what color was the memory?

I just found an old roll of film that I had shot back in 2018. For those who haven’t shot slide film, it’s quite finicky and needs to be carefully metered to achieve good exposure. Each time I load a roll of slide film I convince myself that this time I’ll nail it, but I never really do.

I wonder how memory and color play with one another, especially when using film photography as a tool of reflection. Slide film generally has cooler colors, and I think that changes my relationship to the memory. If I shoot a warmer film, like Kodak Gold or Portra, it seems to paint the past in a different color. Or Fuji, with a greener hue. It’s hard to objectively judge this idea because maybe the memory outweighs the photograph and the color is secondary. I remember reading that the etymology of photography comes from “painting with light.” Maybe the film is the brush, and the strokes do, in some subtle way, change reality’s past.

The memory of Summer

The memory of Summer in the city will always live with me. It’s easier now, in a mid-January cold-spell, to romanticize the heavy heat radiating off the pavement. In fact, on one of those dog days of August you may have caught me writing a love letter to Winter. Maybe I wish for the freedom of Summer, the weather aside, a period of time where the schedule has fallen away and infinite possibility has taken its place. This day, the day I captured these photographs, the Pope was in town. People had come from far away, taken off work, cut class, and joined in the streets. Everyone was a kid that day. Playing in the water fountains at city hall, dancing in the streets, waiting. Waiting to see one man who rode around in a funny little cart. Maybe he would shake your hand or bless your baby, maybe you just wanted to say you saw him. Whatever the reason, it was just one of those timeless days, where we remembered to be there.