Our mother was a formidable influence on us as children, intimidatingly and singularly strong. Last night, she told me this was a reaction to her own mother’s absence in her upbringing, that she had made the conscious decision to be there for her own children in all things.
I don’t remember our grandmother. She died when I was a very young boy. I have a single, hazy memory of her presence in the room, and of hearing her voice, but not of actually seeing her.
The strongest figure in mother’s early years was a close family friend, whom she called Nanny Hillman. She was very fond of Nanny Hillman, and describes her as her rock. In 1941, during the war, our grandmother had a nervous breakdown. Nanny Hillman had a professional photographer take the photo on the left of our five-year-old mother as a surprise to cheer our grandmother up. She remembers the sideways glance as being due to her own insecurity in an unfamiliar situation, an excited yet unsure little girl looking to her Nanny Hillman for reassurance. It was taken in black and white, then hand coloured, as colour technology was still nascent in photography back then. She tells me that it was done well, the tones accurately matching those of her clothing, skin colour and hair.
Fifteen years later grandmother ripped the photo up in front of her, claiming it made her look “sly”. Mother was 20 then. Last year, 2013, my youngest brother sent me a scan of the photo, saying ma wondered if I could digitally alter the photo to make it look as if she were looking straight at the camera, as her memory of her own mother’s reaction to the “sly” expression disturbed her still. I could, in fact initially did, but no. I thought it a lovely picture as it was.
The photo was taken 29 years before I was born. When I was 35, in 2006, sixty-four years after the event, I took the picture to the right, in black and white. I only printed it last week, in early 2014, almost ten years after it was originally taken. I had thought the original to have been captured in colour, and hadn’t realised it was a black and white print coloured with photographic pigments until I spoke to ma last night. I had digitally colourised a scan of my print two days before using the same palette as the original, but desaturating the tones to more accurately match those of her skin colour and hair. That is, unknowingly using the latest technology to emulate a parallel process from decades ago to achieve the same effect.
Time.
He’s waiting in the wings. He speaks of senseless things.
His script is you and me.
Confy says
Indeed, it’s lovely as it was. A lovely girl. I did not link it at all to any thing about “sly”. We selectively remember, we selectively see, color our perception.
I like the picture on the right more. A determined lady.
Hcon says
How right you are. And sometimes we have to forgive ourselves when, metaphorically speaking, we, stumbling across a field at dawn cloaked by morning mist, find ourselves suddenly amongst an indifferent herd of cows, regarding us with cautious appraisal.
Confy says
I did not understand the metophor though I read it quite a few times. Do you think you could simplify it?
Hcon says
The uncomfortable feeling of being utterly, abruptly and uncontrollably lost, both in terms of where we are and what others might think of us. You are right. People selectively remember, and selectively see, as do we. But we also have to remember who and where we are, and be confident in what we see.
By the way, I’m not surprised you didn’t understand the cows thing. I don’t suppose many would. It refers to a situation I actually found myself in several years ago. Nice memory, if a little disturbing at the time.