The Family Album: Questioning Memory.

The Family Album: Questioning Memory. “After 17 years I’m back in Shanghai and all along, my memory has been playing tricks” (Otsuka, 2006:33). Why do we take images for family albums? We take them to remember people as they were. Traditionally in portrait photography, it has been a point of argument whether a photograph can or cannot reveal the true sense of a person, their personality or inner self. To me the photograph is merely surface – a likeness -, it is what the photographer or archivist wants to be seen, and holds no deeper resonance.

In addition, not only do we want to remember, we want to acknowledge our existence, and in the future, be ourselves remembered as an essential part of the family unit. It is not only about belonging, but about leaving a trace of ourselves that will be around long after we are gone: photographs are tokens of immortality. The family album both represents what has to be continued and perpetuates the myth of the ‘happy family’, which can be construed in multiple ways depending on the viewer and their motives.

The portrayal of the ‘happy family’ is dependent on the various stages of editing – the photographer decides who is included or left out, tells the subjects where to stand or sit, and when to say “Cheese! ” The collator then decides which photographs are worthy of going into the album and which will be left in a box, or thrown away. The editing and archiving follow perceived ideologies of family history, reflecting the editor’s own purpose and personal viewpoint. Claire Grey believes that history is always a personal account (Holland Spence, 1991: 108).

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But do these photos help us remember or do they alter or replace the real memories of what happened and who the people in the photos really were? In this essay, I will attempt to explain why I believe that the memories imbedded in the family album are constructs, falsehoods. I am going to look at images from six photographers as well as my own family albums to ascertain the accuracy of memory generated by image. In looking at a family album, do I take other people’s and family member’s recollections and apply them to my own history?

Collective memory can twist the truth and often construct altered variations. As stories pass from one generation to the next, they are prone to fabrication and exaggeration. Lorie Novak states, “Our own images are often tied up in family legend with conversations about family photographs frequently accompanied by embellishment and invention. Photographs and the narratives they inspire can become substitutes for memories of actual events” (Hirsch, 1999: 26-27).

She also wondered whether the information omitted from her own family album shaped her memories and studied this concept in her work (Hirsch, 1999: 15). Maybe this is the same for Ingrid Hesling, who, at the age of 16, found out that she was adopted - I wonder if this new information changed her memories or merely her perception of her memories: it would appear those that were once fond became bitter. She questioned her entire childhood leading her to create work using a combination of old family photos, text and her own contemporary images.

Her work is an investigation into how memory can be altered depending on how you relate to the history behind it and the images documenting it. Analysing Numbers (Figure 1), the eye is drawn immediately to the smiling child clutching her toys, an image taken from the family album, then to the accompanying photo, and finally to its contents, the numbers – which symbolically do not reach 16 - and the text. The emptiness behind the child and the distance between her and the numbers - enhanced by the strong horizontals – metaphorically represents the separation from the truth.

The child and toys have connotations of family, comfort and home, whereas, the numbers suggest conformity, lack of individuality and belonging, - being a number without identity. The subject matter is not immediately obvious until the text (both within and out of the image) is included. The initial impression of happiness is underscored and then submerged by a sense of unease, of anger and of betrayal. The original photo should evoke happiness but the viewer becomes disturbed when the opposite occurs. Is this family image therefore a fabrication, just because the way we see the memory has changed?

Were things left out of the Hesling family album images in order to conceal the truth from her? In my own work, I use the family album aesthetic frequently. I seek out, analyse old family photographs, and try to apply them to my work. It fascinates me when I find images of myself as a child that I have never encountered before. I automatically try to locate any memories associated with the image, despite the fact that they do not exist for me, as I was too young, and attempt to remember stories I may have been told about the photograph.

But this is not a true memory - it is assimilated from my family’s collective memory. Jo Spence said that searching for memories within family photographs, was impossible (Holland Spence, 1991:203). Trish Morrissey is a photographer who looks at ‘the family album as fiction’, carefully constructing the conventions and cliches of the domestic snap shot; thus, courting reality by the act of staging. In this way she has created a generic family album, to which anyone can relate: her family album has become everybody’s family album and countless others now share the memories.

Anne McNeill states in her essay on Morrissey’s work that the images in the ‘shoe box’ are not the ‘official’ history of the family, but “the ones that got away” (Morrissey, 2004:23). This is an interesting concept, in that the family deem some images more important than others: ‘proper’ images are displayed on top of the TV or framed for the wall, whereas the pictures that could be perceived as being more ‘real’, of everyday life, are put away in a box or packet to be perused at times of reminiscence.

I am attracted to Morrissey’s work because of the questioning nature of her images. In September 20th, 1985 (Figure 2), with her sister in the other role, she meticulously recreates the original connection between the subjects as well as the peripheral details. However, in contrast to most family photos, the people in her images rarely smile, forcing the viewer to concentrate on the gestures and body language and use them to interpret and reveal hidden tensions between family members. Such underlying tensions tell more of the history and context than smiling faces.

Staging allows the viewer to witness Morrissey in the act of constructing photographic meaning. Colour draws the eye to the teenage subject, her expression, and then to the contrasting expression of the older woman. The title includes the date – confirmed by the style and fashion – however as it is known that the images are reconstructed and were taken more recently than the title states, this inclusion generates more questions than answers. She questions the truth of the family album. Her images constructed as generic examples, using, and according to, her memories and the original photos.

But how accurately can these be recreated when personal memory and current emotions are present? The reconstruction becomes a new history of her and her sister. Then we realise it is, and always has been, about her relationship with her sister, and this in turn, makes the viewer question the validity of all family album images: the allusion to unacknowledged family tension and the fallacy of the ‘happy family’. She questions the legitimacy of the entire tradition of the family album. Tim Roda is another artist who recreates personal histories using his memories.

Roda uses his family to recreate definitive life-changing memories and moments from his life: his son assumes his childhood role and he becomes his father. This strikes a chord with me as my current work revolves around the ideas of role reversal - child becoming adult and vice versa. Roda’s Untitled (Figure 3) initially caused me confusion and distress, as if a still from a horror film: it is dark, shadowy, and menacing. It is obviously and unapologetically staged, but why? It makes me ask questions. What is it about?

It is a narrative, but is it fact or fiction? The camera is used to record a moment in time that balances between memories and constructed commentaries, yet it is a documentation of real events for the people taking part in the image making. Although his family are the immediate subjects, the work is filled with metaphorical reverberations of family history and childhood memories. Initially the composition leads the viewer to the man. What is he doing? Then the attention is drawn to the child with sharp shears, then to the birds hanging from the ceiling.

These birds give a context to the image and place it somewhere that is recognisable. The man appears to have been hunting and is subsequently preparing the animal for cooking. The scene suggests that that they are country people, perhaps poor and living off the land: the father now teaching the boy by passing on traditions and skills. But is this a true memory or a corrupt, idealised memory? How much of it has been exaggerated or changed from the reality of the past? How would we know? Miyako Ishiuchi, in contrast, photographed her late mother’s belongings.

She never got on with her mother but was distraught at her death, leading her to create a series of images as a memorial and tribute: a catalogue of personal belongings, objectified in the images, but subjectified in the photographer’s mind. In this way Ishiuchi sought to create an emotional connection, a sense of personal closeness and history, she never had when her mother was alive. The image is slightly off centre: does this reflect the true relationship? Despite this, the images remain clinical and objective: the daughter becoming the photographer and archivist of her mother’s possessions, using them to create a pseudo family album.

Although Figure 4, an image from the Mother’s’ Series, is skeletal and ghostly, its forensic detail alluding to death, it is very simple and beautiful, with connotations of family love and loss - in some ways a memento mori. It is aesthetically pleasing, like still life, but ‘still death’. The image is deeply personal and yet it holds universal meaning. She strives to seize a point of contact between the past and present. The meaning of this single image is not obvious when viewed on its own, however becomes clearer when viewed with the others in the series.

It is a highly emotive collection of images, reminding me of my own mother’s death, my relationship with her and how I dealt with her possessions and my memories of her after she died. One of my favourite photographers of the moment is Chino Otsuka. She has approached the questioning of the family album image in a new and unique way. At first glance, 1976 and 2005, Kakamura, Japan (Figure 8) appears to be an actual family album photograph, perhaps of a mother and daughter, maybe a holiday snap. However, once you are made aware of the digital alteration, it becomes much more interesting and poses many questions about the context.

Otsuka includes verses in her book, which help to explain her intentions: “One by one, I retrieve fragments of memories and paste them all together” (Otsuka, 2006:37). This has double meaning: the ‘pasting’ both psychological as well as physical. The final image is a construct both as a photograph and as a memory. At first glance, she could be taken for the child’s mother, sister, or aunt. It makes me question familial roles and place within the family. She has created time travel: “Past becomes present, the present becomes the future, back and forth, travelling in time” (Otsuka, 006:31). This makes us question, if we could go back, what would we do, say or change? In actuality Otsuka photographed herself in 2005, replicating the correct light conditions, and then digitally compositing the new image next to herself as a child. The original image was perfectly symmetrical, with the child in the centre. The addition of the adult shifts the balance. But what balance has changed? Is it merely the symmetry or is it rather the balance of power and control? Here because the adult and child are the same person, the family album becomes a mockery.

She speaks of memory, “Until I look for it, it will hide forever […] Just when I have forgotten it, it comes into sight and when I finally catch it I realise how much of it has escaped” (Otsuka, 2006:39). She is questioning her own memory and realising her memory lies to her. Even the recreation of the memory will eventually be corrupted. Here she categorically states that nothing can be received at face value. The apparent truth may in fact be corrupt, but to accentuate her belief in this dishonesty she has tainted it further.

She may in fact remember the original memory but has replaced it with a falsehood. This event never happened, could never happen, it is an impossibility: a visual paradox. As my attention is drawn first to the child, then the woman, then the shadows, I seem to be searching for a reason to disprove the truth of this image. Why is the knowledge that it is fake not enough? Am I still so programmed to accept the photograph as truth, that I must find proof that the photograph is a lie? How then do these photographers’ interpretations of the family album reflect in my response to the images in my own?

Through family photos, I place myself within my family’s history. If they, as I believe, mean nothing, then how does that in turn affect how I view my history and my memories? ‘Christmas’ (Figure 9) was taken at my father’s parents flat in Glasgow, in1972. It is not unusual in any way. It does not differ greatly from other family album images. In fact, the majority of families have very similar images in their collections. I, at three years old, stand between my grandparents, seemingly being presented to the camera, with my mother and father (and the dog) at the back.

My father, an amateur photographer, would have proudly taken the photo using the self-timer, explaining the not-quite perfect stance of the subjects. I assume it is an individual image, and not part of a series, although through the nature of editing - as spoken about previously -, other images, taken at the same time, may have been discarded or lost. This means that I am unable to build a picture of the whole holiday: it is merely a captured moment in time. My eye is first drawn to myself, perhaps looking for recognition, then to my Grandparents and my mother – all three of whom are now dead -, then to my father.

The image was taken in the tradition of family portraiture to commemorate the family being together (our family lived abroad and only visited Scotland occasionally). You would expect this to be a happy time, however, my grandfather and I – who reputedly enjoyed and sought out being photographed - are noticeably uncomfortable. On closer inspection, I can see that we are not in fact the happy family my father wished to depict. It reminds me of Trish Morrissey’s work, where the tensions between family members are apparent despite the fake smiles attempting to cover up the real feelings.

However, this image was intended only for family viewing, so why the faking? All the people in this picture will have been aware of the reality. Who are they faking for? I presume it can only be the tradition of smiling for the camera and a subconscious conveyance to future generations of family and friends that we were the archetypal ‘happy family’. Certain things in the image trigger my sensory memory, such as the material of the seat, the curtains and carpet, but I have no visual memory of this time.

Roland Barthes wrote about his sensory memory being triggered by an image: “[my mother] is hugging me, a child, against her; I can waken in myself the rumpled softness of her crepe de chine and the perfume of her rice powder” (Barthes, 1982: 65). I found an image of myself aged six that I had previously not seen, and although I do not remember the photograph being taken, I do recall the texture, colour and smell of my dress, and associated images of my Mother leaning over the sewing machine making it. Are all these fake memories?

Even if I cross-referenced with someone else that was there, their memory would be different as it is as personal to them as my memories are to me. To me this is the truth, as it is all I have. Is it better to have some believed memory, no matter how untruthful, than no memory at all? Looking to my own, more recent, family album images I have noticed that the family album has recently begun to change in style and content, partially due to the onset of digital cameras and computers. It is no longer merely portraiture but also has a documentary style. Gone are the formal (or informal) posed portraits of individuals and family groups.

People now take more pictures of their friends and family candidly, when the subject is unaware of the image being taken. These may not be intended for the ‘official’ family album, but are most family’s more personal ‘shoe box’ pictures. This raises the question of whether the memories associated with these images are related to differently by both the photographer and the subject. Are these recalled memories more ‘real’ than formal, posed images? As photography changes in our digital and computer based society, so does the way we take, edit and construct images for the family album.

There are now fewer mistakes made when taking images. Only a few years ago, films were shot and printed, and all the images were kept, even the mistakes (cut off heads, fingers in shot, badly exposed, etc), whereas, now, with digital technology, the editing is done in camera. The ‘bad’ or unacceptable shots are deleted and re-shot before printing (if they are printed at all). There is now also a mass profusion of images, whereas before, due to cost of film and printing, families were more selective with their image taking, and consequently saved every image, however ‘bad’.

Images now, are more likely to be kept on disc, losing the tactile quality we associate with photographs. The family album is becoming no longer a literal book of images. They are spread throughout cyberspace on social networking sites. Has this given the family album less value? Certainly the extended family can now have instant access to the family album, but are they really interested in any other images but their own? Why do we insist on sharing our most personal family moments with anyone and everyone?

Again, I think it is about portraying the ‘perfect, happy family’ as well as spreading our immortality as far and wide as possible before we die. These modern methods of image dissemination negate the importance and relevance of the family album as a historical document, and we cynically become blase about images in general. In Umberto Eco’s book, The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana, the protagonist is struck with almost complete memory loss, and in attempting to reconstruct his personal history, he comes to realise that he cannot rely on other people’s remembrances.

He is shown a photograph of his parents, and states, “You tell me that these two were my parents, so now I know, but it’s a memory that you have given me. I’ll remember the photo from now on, but not them” (Eco, 2005: 24). He then retreats to his old family home and spends all his time in the attic, attempting to regain his memories, but only discovers that memory once lost cannot be regained, merely re-learnt: “Our memory is never fully ‘ours’, nor are the pictures ever unmediated representations of our past. [... we both construct a fantastic past and set out on a detective trail to find other versions of a ‘real’ one” (Hirsch, 1997: 14). Similarly, Mier Joel Wigoder speaks of placing this photograph (Figure 12) of his father and grandfather on his desk, in place of an image of himself and his father that never existed. It is not his memory as he was not there, but it is a memory he wishes he had. He has invented a memory (or a fantasy? ) for himself based on a photograph taken before he was born. However, it is possible that all memories are created in this way.

I have looked at other people’s family photos and used them to prompt my own memories of similar times, places and people. As Heather Cameron says, “Our memory [... ] is a constant process of writing and rewriting, crossing out, overlapping images and distortion. It shifts and flows and moves without a fixed foundation” (Cameron, 2002:6). Nan Goldin believed that by taking photos of her friends and family, she would be able to retain her own memories of them and not be influenced by the memories of others (Goldin, 1986:9), but even in her candid style that seems impossible. Annette Kuhn states, “Family photographs are supposed [... to evoke memories that might have little or nothing to do with what is actually in the picture. The photograph is a prop, a prompt, a pre-text [... ] but if a photograph is somewhat contingent in the process of memory production, what is the status of the memories actually produced? ” (Kuhn, 2002: 13). When I recall some memory or look at old photos of myself when I was young, I could just as easily be remembering a particular thing because my Mother had related it to me when she was alive. However, I may be seeing these memories through rose tinted glasses, editing out the bad times before I can recall them.

Personal family photos are not the only ones to generate an emotional response, and photographers such as Morrissey use this to effect. September 20th, 1985 (Figure 2) elicits an emotional response in me, making me laugh by triggering my own personal memories, remembrance of my own family album images and experiences: creating a transferrable memory. Everyone has some images similar to this in their collection. It makes us reassess our own memories and question them. The family album forms the basis of a pictorially gilded game of Chinese Whispers, as family stories and histories are passed down the generations.

Memory is ever changing dependent on the viewer or narrator’s state of mind and intentions, and these stories, intentionally or not, become distorted, exaggerated or even fabricated. This is not memory - it is learning, and the learning gradually replaces the real memory until, finally, it is completely lost in the past and the faked history becomes legend. Everything is not always as it seems in the family album. Smiles are often faked (even in unhappy, tense situations), and everyday tensions and power struggles between family members are hidden, the very act of taking a posed photograph is essentially faking the memory at its conception.

Thus family albums can be seen as fiction, a subjective story rather than, if there is such a thing, an objective history. The photograph can merely show what was in front of it at a specific moment in time, but the mind takes this information and runs with it, creating stories around the image - “In short, to remember is to reconstruct, in part on the basis of what we have learned or said since” (Eco, 2005: 25). ----------------------- Figure 2: Morrissey, T. 2004. September 20th, 1985. Figure 3: RODA, T. 2004. Untitled.

Figure 4: ISHIUCHI, M. 2002. (‘Mother’s’ Series). Figure 7: ISHIUCHI, M. 2002. Mother’s #24. Figure 8: OTSUKA, C. 2005. 1976 and 2005, Kakamura, Japan. Figure 9: PIPE FAMILY ALBUM. 1972. Christmas Figure 12: WIGODER FAMILY ALBUM. 1942. Louis and Geoffrey Wigoder walking down Westmoreland St, Dublin, 1942. Figure 1: HESLING, I. 2000. Numbers. Figure 11: BEST FAMILY ALBUM. 2008. Untitled. Figure 6: ISHIUCHI, M. 2002. Mother’s #33 Figure 5: ISHIUCHI, M. 2001. Mother’s #55 Figure 10: BEST FAMILY ALBUM. 2007. Untitled. ----------------------- 3

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