A friend gave me this old album of her family. It touches me that she wanted to throw it away a long time ago. Because the people in the photos have no meaning for her, she says. But she didn’t have the heart to do it yet.
Now I hold it in my hands and ask myself, if someone could tell the stories of these people, would these memories be true? They would be told memories or remembered narratives or told narratives of narratives of memories…
Science has taught us that the subconscious puts a distortion filter over memory to make it useful to us. But if memory is distorted more and more from person to person, what comes out in the end? Would these stories therefore only be uncontrollable mirages of an inner archaic power?
For me, this photo album is proof that all our efforts for a little immortality are in vain.