Spring Cleaning

Spring seems to rhyme with cleaning. This year, I have set my mind to scanning all the old pictures and burn them on DVDs before shredding the hard copies. I am not sure why this task suddenly appears important or even necessary. Perhaps it is part of the purging process. Never-the-less, I have been scanning all of them one by one, watching my story unfold frame by frame. Although it can be heavy at times, it’s also interesting to notice the progression.

The incredible thing about a picture is that no matter how long ago it was captured, a fleeting look will transport you back in time, making that moment eternal. If for no other reason, one should never take a picture in vain as good times will be remembered with vivid clarity, but so will be the bad ones as well.

I did allow myself the privilege to tamper with some of the evidence, destroying a few pictures here and there. After all, the 80’s were cruel years, but so were the forceful smiles which never quite reached the eyes. Although I did - Photoshop - my past a little, I have no desire to completely eradicate it. This is, in spite of everything, the only true comparison I have with the present, the only way I have to attest of real progress. On print, it is easier to observe changes more objectively.

The most peculiar discovery so far is the fact that each and every one of my old girlfriends resembled my mother in some ways, and the fact that I never was quite myself with any of them. Most of these friendships entailed making much compromises on my part, and continuously walking on thin ice.

The other interesting discovery is the fact that my mother did not always look like a malignant and reprobating witch. There were times when she looked light and rosy. But even then, the emotion did not seem to be directed at the photographer, rather at the opportunity to portray a perfect moment. It seems that objectivity has no place between mother and daughter. My mother and I always had a very enflamed and harsh relationship completely void of respect. It feels as though I spent my life erupting at my mother’s perfect stoic. How could anyone remain so professedly indifferent to her child suffering? Unless the goal is to make the child suffer more still. I think early on, some deep instinct and intrinsic awareness alerted me to a profound and irreversible imbalance between us. And not unlike others, I spent an important part of my life trying to prove myself wrong. She did, in moments of rage, tell me that she never loved me, but who ever means it? However, it must have been true and I felt it. It might also explain why I never sought her for ally in difficult times and why she never volunteered.

It is puzzling to look at all these pictures. Her posing betrays very little. Yet, for the most part, I remember quit clearly how miserable, how cornered and guilty I felt moments before these pictures were taken. The fighting and bickering were too savage to underline deep love and after years, it left but a feeling of modest discomfort. When I look at these pictures, my heart feels like a mushroom left in the fridge for too long.

When I started scanning these pictures I wanted an easier access to them. Who ever takes the time to flip through envelops and boxes stored at the bottom of an old trunk? Will I look at them more regularly now? Probably not. These pictures attest only of my past.

As far as I am concern, the past, although interesting to understand, analyze, comprehend, accept and finally to let go of, is by no mean a clear indication of the future choices to be made ahead. It certainly is, in great part responsible for shaping a person’s character, values and choices in life; but the response to all these stimuli remains unexpected as human beings learn, grow and overcome.