Every photograph frames a story about people who are no longer present, at least not in the same way. The story involves anyone who made the photograph or is visible in it. Some photographs also suggest absences other than those they technically record.
This photo calls to mind a dear friend whose sense of self can shift dramatically from one moment to the next. I took it while the two of us were adjusting to one of those shifts. Neither of us is visible in the photo, but evidence suggests we were both present just before it was taken. In a literal and a figurative sense, we’re not there any more.
I’ve recently been stuck by how personal shifts, absences and forgotten moments build discontinuity into our lives. Take away the props we use to bridge the gaps—calendars, lists, photos, opportunities to talk or text, and so on—and we’d be left with a social amnesia that might look something like Alzheimer’s or dementia. We’d “remember” less, and we’d also be less confident of who we are with each other, and less capable
of acting purposefully.
When I just showed this photo and note to my dear friend, she didn’t remember having ever seen it before (she had). She also didn’t recognize the running gear on the floor as her own, because, as she put it, she never leaves it that way. She doesn’t have Alzheimer’s and is sharp as a tack, but it’s her running gear, so we’re adjusting again.