How Well Do You Remember? Or Who Will Remember You?

“Now all adults can know exactly how they and their parents and grandparents looked as children – a knowledge not available to anyone before the invention of cameras, not even to that tiny minority among whom it was customary to commission paintings of their children.�?
- Susan Sontag, On Photography

From one movie with an Arthurian theme, I remember this thought, “ you cease to exist the moment nobody thinks about you anymore.�? A terrible paraphrase no doubt, but I’m sure you get the point.

I was looking online through some not too old photographs when I came across the above image. It was taken by Hiromi Iwasaki, then a student at the Tokyo University of Foreign Studies, who came to live with us for a year in Baguio in 2004, to study at UP.

During her summer break, she went home to Hanyu City. Showing some interest in photography then, I lent her one of my cameras and encouraged her to take pictures of her family so we could get to know them even just through photographs. Upon her return to Baguio she shared with us her pictures. This particular frame caught my attention because of its unusual composition.

It showed half of her oji-isan (grandfalther) and her obasan (grandmother) with their backs toward the camera. I asked her why she decided to shoot the portrait as she did.

She said this was how she saw her Ojii-san and Obasan from the door of their room in the afternoon - every afternoon - for as far back as she can remember. Ojiisan would always be at his place, and Obasan, in hers. Ojii-san and Obasan would be watching TV. They didn’t speak. There was only the toned-down sound of the “terebi.�? If there was to be a conversation, it always started with a question from Obasan, to which Ojii-san only moaned in assent or disagreement. When Ojii-san picked up his cigarette carton, Obasan would be ready to light up his cigarette in an instant. This, despite having Ojii-san behind her, out of sight.

A cough from Ojii-san would send Obasan fetching for a glass of water or a pot of green tea and a teacup. She was always sensitive to his needs.

Then I understood that the photograph, unconventionally arranged as it was, was perfect for the purpose it served: to tell me about Hiromi’s grandparents, beyond their ages and other personal details. Hiromi will remember her grandparents, very well.

The above picture is that of my father-in-law. He was 73 when the photograph was taken. It was unintentional. I was hoping to capture the early morning light that radiated from windows on the east side of our home in Baguio. As I was about to trip the shutter, ‘grandpa’ – as we all called him – came shuffling through the frame on his way to the restroom as he always did everyday, at this early time in the morning. I took the picture anyway.

We have moved out of Baguio, and grandpa now lives with my brother in law in Manila. Recently, grandpa was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. All we can now do is pray and wait, according to his doctors.

Everytime I see this picture, I will always remember how I lived in Baguio with grandpa.

The next time you discard your old stuff and start throwing away old pictures, be careful. You could be wiping out the last traces of people you love, or perhaps even erasing all vestiges of yourself.