take a picture, it'll last longer!
on keepsakes, being (too) sentimental, and the importance of taking photos
The hard part is that time, it passes
The best part is that time, it passes
The hard part is it never lasts
But the best part is just that you had it
— “Heart Shaped Locket”, Shallow Alcove
I’ve always been a very sentimental person. I look forward to hellos, I hate goodbyes, and I tear up at the sad scenes in movies and shows that directors and screenwriters include specifically for people to cry at. I am no stranger to nostalgia. In fact, we’re very good friends; pretty much family at this point. I’m really big on keepsakes and collecting artifacts from my own personal past—I still have every one of my childhood and adolescent diaries, birthday cards and handwritten notes from friends and older mentor figures from my youth, braided friendship bracelets, polaroid photos, and any little gifts or trinkets that have been given to me by family members, old love interests, friends (both current and past), and even the ones that aren’t in my life anymore.
I’ve kept and stored every letter anyone’s ever given me in a box that goes on the top shelf of my closet, whether it’s as simple as a premade Hallmark card or as detailed and thoughtful as a full-fledged handwritten letter. I promise: there is a meaning and a memory connected to every little thing I’ve made sure to keep over the years. I don’t just keep them because I’m afraid to offend people by throwing them away; I keep them because I want to remember.
And on top of all of that, I’m also a songwriter, which means that even if I don’t have a picture or any kind of proof that something happened, it still lives on in the form of a song. Every emotion I’ve ever felt has been felt to the extreme. I used to view this as a curse, thinking I was just overdramatic by nature, but in recent years I’ve learned to embrace those facets of my personality and overall being.
I start to grieve moments leaving me before they’ve even begun, and I take way too many pictures—of things, of places, of people, of people in places, of myself with people—all in a desperate attempt to keep a somewhat indissoluble version of that moment with me, one that lasts longer than that fleeting interval of time. When will I ever return to this exact place? Who knows the next time we’ll be in the same room again? How long will we remain this way? Will we always be this close? I never have the answers. All I know is that this is something I want to remember, and how much I am going to miss it once it’s over. I want to hold onto however much of this moment that I possibly can—however much you will let me.
In “Camera Roll (Notes on Longing)”, an essay from the anthology, Pop Song by Larissa Pham (a title I will never ever stop recommending, because she captures the vignettes of a young first love so perfectly to me), she writes of the feeling that drives her to take pictures of those she loves: “My eye wasn’t possessive of people; it was only the closeness between us I craved. I knew I would lose it one day, and I wanted to make it visible, as though I could turn the way you touched me into a substance to hold.”1 There were many instances throughout the essays in Pop Song where I felt uncomfortably seen, and this passage was no exception. She goes on to quote Susan Sontag, who has also spoken on this very subject, saying, “A photograph passes for incontrovertible proof that a given thing happened. The picture may distort; but there is always a presumption that something exists, or did exist, which is like what’s in the picture.”
I think that’s what I love so much about taking pictures. Not necessarily in a professional photographer kind of way, but more so in a way that felt more candid and casual, simply wanting to keep this moment for myself, in case my memory fails me one day. Although, I did have a phase near the beginning of high school where I believed I was built for professional photographer stardom, where I would constantly steal my parents’ DSLR, meant to be used for Christmas photos and special events only, and bring it around town with me to snap pictures of my younger siblings, my dog, and various plants and sunsets. I even started an Instagram account at the time for my “professional photography”, which only really looked “professional” because of the heavy focus and high quality of the image, all provided by the abilities of a very expensive camera, and less as a reflection of any possible talent held by an overzealous teenage girl, who simply pressed the shutter button.
While simply taking a picture of someone or something will never quite recreate the exact feeling of being in that exact moment in time, the mere reality that it represents that moment, visually brings about sensations of memory, and allows for us to recall the way everything looked, sounded, smelled, tasted—it’s the closest thing we have to the ability to time travel. We’ve all experienced this in some form, but the most universal might be the sensation of looking at a photo from our childhood and all at once, remembering being in that moment. My mom always says, “You only think you remember that day, because you’re looking at the picture. You wouldn’t have remembered if you hadn’t seen it.” Which, I guess, is sometimes true. But other times, I swear I can seriously remember it. I think it’s less of a trick of the mind and more indicative of the power that a simple image can hold.
We all know the old saying: Take a picture, it’ll last longer. The funny thing about that phrase is that it’s usually used in a derogatory fashion toward any onlookers mocking and jeering at your current state, usually one that is potentially embarrassing. But if you tilt the perspective of the statement just the tiniest bit, it transforms into something that instead says, I’m afraid of this moment leaving me, of me not remembering it, and of things not being exactly the way they are right now.
That’s exactly what I do when I take photos—at least, most of the time. Of course, we all have stupid images in our camera roll that seemingly hold no sentimental value. But I’ve found that if enough time passes, you’ll look back at those “stupid” pictures and find yourself remembering all the details—who (or what) is just outside of the camera’s scope in that image, where it was exactly taken, and who you were as a person at the time of the photo’s capture. In my experience, when this happens, everything starts to rush back to me all at once, no matter how dumb or pointless the origin of the photo or video may have seemed. It is my feeble pursuit in freezing a moment and transforming it into something that will stand the test of time. No matter how much changes, that photo or video that I’ve captured never will. That moment in time is forever held inside of that image. No amount of passage of time or life-changing events that have occurred during that stretch of time will ever be able to alter that moment as it happened.
I’ve also realized that it’s not just a desire to remember, but also a deep-seated need to preserve the essence of an experience. People come and go, and the passage of time can alter the very fabric of our lives, but these captured moments serve as anchors that ground me in the reality of what once was. We were there. It happened.
I think, at the root of it all, I am mostly afraid of losing, and eventually forgetting—and maybe that’s why I cling to photos and any other keepsakes so tightly. I don’t want to forget the way the sun shone on our faces at the botanical gardens, or the sound of our ecstatic, scratchy screams at that concert. I don’t want to forget the smile that slowly crept upon your face when you realized I had been looking at you while you were distracted doing something else. I don’t want to forget how it felt to awkwardly walk around museums, getting used to your company, or to stand in dimly-lit, crowded rooms and aimlessly wander city streets. I don’t want to forget the smell of my grandparents’ house during the holidays, or the warmth of a fifteen-person family huddle around the Christmas tree, plus all of our dogs, everyone squeezing together to make sure all of us make it in the photo. I don’t want to forget the way you were always happy just to see me, and the rhythmic tapping of your tail against the wall as I approached your bed every night to tuck you in. I don’t want to forget any of it.
Sometimes, I try to think about the way I sound from someone else’s perspective. I imagine they think I sound naïve, insane, or both. But I’ve tried to stop doing that, and I’ve begun to view my sentimentality as a defiance against the ephemeral nature of existing. It’s a way of saying I was here. This mattered to me. I like to think of it more as a testament to the ability to find beauty and purpose in a world that can seem devoid of both. But when all is said and done, I think that these are the ways in which we will be remembered. Not for any greatness we may have strove toward and accomplished—but for the way we loved, and the way we felt.
Pham, Larissa. Pop Song (p. 105-106). Catapult.
This topic feels so close to my heart! I've seen very few people who hoard memories ( like me) and then write about those things (like I do😭). These may just be mere letters, bracelets, cards to some people but they're fragments of the past reminding us of the good times and emotions.... Beautifully written 💕✨
“I’ve begun to view my sentimentality as a defiance against the ephemeral nature of existing. It’s a way of saying I was here. This mattered to me. I like to think of it more as a testament to the ability to find beauty and purpose in a world that can seem devoid of both.”
Beautifully written!!
Also it looks like I’ll be giving pop song a read.