I was going through a load of old photographs earlier today, and when I do this, I'm always frustrated, and slightly saddened. The reason for this is that, although there are thousands of slowly-fading photos in my home, only a very tiny proportion are labelled. The ones that ARE labelled, are generally of subjects I know, and, therefore, need not be labelled. My late parents were very fond of taking pictures, and if they went on holiday, would come back laden with rolls of film to be developed. Into photos of places, the name of which was usually forgotten, or labelled vaguely, eg. 'YUGOSLAVIA, 1985'.
There are lots of photos from the 1920's up to the early 1990's, of family members, the names of whom are lost in the mists of time. Yet I cannot bring myself to throw these away: It's as if I'm some kind of arbiter, sending these lost souls to oblivion, to be dug into the soil as waste, without knowing or caring. I heard somebody once remark that a photograph is a memory made flesh, a tangible ghost of paper and emulsion, and throwing these away is to drag one's hand in the waters of Lethe, to forget, forget, forget. I cannot do that, since I feel that if you can take the time to take a proper photograph of a subject, then that subject must be of some importance, whether it be your Aunty Violet, Salford Lad's Club, or the Taj Mahal, and then that image, when captured, should be cherished and even shown respect. Even the 500 or so that me and my brother have never been able to identify, which go back in the cupboard, to get back to slowly eroding as the waves of time wash over them, dimming the faces, and demolishing the buildings and landscapes on those squares of card.