I can’t tell why I’ve loved this particular photo of my father out of all the others. My family albums are filled with diverse photos of him owing to his travels and the nature of his work. He holds a steady gaze towards the camera, fixating it before it shoots him.
I’m intrigued by his hands, carefully gathered on his thighs despite his relaxed posture.
My mother rejects my love for this photo; his wavy hair, his sitting position, his hands holding a cigar are inappropriate for him. She asks me to reconsider what I think, suggesting other photos of him.
My relationship with my mother tenses up when the conversation turns to politics or photography.
My mother doesn’t look at the camera, she doesn’t look at us if she’s angry.
I don’t know where the authority lies in that dynamic, but it worries me how my mother is afraid of the photo.
The photo is a document that we must take seriously, that is what she believes. She directs me in photographs more than she directs me in reality. She tells me ‘be my eyes in your travels.’ I photograph what I see and think would interest her, I remove what she doesn’t like or what will worry her. I smile in photos for her.
I think about how this habit of smiling in photos began. Why do our photos have to express a moment of happiness pushed into our memory?
Courtesy of Contemporary Image Collective
