Ever since I was little, I have been a collector of sorts. I collected rocks, playing cards, toys, and seashells whenever I went to the beach. I always wanted to feel like a repository for something, like a home for random items, an owner. My collector tendencies have only progressed as I have aged. I go to antique shops quite frequently, and when I step inside, I find myself wandering around until I inevitably spot an old wooden box overflowing with forgotten vintage photographs.
I am drawn to the aesthetics of an old photo. Sometimes they’re framed or printed on tin, and the paper is usually damaged and stained yellow. If there is a building in the frame, you can analyze the old architecture. And with photos of people, I like looking at the fashion, their faces, their jewelry, their shoes, and their tone in the photo, whether it’s a serious picture or a silly one. I like imagining what they sounded like, what hardships they’ve experienced, and whether they have ever loved or hated. Pictures and visuals ignite something in me that words can’t seem to pierce, and I think that is what draws me to photography. Especially knowing that back then, when technology was more limited and some people only had a handful of photographs taken of themselves in their lifetime, these pictures are all the more dear to me because they are one of a kind, and they are mine!
I have no particular bias with the individuals I collect, though my biggest collection within my collection is WW2 military men. My process for why I have so many pictures of soldiers and sailors is very complicated. I have certain views of the military, but my dad was a Marine, and his dad before that was very high up in the Army, along with the vast majority of my male ancestors having military backgrounds. I have a generational appreciation and respect for men who serve, despite my disdain for war. The men in these photographs are so young, most younger than me, yet they have witnessed/have had to participate in the horrors of the world. Some never made it back, and for others, the only remaining record of their existence may be the single photographs I have chosen to keep and honor. I do not know these men, but I know their bravery, and I like honoring them.
Maybe it is self-righteous in a way for me to find comfort in ownership of a nameless strangers photograph, but I know that when I am gone, I would appreciate being remembered by someone, anyone, and for that person to interpret anything about me or the life I lived. There is something beautiful about how two strangers separated by time, can share an unspoken bond through a single picture.