The Box Brownie in the Cupboard

We all know of cultures who think that taking a photograph of them captures their soul, but what of the relationship between the camera and the photographer? What lingers inside the camera?

Not long ago I had one of those amazing interactions that stretches my thinking. I like that. I try to embrace a sentiment I got from Maxine Hong Kingston's autobiography years agoin which she has her alter ego express the goal to "make your mind large enough to incorporate paradoxes." The interaction came from an exhibit at the nearby glass works (North Lands Creative Glass in Lybster). I might not have gone to see the exhibit except that two of the artists had come to do a show and tell of their residencies at a closer to home venue--the new museum in Thurso.

The work that interested me the least --at first--was a young American whose work had been taken up with vintage cameras. He found them, repaired them as needed, took at least one photograph with them, and then used the camera as a mold--juxtaposing the permanent and the transient. Having long been daunted by the mechanics of photography, I did not expect to be captivated, but I am drawn to photographs, especially the anonymous faces staring so keenly out of old glass negative photos, so I listened and looked intently.

The artist shared some of the history of the cameras, including the democratizing of both history and art with the advent of the Box brownie camera. Now transient moments could be captured by more than the elite or the technocrat, and candid photographs were possible. Arguably, this ushered in an era of overload of vacation snaps of seaside visits or children in best clothes, but those were the photos of someone choosing a moment that they wanted to remember--to hold on to.

When my husband found this old box brownie in the cupboard, it brought back to me all those associations and a few more came with it. I remember a friend whose husband--now decades ago--showed me his collection of 19th century photographs carefully preserved and framed. They were beautiful, tiny photos of what I took to be sleeping infants. When he told me they were dead and that there was in the 19th century a tradition of photographing these infants as a last memory for the grieving parents, I was appalled. I remember sadly how hurt he was, "I thought you would understand," he said as he picked up the nearest photos and put them out of sight. Now I understand. I understand why the parents wanted, needed, and cherished those images. I understand why the photographer thought of it as precious gift to the parents. I understand why he saved those photographs. I also understand now why he thought I would appreciate them. I am honoured that he had such faith in me and very sorry that it took me so long to grow into that understanding.

And for all those reasons and more I took photos of this little box brownie out into the garden where it was many years ago. I photographed it on the garden wall overlooking the sycamores and in the honeysuckle and in front of the newly painted front door.