Visual Media
LONDON, GB 2003
01. Street Photography
Tokyo, Amsterdam, Osaka, Kyoto
02. Portrait Photography
Ekinsu Ornek Graduate Collection
Guy Morgan Skincare AW24
The Death of Ephemerality
&ASIAN articles
tba
How Do Images Challenge the Ephemeral Nature of Memories?
An Exploration of Temporality, Perpetuation and Memorialisation Through Daido Moriyama’s ‘Memories of a Dog’.
“When I came into the world and began walking the path of my life, in other words when I still had no self-consciousness that I was I, held in the arms of some gentle person or lying upon some soft material, I felt the breeze caress the contours of the physical world, and perceiving an embracing light as a faint glow, gradually awakened to self-awareness as an individual. Before long, my five senses and sixth sense began to function, and connections to various things and events acted in concert with the territory of the unconscious to produce the form called memory, and I began to trace the individual history that goes with the name ‘I’. (Moriyama, 2004)
Figure 1 ‘Memories of a Dog’ (Moriyama, 2004)
This quote begins Japanese photojournalist Daido Moriyama’s 2001 publication, titled ‘Memories of a Dog.’ Touching on ideas of perpetuating memory, this book curates a number of his essays, originally published in the Japanese periodical Asahi Camera, spanning from 1983 onwards. (ADLM, 2022) The resultant is an exceptionally raw discussion on personal motivations and connections within the photographic practice; a visual documentation of the psychological conflict between letting go and clinging on. Even in its translation, Moriyama’s genuine authenticity transcribes a unique relatability; further allowing himself to self-actualise his position as the everyman of contemporary documentary photography. This essay aims to explore the fragility of dependence on forms exterior to the mind, namely photographs, structured throughout using expressions from ‘Memories of a Dog’. I intend to engage deeply with the philosophical, fluid, and temporal nature of the memory, extending through critique of the camera’s contemporary and traditional uses. Tracing Moriyama’s observations towards the extensive dynamics of image reception and the vast complexity of the past, I will further dissect a number of contemporary and chronological concepts in order to understand both the influence of the image and its resultant outcomes more thoroughly. Beginning by fore fronting the camera’s influence in modern-day spaces, I will first explore Art Critic John Berger’s ‘Ways of Seeing’. Establishing a foundation to the latter analysis of the photograph’s impact as the ‘universal language’ conversation opens surrounding its adaptability, accessibility, and intricate complexity within the spheres of modern art, social media, and the personal archive. (Berger, 2008) Correspondingly, the key debate opens to question whether the image, transcendent of its initial form, is a verifiable perpetuator of memory- owing to the fact that it is not an absolute representation, but rather a mere fragment. Touching on Timothy Morton’s ‘Hyperobjects’, I affirm the foundations for the discussion of memory itself. I consider the possibility that it could be regarded as a ‘Hyperobject’- in lieu of the fact that we must rely on similarly tangible objects, namely photographs, to understand it. Relaying back to a notion coined earlier by Moriyama, I will explore the fundamental concept of ‘the moment’ and the inherently paradoxical nature of photographing the present while still existing within it. This challenges the notion of the image as a contradictor of ephemerality, suggesting that they exist within a parallel; an idea which is expanded further through Moriyama’s consideration of the image and the memory as independent variables within the conscience. Furthermore, I begin exploration of the image as the ‘trigger’ for memory, as opposed to a complete representation. I further dissect how this too challenges the notion of ephemerality, and also how it extends towards shaping the human relationship with self-reflection. Using Moriyama’s contemplations as a mouthpiece, I touch on the delicate feelings of longing and the photograph’s effectiveness in allowing us to cling on to the past; this allows us to broaden the discussion towards the negative effects of attempting to perpetuate memory through the photograph, including ideas surrounding detachment and alienation. The essay reflects on the tender and unique experience of ‘otherness’ commonly experienced when regarding images of times that can no longer be returned to. Referring to ‘The Art of Slow Looking’ and another of Moriyama’s personal experiences, I draw on the unique intimacy of visiting and revisiting images; also touching on the influence of the situatedness of a photograph. I begin to draw conclusion by exploring ideas surrounding independent memorialisation through the writings of Adrian Forty and Suzanne Kucher with ‘The Art of Forgetting’. Through their commentaries I continue to explore the role of images within the sphere of grief, dissecting how the image auto-memorialises, infinitely perpetuating within itself. This essay does not intend to undermine the power of the image; criticisms of its limits in solely depicting a single moment from a single perspective emasculate the influence held by the camera. Rather, it is a discussion acknowledging the advantages and limitations of the image in representation of the memory through the photograph. With the vast amount of images curated and produced in contemporary society, it is important to reflect on the value of the photograph. This essay aims to broaden understanding of the relationship we have developed with the images we keep, but also in turn ourselves.
Images of the past, and the consequent power we have come to distil upon them, have gone above and beyond the literal, physical form of the photograph. Whether they depict a gently harmonised portrait, the neon violence of a city, or some abstract form, they are capable beings. The invention of photography has undoubtedly changed the trajectory of ‘the image’ indefinitely, with any image-taking device establishing itself as an extremely effective tool across any discipline. Photographic imagery, and it’s ever-changing list of applications, is inherently dynamic: few other attributes are equally as accessible as the camera. Steadily evolutionary by nature, the practice will continue to advance in both complexity and simplicity. Owing to its prevalent use in commercial or social media spaces aside from art, the photograph renders itself within a unique space of wider interpretations. Where art mystifies its own form simply by existing, the image can (and usually will) be received quite literally. Furthermore, although more of a dated idea, it is also worth noting that the air of elitism that surrounds traditional art forms and their consumption bears little presence in the photographic sphere. Speaking very broadly, the reading and understanding of images tends not to perpetuate the socioeconomic divide between individuals who are educated in art technique and those who are not. Not to say that images and the techniques used to create them are not appreciated, but it is rather that the immediate assumption that something could be understood to a higher degree is not as prevalent in the photographic space than the painting or perhaps sculptural spaces.
Its ease of use and accessibility is something that has allowed the camera to establish itself as an ideal vessel for communication; this can be more deeply understood through comparisons with spoken or written word and language. The notion of the image as the most accessible ‘language’ is universal. ‘The child sees and understands before they read’. (Berger, 2008) This is an idea explored in the first essay of the publication form of Art Critic John Berger’s ‘Ways of Seeing’. Fundamentally, Berger endorses that deriving understanding from visual cues is instinctual; language and words must be learnt. Adding context and juncture, this bestows an astronomical amount of power on the photograph. Furthermore, the relationship between the way an individual thinks and the way that they perceive an image allows for an astonishing amount of distinction. Consider the difference between, for example, a written quote of something said by a loved one, and an image of them. Certainly the image would have a more profound effect, regardless of the specific circumstances in which the photo was taken? “The act of seeing is active, it is an act of choice.” (Berger, 2008) Certainly the act of looking and the act of seeing are distinguishable; rarely do you look at an image without seeing it. The act of dissecting the image, forming an opinion, and subsequently understanding it is done within a matter of seconds. Contrary to the comparison between the painting and the photograph, in comparing the image with the present, the photograph does also invite emotion more so than if one were to see the frame in real time; in lieu of the fact that it is an image. For example, a photo of a bench in a park stimulates more curiosity than if someone were to see the bench as they walked through the park. The situatedness, condition and features of the bench only prompt curiosity when photographed. This dynamic relationship is especially provocative when the viewer has a personal relation to the image. The bench gains another thousand meanings as per the thoughts and emotions felt by the person that views it. This is the first understanding of the image as a singularity; we attach meaning to the image, not vice versa. “This two-way (reciprocal) nature of vision comes before dialogue.” (Berger, 2008) Even in a still frame, the memory is much stronger than that of a written quote. The photograph is simply a painting using light or chemicals, realised through a glass or perhaps an electronic eye. Images do not capture feelings; we attach feelings to them based on the visual and contextual cues. So why exactly is it that we end up depending on them as representations of memory? I suppose, in its representative form, the image will not wither or deteriorate; nor will it fall victim to the resultant haziness of the passing of time. However, where the image is an exceptional visual depicter, they are confined only to that. In ‘Ways of Seeing’, Berger uniquely denotes the idea of the image as an absolute singularity. “An image is a sight which has been recreated or reproduced . . . which has been detached from the place and time in which it first made its appearance . . .” (Berger, 2008) Where he discusses these ideas in regard to image reproduction, if we consider this idea in separating the image from its circumstances, we open ourselves to a much wider range of interpretations. For example, an image on the cover of a fashion magazine is not significant as a portrait of the time in which it was taken, but rather the person or the objects within it. It is to be read as a timeless abstract, not a literal memory. Where most certainly the model, photographer and others involved in the creative process will remember those circumstances, its purpose to the wider viewing audience is not as such. Similarly, at times, images created with no intention to become those of significance circumstantially end up tokens or souvenirs of the past. Furthermore, it is important to note the significance of the individual of whom created the image, and how this also constitutes towards its meaning. It is clear that the expanse of variables mystifies the readings of photographs, both historically and contemporarily: especially when presented as works of art. In fact, it could be arguable that the acuity of intricate forms, contexts and ideas in art critique works counterproductively, overcomplicating simple imagery into something obtusely profound. But I digress.
The rawest images, those with immediate personal context, have the capability to momentarily transcend place and time. Images are the physical or digital embodiment of ‘it is what it is’; and yet we tether ourselves and our emotions to them and allow them to drag us along. Moriyama comments:“The way I see it, sentimentality is just scarred sensibility. An injury to the heart. There is not a person who does not have a bruised heart, but humans instinctively try to conceal their own injuries.” (Moriyama, 2004). Attaching such a weight as a memory to an image to attempt to preserve it, regardless of its concision in displaying the features of it, is essentially impossible. ‘Memory’, in its vast complexity, is incomprehensible. In his 2013 publication by the same name, Professor Timothy Morton expresses inconceivably large concepts and ideas as Hyperobjects. In detailing a series of unfathomably large phenomena, most notably global warming, he examines the methods in which we comprehend them, and how they shape our understandings of the otherwise tangible. (Morton, 2013) Through the acknowledgement of confrontation of issues which appear to be ultimately out of our control, parallelly we can also gain a deeper understanding of the interconnectedness of lesser and greater concepts. It is certainly limiting to define memory as something as absolute as a tangible or intangible object; perhaps a more accurate description would be to consider it as an umbrella term, noting that we fundamentally only comprehend its experience through as a small class of phenomena that we must rely on definite objects to remember. (Morton, 2013) Applying this rationality, in its vast complication, surely it would be understandable to also attribute the title of ‘Hyperobject’ to memory. Examining our relationships with the incomprehensible promotes new ways of thinking; we also negate trying to rationalise enormous spectacles in favour of using smaller, more digestible conceptions. Certainly one of the most routine constitutors of memory would be the photograph; the traditional photobook or the contemporary mobile camera roll form a comprehensive archive of the memory. Critically, Morton supports the conception that the material shapes our perception of the immaterial. The idea that a photo represents a memory implies that the unmitigated remembrance can be depicted through a single image, which it does not. (Morton, 2013) Allowing ourselves to depend on images as a verifiable form of memory perpetuates that the image is a certifiable representation of circumstance, which it is often also not. Therefore, in line with Morton’s ideas of the wholly immeasurable, perhaps it would be more suited to recognise photos as a fragment of memory, a brief moment, certainly not a perfect representation.
In lieu of the understanding that a moment can never entirely be captured by a camera, it is actually debatable as to whether the image prolongs the moment at all. These ideas open up to a much broader consideration: what exactly constitutes ‘the moment?’ Moriyama notes: “People live in the immediate present. If one has an instant of awareness of being alive, it is nothing but the immediate present.” (Moriyama, 2004) Images exist to depict the past, we exist in the present, and the future does not yet exist. It could be suggested that photographic imagery is a rare instance of something that expresses this phenomena in a tangible form, as it too cannot literally exist within the present. As soon as we capture the image in the current moment, it is already a thing of the past; in the act of taking a photograph, the present remembrance is disrupted. This creates something of a paradox in which it is impossible to actively observe yourself within that moment. Likewise, pausing to consciously recognise the present, namely by taking a photograph, also constitutes towards the immediate ‘leaving behind’ of the present. Contrary to Moriyama’s statement, it could be acknowledged as that the present exists only truly within the subconscious, excluding the rare and usually quite fleeting thought of deliberately or consciously recognising it. Moriyama frequently recognises of the fragility of ‘the moment’ throughout the publication, asserting present mindfulness and promoting understanding of how and why that it is not designed to last. “I think people are able to continue living in the present because we forget almost every little thing.” / “The remembrances that sneak up on a tired soul may sometimes stir us, but there’s no tomorrow in that” (Moriyama, 2004) . By regarding the dynamic of the image and the memory in this way, further discussion opens as to whether the image should bear such a weight, in light of its contesting efficiency as a tool for representing memory. These ideas also further contest that images do not challenge the ephemerality of memory, but rather exist in parallel. Furthermore, these ideas of temporality spark a broader discussion into why exactly we become so enamoured with photographs of memories when, even with the images we keep, their receptions are not cemented. A photograph of the moon on a typical camera will never amount to the beauty of it seen through the eye: it is usually a shortfall to equate the image to the thing it is depicting. Such is why the phrase “The photo does not do it justice” is commonplace. In reflecting on images of memories, whether it be for better or worse, it is inevitable that in time you will forget the sound, and then the smell, and then the occasion. Even looking at a scene from your own perspective through an image, it is inevitable that you will no longer remember where exactly you went next that day, or the feeling of doing so; only the fact that you did. That is, should you be reminded to think about it again, returning to a photograph of that time. There is also a recent notion that people who are closest, best friends, couples, tend to have less photos together. Notably, that isn’t applicable to every situation, but it does invite the idea that these groups of individuals are valuing the moment more so than others. The criticism of the camera as an interference of the current experience is not a new idea, and is certainly one that ignites a much broader, more contemporary debate than that which we aim to explore through ‘Memories of a Dog’.
“-when we realise one day that we have no feel for the yesterdays we have lived, we have no foothold for living in the present, and we certainly don’t know about tomorrow, in the midst of this uncertainty, we may begin the process of examining again our individual memory.” Again, this essay is not a criticism of the camera’s use as a modern-day device for documentation. Rather, it is a comment on the context in which we store and consume these documentations. The ideas we have so far explored give weight to the impact of revisiting the memory through the image; through Morton and Berger we have established that the photograph is not a time capsule, but rather a catalyst for the memory. By revisiting them again and again, we also begin to more deeply understand how the present accesses and influences the past. The notion that an image can be read differently every time it is viewed further distances it from the conception that it is an ideal vessel for perpetuating memory. Moriyama comments on his personal experiences of nostalgia and sentimentality throughout ‘Memories of a Dog’, articulating his coping mechanisms balancing the tender dynamic between his present and his past. “Memories that are perceived by every cell of your body are first submerged as a subliminal experience and later reawakened suddenly in their original form. In contrast, nostalgic reminiscences that emerge through one’s emotions are, in the end, nothing more than that, regardless of what type of event is objectified.” (Moriyama, 2004) His recognition that nostalgia in a photographic context is a not a result of acknowledging the difference between two periods of time, but rather the consistent state of the mind itself further detaches forms of imagery from the memory. He indicates the idea we previously touched on through Berger and Morton’s understandings that the memory itself never manifests within the photograph, but rather lays dormant until triggered once again. Best described as ‘triggers’, these prompts are not unique within the image sphere, but tend to latch onto the most mundane of things, and rarely adhere to the expected. Such would explain why we can feel more upset when hearing the favourite song of a passed loved one or smelling the perfume of an ex-lover than by simply looking at a photo of them. Moriyama details his experiences with these triggers throughout ‘Memories of a Dog’. The notion that it is something we cannot return to will tend to invite some pensiveness; regardless of whether the memory is of better or worse happenings. Viewing a happy, sad, or neutral memory as an ‘other’, in reflection, detaches the current self from the self that experienced that memory; not only in a literal sense as a ‘viewer’. Similarly, the temporality of memories through images echoes the immortality of fiction; the realisation that you will eventually outgrow our favourite characters is not dissimilar to the realisation that you are no longer in a certain stage of your own life. Denoting the image of the past as ‘other’, whether that be fictitious or as a singularity, allows us to more easily comprehend the notion that it is no longer an accurate representation of ourselves. This detachment can, in some cases, encourage healing.
“When I sit alone vacantly with nothing to do, at some point memories come to me. There are times that are faint, slightly bitter. At those times I can see a woman beyond the slight bitterness, in the background hang a faded page of a map and a page of a calendar.” (Moriyama, 2004) Moriyama characterises the feelings of longing beautifully throughout the publication. It allows the reader to slip gently into the quietness of literature, lulled by his gentle understanding of the universal feeling of missing something. He celebrates the claw marks left on things unwillingly let go of, highlighting the notion that regardless of how much you cling to something or someone, you can never really go back. Alike to the question of “Should you know when you will die?”, or perhaps “Would you bring back a loved one for just a little while?” yearning over images of the past is a sort of immediate gratitude. You can trace the outline of an image of someone’s face with your finger, but it is not being able to hold them once more. You can have another hundred beautiful summer nights, but you will never be able to return to any of them again– at least, not through the image. “A human being is nothing more than a life spent attentively passing through an assemblage of countless scenes.” / “Recalling scenes that are being lost is, simultaneously, presaging scenes of the death that is to come.” (Moriyama, 2004) Perhaps it is that we project the complexity of the memory onto the simplicity of the image. The moment only exists until you recognise it is no longer, which allows it to exist within a vacuum, as a cruel reminder of temporality. The image can be an esoteric form of grief, tailored to the individual, by the individual; it’s existence has become a sort of punishment for attempting to cling on. This unique, paradoxical detachment tends to invite a unique feeling of not being in control, something that humans have an unfathomable need to maintain. As such, you could attest that memories are an attempt of control, and resultantly are the images we have depicting them. Looking at it this way, the image acts as something of a delusion; we have become so bound to the idea of imprisoning our experiences within photos ‘for later’, we neglect the present. By idolising the past through these memories, we also begin to forsake the value of the present, and in turn ourselves. The ingenuity of the image lies in the fact that it is in fact only a moment; and it can feign perfection in a number of ways; the reliance on images as an absolute representation of a memory runs risk of creating a paradox in which we derive joy from circumstances that no longer exist. We have established that images have the capability to forefront memories as better or worse than actuality, intentionally or unintentionally, but should we really be relying on something so easily misconstrued to recall our memories? “Though I desire to at least possess on film every such tender thing that is glimpsed and brushes past, no matter how much I shoot most of what I want simply flows away like water spilling through a net, and always what remains are only vague, elusive fragments of images, somewhere between afterimages and latent images that sink into countless strata in my mind.” (Moriyama, 2004)
To expand on the idea of isolation, there exists a unique sentiment of inaccessibility between the viewer and the image, especially towards the self. Images taken from your perspective, or those of you, elude a palpable energy of otherness, owing to the fact that they are no longer really you. This prompts us to question the exact reasons why we are so moved when reflecting on images of the past. Is it because of our inability to return, or rather the recognition of our personal change? Furthermore, is this recognition more upsetting when we look towards or away from ourselves? I believe that this is the price we pay for the image; we can return for a moment, but only as a sort of spectator. Moriyama expresses this feeling beautifully through his writings in ‘Memories of a Dog’. He notes that by regarding these memories with such veneration, we begin to forget that our existence itself is a continuous heirloom, and we do not need reminders of times we can no longer return to. It is harmful to become enamoured with things no longer within our reach. “You can go back to the past, but nobody is there”. This quote flickers around my subconscious reading Memories of a Dog. Moriyama documents his emotions returning to Ikeda Town, his home prefecture after almost 40 years. He returns, likening his feelings as to a fan visiting a set of a movie or a TV series. “– Also, verifying memory does not amount to overlaying images of the past on the present, the present on the past. For starters, I think of memory not as the reproduction of images that rise up nostalgically from within oneself, but rather the territory of the heart that faces and is deeply engaged with the vast time that stretches into the distant before and after with the present and the divide.” (Moriyama, 2004) Where some could argue this particular experience is pathetic fallacy, those familiar with yearning understand that it does not adhere to circumstance. Longing does not necessarily fashion it’s return at a time of vulnerability; desires will catch up to you in the middle of a busy street, eating your favourite meal, or through the sunlight between in the trees. It is also not in the nature of longing to be organised or controlled; such clarifies the erraticism of processes such as grieving. There is a certain heartache, and also a certain solace, in the slow fading of memories over time: those feelings align with the peculiarity of being haunted by something that is, at times, still alive. Not only can the repeated re-examining of images of the past support the idea that that space remains the same, they can delude the viewer into feeling the circumstances also remain the same. Yet, it is also crucial to remember that revisiting an image does not necessarily dehaze that memory, another reminder of the beauty of temporality, the fragility of the image, and the value of the present moment.
Figure 2. ‘The Fairy Feller’s Master-Stroke’, (Dadd, 1855-64)
Time will pass regardless, and each time it is revisited, the thought and the feeling will have clouded and changed just a little more. In contemporary society which values promptness and rapid media consumption, spending time with a photograph acts as a counterweight to the immediacy we are surrounded with. Bumi Thomas, Nichole Mollet, Rebecca Chamberlain, Aidan Hart and Enrica Franca discuss the notion of revisiting and slowly consuming artwork in ‘The Art of Slow Looking’; a 2019 podcast for Tate. (Tate, 2019) Most notably, Nichole Mollet discusses her deep connection with Richard Dadd’s ‘The Fairy Feller’s Master-Stroke’, which she consistently revisited inside a gallery over the course of a few months. In that time, her relationship with the painting changed, repetition provoked deeper understanding as she began to theorise the interconnectedness of the characters and their narratives. She also uncovered a latent connection with both the artwork itself and Dadd’s life; later noting that they both grew up in nearby towns. (Tate, 2019) This is a real-time case study of the palpable connection between the image and the individual, and how it can adapt over time in revisiting. A quote from Rebecca Chamberlain, a researcher in the psychology of art and aesthetics; “It (art) invites us to sit with ambiguity. We go into the gallery, and we can assume this position of allowing things to be quite clear, to experience emotions that we would not normally find very tempting.” (Tate, 2019) Similarly to the intimacy of the viewer towards the art within a gallery, the personal viewing experience of memories allows us to manually access emotions of the past. It is in this way that it (revisiting images) becomes something of an emotional experience within itself. The reading has the capability to change every time you return to an image, similarly to the realisation that every time you think of a memory your remembrance changes. In a latter extract, Moriyama details his experience in viewing an image nine years prior, only once, inside a cultural museum in Hokkaido. He describes the photograph as completely bleached by the sun, noting that he could barely piece together an impression further than three silhouettes, a wall of a house and a distant horizon. The emotional weight of the physical deterioration of an image constitutes to the lengthening list of variables that constitute towards the potency of the photograph. Moriyama describes this photograph, wedged in a small corner space, uncredited, as “A truly happy encounter”. (Moriyama, 2004) This contradicts the possible consideration that an image must be revisited to have a form of impact. He continues; “By nature, photographs are fossilisations of things, but I don’t know many other photographs where a scene has become so perfect as a fossil.” (Moriyama, 2004)
Where the stasis of the photograph renders it is impermeable to physical or literal change, the passing of time also adds a unique ductility to its reception; the same image, viewed by the same person, in the same space, can be understood differently when revisited again and again. Attributing the idea that the parallels between the existent forms of the photograph and the memory are well-defined in the context of repeated reflection, we can similarly attach the idea of continuity to a static photograph. This also further constitutes that memory is stored within the brain, not within the image, as Moriyama’s scripts support.
Continuing on the idea of temporality, the immediate archiving of an experience into the memory (in the contexts of a time that cannot be returned to, or a person that cannot be seen again) could also be considered as something of a memorialisation. “The Art of Forgetting” delicately curates a series of mediums depicting the life and afterlife of the memory. “In a way, the object must die twice, first at the moment of its own death and secondly through the subject’s unhitching from its own identification. It is only then that the object can pass into history and that the stones can become set- for mourning and memorial are a phase apart.” (Adrian Forty, 1999) Forty notes an expression from director and writer Mark Cousins, in discussion of the work of Rachel Whiteread. “The temporal gap between mourning and memorial is the outcome of a successful closure; a stage reached where the reassertion of the mastery makes it possible to remember to forget the pain.” (Adrian Forty, 1999) If we regard the photograph in this way, certainly one unintending to memorialise something, it could be considered that it is both; and yet, neither. The impact of the photograph as an invoker of these emotions lays once again in the fact that it is a completely independent experience; it is unlike a traditional memorial in that the grief is personal. That certainly does not mean that ‘traditional’ grief is not personal; rather, I mean that the grief is individualised. See, an individual can relate to another in the context of a dedicated memorial; we can mourn tragedies such as wars in an orchestrated and methodical fashion; yet images mould to the independent grief; frequently attuning to the strongest of feelings. Hence, the ingenuity lies in the fact that the mind is the singularity, not the image. The processes and the contexts within the brain render the viewer fundamentally isolated; the image serves as a reminder that only you exist within your head, and therefore only you shall experience it. Furthermore, through this auto-memorialisation, the linear process of grieving is condensed into one. The photograph becomes the reason for mourning, the thing you are mourning, the thing that reminds you of the thing you are mourning and the monument. It becomes something of an Ouroboros: both healing and perpetuating, indefinitely. “The implication of the visual structure of the monument fails to encourage certain kinds of remembering and forgetting as part of a healing process raises interesting point” (Adrian Forty, 1999) Grief is most certainly the souvenir of love; perhaps it is easiest to regard the image as a physical form of that souvenir; think it brings a lot of comfort to perceive it solely in that way. There always exists the proof that pain can be, and usually is, survived; but to hold a tangible reward is a significant gratuity. The question the image invites is as to whether the encouragement of reflection triggered by the visual cue is a negative or a positive perpetuation. “-a second element, temporality, has to be added in Freud’s writing on mourning. The synthesis that opens between mourning and memorial takes place through repetition: the return of the experience.” (Adrian Forty, 1999) I think it is something particularly cruel about time: the acceptance that at some point you must remember something for longer than you ever knew it. We must also ask if returning, and eventual monumentalising is necessarily a bad thing; it is also debatable if the image mystifies the way we process these emotions. We have well established that the existence of images, especially those of places we cannot return to, or people we cannot not see again, provoke a complicated sort of tenderness. A unique form of grief that teases two of the most powerful human feelings: loneliness and helplessness.
Throughout this essay I intended to explore the vast complexity of the chemistry between the image and the memory; within its dynamic nature it is important to acknowledge that there is a much wider expanse of variables which contribute towards the discussion. I began by acknowledging the excellence and also limitations of the camera as the perpetuator of memory; through John Berger’s understanding of the intricate language of imagery, I explored the interconnectedness of photography and emotion. In considering the image as a singularity, I challenged the notion that an image inherently represents a concise moment in time, in lieu of the fact that it is limited to only a visual depicter. Through the lens of Timothy Morton’s ‘Hyperobjects’, the discussion extended to methods in which the material shapes the immaterial; understanding that the memory and the image work in tandem to shape the remembrances of each other. Considering the temporality of the present, we touched back on Moriyama’s ideas surrounding the conscious recognition of existing within the present moment, and the paradoxical relationship between the present and the past through the image. Furthermore, I continued to detail Moriyama’s unique perception of the inherent singularity of the photograph; most notably the upset which comes from the recognition of personal change in reflecting on memories. Throughout the essay, I regard the fluidity of the relatively philosophical ideas of temporality and interpretation in relation to the image; this is especially key in the following discussion surrounding the inevitable and daunting ‘otherness’ of becoming a spectator to your own memories. The conversation extends towards the variables which change the reception of the image, including reference to a podcast from Tate, which detailed creative Nicole Mollet and her consistent revisiting of a singular painting, ‘The Fairy Feller’s Master-Stroke’. Her comments shed light on the value of reflection and nodded to a similarly enlightening experience by Moriyama with a ‘fossilised image’ in Hokkaido. Ultimately, the essay touches on the inevitability of inherent memorialisation of photographs, and fundamentally reflects back on the fleeting beauty of temporality. I intended for the thoughts and ideas reviewed throughout this essay to ignite personal contemplations surrounding independent and interpersonal relationships with memory and image, much alike to Moriyama’s delicate curation of writings. He concludes ‘Memories of a Dog’ with a noteworthy commentary; “While each memory has its own context, the light that strikes each of these appears in complex interplay inside me and is regenerated as a new memory of light, which in turn continues to require and presage the further stimulation of the next light and memory. The one place where all of these cycles of light and memory converge is history? Photographs are fossils of light and memory, and photographs are the history of memory.
This is my conclusion, for the time being.”