I suppose that every family, as
well as mine, owns his proper baggage of photographic memories, kept in
an old cabinet somewhere in the house. In that place are kept
the stories of the whole family, the memories of grandparents, the marriage of the parents, the childhood period, all the summer holidays, and countless other occasions to remember. Their appeal lies in the
irregularities, in the imperfections, in the grains of dust that soiled the
film, in the overexposure burning the edges and merging all the objects in an
indistinct white light, in the color fading due to the passage of time. I like to think that the paper possesses its own
selective memory, which unveils some elements of the image while hides or
removes others, staining only parts of the scene, while the rest is left in the
second floor, in black and white. Or I like to think that the fading paper
misses parts of that memory, and sometimes what remains seems not to be the
most important thing.
