Year’s Eve. The portraits of politicians, popes, queens, economists, businessmen, movie stars. The mugshots of murderers and terrorists. Fashion trends immortalized on a runway, peace deals over a handshake. History written by war declarations, rocket launches, touchdowns, standing ovations, raves.
Sixty frames out of trillions, in every second of every life. Even those, if we blink, we might miss. So we take photographs; a choice of the moments of our lives we want to commit to memory.
Zoom in on the fourth frame: looking up at mother’s hand. Fifth frame: father’s shoulders, looking down. Sixth: the seesaw partner in the playground. The stuffed animal; guardian of the bed. The siblings, the superheroes in comic books. The doodles in the margin of the page. The eternal baker in his eternal shop. The flour on his arms and mustache. The friends, the posters of boy band members, the flyers of missing pets.
We do not choose or shape our lives. Where we are, or for how long. But we are here and we have now. Let us be here now.
We create reality, we exist in every frame we choose to see. In the oceanic folds of the bed sheets on a Tuesday, the creases on the pillow left by a cheek. In the steam wafting out of a coffee cup, the precious last crumbs of a croissant, silken gold mixed with green flakes of thyme on the white porcelain plate.
Look at where, when, who we are,
at and through the lens. See.
Now. Immortalize this trillionth of a second in a photograph.
Forty-eighth frame: ice cream stickily dripping out of the corner of a mouth. Forty-ninth: the dimple that appears in the exact same spot every time that mouth laughs.
Fiftieth: the musician in the metro, playing that French song you like. Fifty-first: the lonely two pennies and bill in his open guitar case. Fifty-second: the dog sitting patiently by his side, as he has done for hours, days, weeks. Fifty-third: the hand scratching his ear gently, his eyes closing happily.
Fifty-fourth: an old couple in the park, on the sunny side of a bench. Fifty-fifth: her fingers interlaced perfectly in his. Comfortable, matching shoes. Fifty-sixth: a cloth bag on the ground next to them. Bread and oranges peaking out. Fifty-seventh: the kitchen table a short walk away, on which butter and honey await.
Fifty-eighth: a sonogram. Fifty-ninth: tears. We can be infinite in sixty frames per second. Quick, snap the shot. We were here.