Raid every suburban home in Canada or the States and you’ll find, in the middle drawer of the pedestal cabinet devoted to childhood graduation photos, a photo album just like this one. The cover is blank. They always are. It’s either a muted blue; an uninspiring green; or, if it’s especially old, brown with a leathery texture to it. It doesn’t have a name. Any other scrap bits of paper, sewing equipment, islanded polaroids, discarded buttons, or inkless pens only inhabit that drawer amidst the album to make it seem like a genuine discovery, as though you’ve unearthed a rare trinket of the past, despite your family nostalgia trip being a nearly perfect tri-yearly ritual.
But I haven’t been in this house for close to a decade, so this excavation does feel priceless.
(p. 1) My father, John; my mother, Allison; posing for their wedding day, 1972.
My mother is wearing white. I suppose I didn’t need to clarify that. My father has a gray suit and a disgusting checkered tie, which is only half as distracting as his floppy 70s curtain haircut and handlebar moustache.
Some of my earliest memories are of the two of us driving along the highway in a beaten-down pickup truck (a later photo, p. 11, reveals this to be an orange four-seater 1967 Ford F250). I close my eyes, attempt to waft away the blurry fog of childhood, then a portrait of my mother comes to life, fastening me into the back seat. Shortly followed by my father letting me climb into the front after we’ve set off. He steers one handed, a cigarette pluming a smoke trail between his fingers, and raises a forefinger to his lips with his free hand, shushing me to not tell Mom. No moustache in this reverie. He must have shaved it off before I was born.
They’re both posing for the camera. Allison is holding a thin collection of green stems intertwined by a floreted bundle of white roses. John shines a cheesy grin and places an awkward hand on hers. Behind them both is a cream wood-paneled church native to the American north-west and, neighboring it near the sidewalk, an out of place weeping tree droops its limbs as if sighing, its leaves eavesdropping their wedding.
How many times have I seen this one? For twenty years, it perched itself on that cabinet shelf until later being dethroned after I graduated from Boston. The part which particularly pricks my attention, in punctum, is the dimpled smile and wide-eyed glare my mother gives towards the lens. That crooked curve of cheek was reserved for her most impolite hysterical laughter, and that stare, well, this might be the only time I’ve ever seen it. If I think of her face, she’s squinting. On a bright day or inside a dark room, her eyes were always narrow, like she was judging or protecting herself from judgement. Although here, and maybe it’s just because of the angle of the sun, she’s showing off the deep cerulean color of her eyes that I forgot she had. As if, like they say, it’s the happiest day of her life.
(p. 2–6) A collection of photographs of myself as a baby, dated 1974–1975.
There isn’t much to comment on here. A feeling of self-awareness to these baby-photos. The painstaking choreography of making sure there’s a milk-bottle in my right hand and rattle in my left; the, no doubt, clicking of fingers and soft calls behind camera to ensure I’m looking in the right direction; a photo which knows it will be accompanied by the warbled cry of they grow up so fast, arriving almost instantaneously with the sound of the shutter.
There’s a recurring companion of my toy cat in this mini collection, its brown color getting increasingly weathered by sunlight and age. My mother told me we were inseparable, but I barely recognize it. If it had a name other than Cat, it’s been forgotten.
(p. 7–10) Wide photographs showing off our house and garden; a barbecue with our neighbors, the Walshes, 1979.
I’d be lying if I said the smell of a sizzling patty instantly takes me back to these gatherings. There are always some details that I could pretend hold more emotional weight than they actually do: how the long grass pressed into my legs as I played tuck whilst Sara, a few years older than me; or how the ice sloshed around in the juice pitcher my mother brought from the kitchen. No, these barbecues left a lasting memory because we moved away from that house shortly after. It was the peaceful respite before our difficult time in New York. Whenever I think of home — what the traditional bathroom should look like, how big the garden should be, or on which wall the TV must be placed — it’s the details of this family house which attempt to steer the impression.
Here’s a photograph of me at night, I must have been maybe five or six, lighting a firework. I’m clearly scared. A protective arm hides half my face. John rests a hand on my shoulder. We’ve no doubt been filled with hot dogs, burgers, supermarket salads, and a crate of Miller’s for the two dads. The Walshes’ great dane is probably tied to the metal fence just beyond the optical reach of the camera, at the request of Allison, who tries to subtly remind the neighbors that she hates dogs.
This memory sticks out as the definitive feeling of what the Fourth of July should be like. Beer adverts; election campaigns; a Springsteen record my father vehemently insists is niche; the local cinema’s annual reshowing of Nashville; a freshly cleaned garden flag; the recoloring of every decoration into variants of red, white, and blue: these all strengthen, yet are unique to no one, that very feeling. For me though, the unspared detail is the dimly lit match my father gives me as I light my first firework. My mother didn’t capture how much my hand trembled with it. Nor the sheer happiness I felt after it exploded the night into a blinding array of colors, leaving a starburst after-image in my sight and memory.
(p. 11–16) Our New York apartment, a house party with my mother’s work friends, 1984.
I hated that apartment. There was a long transition period between my parents making fake promises to return to Oregon and referencing that house with the type of past tense exclusive to observing photo albums. Eventually, at a point I can’t define, certain phrases were crudely tossed-around phrases like, do you remember the time that… But they were never the ones I hoped for: how long should we stay in New York?
These photographs aren’t captioned so I’ll do my best to remember her friends’ names. They were all teachers too. In middle school, the ones that taught me were Mrs. Moore, Mr. Myers, and Ms. Mendoza (make a note printers, no r, her divorce was the source of all her idioms). Archie Myers was the most memorable. A history teacher and womanizer I couldn’t help but think resembled a ginger Indiana Jones. There’s a handful of teacher’s partners littering the scene, two of my school friends, mother’s cousins, and my dad’s best friend called Otto (who inherited a foreign fortune in ’87, disappeared, then returned in ’94-ish after filing for bankruptcy). There are more characters here with odd haircuts and grim smiles, but they’re as much strangers to me now as they were back then. Most of which occupy the corners of the living room like neglected mold, holding plastic party cups and sharing awkward eyelines. Archie stands out, wielding his glass like he’s familiar with where the drinks cabinet is.
Here’s the back of my head as seen from the narrow slit of bedroom door left open. How strange it looks, like someone has squeezed it. A skull with blonde fuzz. I forget how skinny I was as a child. Rory and I sit facing a TV, out of view, playing the NES. It’s not shown, but we’re probably playing Donkey Kong. I only got my console for my twelfth birthday, so Rory’s mother must have let him bring it over.
This party collection culminates with my parents co-rocking a home karaoke set. A living room converted into a theatre silently claps, two vocal cords bellow a forgotten song in perpetuity, and a flimsy banner spelling out ‘Allison Square Garden’ hangs over them forever. In a captured moment, a sung chorus can be mistaken for a scream.
(p. 17) Allison visiting her dying mother, Trudy, 1985.
This photo is Trudy’s only cameo. Other than a guilty stance, a caring yet practiced hand on her shoulder, Allison looks like she doesn’t want to be there. If given the chance, I wonder if my mother would have preferred it if this was never taken. Only a dramatic and painstaking ironic realization keeps this one in the album: that this is the only photo of her mother. They look like strangers. A make-a-wish celebrity appearance. I only met my grandmother a few times. And whether my mother liked it or not, the absence of any other photos of Trudy summarizes their relationship well enough.
(p. 18–22) Various snapshots of myself as a teenager: college football tryouts, a family holiday in Alberta, prom night, my high school graduation, 1989–1992.
Most of these are posed pictures. I realize now how little I care for them. As is most likely every amateur photographer’s first insight, the candid photo reveals so much more. If I was giving a lecture on first love, then the way my eyes absorb the delight of my prom date and first girlfriend at the exact moment that I think no one is looking at me, tells the room that teenage love is about adoration, not understanding, and I rest at the lectern unspoken – elbows down, a wry smile coiled on my face – proving my thesis with a single photograph.
My father has put on weight in the holiday pictures. My mother is unseen, on camera duty.
(p. 23–26) A random series of photographs, weak attempts at candid pictures documenting home life during my time at college, 1992–1995.
I’ve not seen these before. My parents must have revised the album in the last few years before they died. Which treasures did they get rid of to find space for these?
They’re hard to describe. My father is reading his newspaper crossword on the balcony of our apartment, pen in mouth, overlooking a crowded street below. The color has disappeared from his face, and his eyebrows and cheeks sag like the limbs of that wedding tree which now seems like a history parallel to reality – distinctly familiar but not one they experienced. The cheesy bachelor’s grin has been replaced with an unpleasant smirk deep in thought. 14 across – Dim or worn down, (5).
Three toothbrushes in a coffee mug. Loose blonde hair and the corner of the camera peep into view inside the cabinet mirror.
New York Metro. A narrow panel of a red sun flare finds a gap between two buildings, illuminating a pregnant woman on the train who doesn’t know she’s being photographed. My father’s shoulder debuts stage left of frame; I bought him that shirt for his 55th.
Dinner with friends. Archie sits to the left of John, both hosting two near-empty plates in front of them. The following photograph is their view, with Allison sat on the right-hand side of a woman I’ve never met before. My mother, staring slightly above the camera, looks genuinely happy here.
(p. 27) My college graduation, 1995.
This is the same as the framed photograph on the cabinet. I suppose I can get rid of one of them, I won’t need both. Most of this is junk anyway. What am I going to do with their cutlery, or my father’s tools, or the temperamental microwave which needed replacing anyway? It feels wrong to throw them away, and far too dramatic to burn them. I’ve thought about making an inventory so if I do, down the line, feel nostalgia’s tight grip around my neck, I can review the list and know that nothing was forgotten. Should I write a description? My father’s beige raincoat had a Halloween candy and an ink stain in its breast pocket; he must have chewed the biro’s end too much whilst struggling to finish a crossword in an October shower. 14 across was ‘faded’.
(p. 28–34) A series of birthdays between 1996 and 2002.
My parents’ camera habits must have waned, or they made some sacrifices to the album after indulging in those early years. A lot of these look the same: a slightly off-center shot of each of us in front of a cake; a repeated sequence of Allison, John, then myself; respecting the rule of thirds. All the candles remain lit. The exception is my mother’s 50th, who pouts mid-wish. The abutting photo is of her, halfway through tearing wrapping paper. It’s a record. Pastel Blues, it looks like.
(p. 44) John and Allison at her friend’s wedding, 2006.
There’s a look from my mother which has ruined me since I first picked this up. I wasn’t invited to the wedding. I can’t even say whose it is, but it has the usual setup. A grand house in the country with a pop-up marquee and a garden lined with fir trees. Guests distinctly congealed into the groups they’re familiar with. John’s wearing the same suit he’s worn to these events for the past decade or so, but he’s outgrown it – his shirt is stretched and the sleeves ride up his arms. Allison’s wearing a newly bought green dress. She looks younger than her years.
Every time I came home something about the pair of them had changed: gray hairs appearing, a sullen facial expression first materializing, or the canonized romantic gestures like dancing in the kitchen no longer occurring. But here, it was like she had ripped that wedding photo out from the first page and jumped inside. Copying her younger self, mimicking an earlier voice. A voice which sang like a newlywed, or one which cooed her newborn. I want to go back, turn up at this mystery wedding unannounced, request a Nina Simone song, then clear the makeshift dance floor beneath the giant pine tree and remind her how much she loved to dance.
She’s beaming with a wide, dimpled smile and her eyes fully open. And just like I’m flicking through this dusty book, hoping to find something buried within photographs; Mom finds herself at a friend’s wedding, where the camera’s slow-motion flash brings her to some realization that I had—that memories turn into traces. And although there remains the blissful feeling that a photograph can capture something you forgot you once felt, these traces are all I have left.
Originally published, Wedding Photographs, University of Liverpool, Tangents: 2024-2025 School of the Arts Literary Magazine.
Inspired by Barthes’ Camera Lucida, and his descriptions of his mother’s photographs.
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