To Memory’s Relentless Melt
Kailah Figueroa
When I learned of her death, I couldn’t source my grief. There was
only confusion and disbelief. We were moving through girlhood together, and
then we weren’t. She was alive, and then she wasn’t. Tiana was thirteen when I
met her, twenty-one when she left her body. This was our second ending.
In October of 2022, I was on a call with my friend Raven, someone you’d I’d known since I was twelve. It was in the architecture of our friendship to have months between our conversations. We wished each other happy holidays and happy birthdays, and now and then called each other to offer a look into our lives. There were no hard feelings. We were twenty-one at that point. I met Raven around the same time I met Tiana, but Raven was the only friend from middle school whom I still kept in touch. We developed in different ways. The years passed, and we shaved off one another from our lives. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes without recognition. It had been a while since we’d spoken, so Raven and I were catching up. Raven was a music producer, told me about her studio sessions and hours on music video sets. I told her about new publications, a new installation at the art gallery I worked at part-time, and my graduate school plans. And then Raven said it: You remember Tiana? She died in a car crash.
I had forgotten her in the same way I remembered her: quick images of light, pink headbands, and blue skinny jeans, umber skin darkened by the spring sun, waiting for her on the sidewalk outside her apartment building. It was all backdrops, costumes, and Technicolor. I blinked and saw our fourteen-year-old selves. It was difficult to patch these fragments together. For a while, she was one of my closest friends. Then time maintained its tradition. It kept going. We got older, and in the absence of words and text messages, we split apart. She was bound to my girlhood and could only traverse the tight corners of my memory’s geography. It was rough and jaded and beautiful, but when I looked back, the distance tricked me into believing it was easier and less painful than it actually was. I hadn’t heard her name in years. Tiana. I peered into the bank of memory, girlhood, my juvenile bones and beliefs, I reached and reached and reached and found nothing but myself.
In October of 2022, I was on a call with my friend Raven, someone you’d I’d known since I was twelve. It was in the architecture of our friendship to have months between our conversations. We wished each other happy holidays and happy birthdays, and now and then called each other to offer a look into our lives. There were no hard feelings. We were twenty-one at that point. I met Raven around the same time I met Tiana, but Raven was the only friend from middle school whom I still kept in touch. We developed in different ways. The years passed, and we shaved off one another from our lives. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes without recognition. It had been a while since we’d spoken, so Raven and I were catching up. Raven was a music producer, told me about her studio sessions and hours on music video sets. I told her about new publications, a new installation at the art gallery I worked at part-time, and my graduate school plans. And then Raven said it: You remember Tiana? She died in a car crash.
I had forgotten her in the same way I remembered her: quick images of light, pink headbands, and blue skinny jeans, umber skin darkened by the spring sun, waiting for her on the sidewalk outside her apartment building. It was all backdrops, costumes, and Technicolor. I blinked and saw our fourteen-year-old selves. It was difficult to patch these fragments together. For a while, she was one of my closest friends. Then time maintained its tradition. It kept going. We got older, and in the absence of words and text messages, we split apart. She was bound to my girlhood and could only traverse the tight corners of my memory’s geography. It was rough and jaded and beautiful, but when I looked back, the distance tricked me into believing it was easier and less painful than it actually was. I hadn’t heard her name in years. Tiana. I peered into the bank of memory, girlhood, my juvenile bones and beliefs, I reached and reached and reached and found nothing but myself.
::
I went to an arts high school and studied
photography. It’s been several years since I spent my days in the darkroom and
between tripods and soft boxes. At thirteen, my father gifted me my first
digital camera. A Canon EOS 350D. My father’s interest in photography rolled
over to me, and with his help, I learned how to create an image.
Our house was filled with storage bins of fresh film, light boxes, camera lenses, and microfiber cloths. I had memories of his camera hanging around his neck, watching him reach for it, bring it to his eyes, hearing the click of the shutter—it was an order of gestures I believed to be reserved for solely capturing beautiful and monumental moments. The camera was for graduations and family reunions and choir concerts, and dance performances. But it was also used for the in-between moments, evenings at the park by the water, and my older brother’s high school basketball games. We rarely saw these photos that my father took. Sometimes it would be years after the fact that he would casually show us a photo on his digital camera from two or three years before. He’d say, Look, and tilt the camera towards me, and I would look.
Our house was filled with storage bins of fresh film, light boxes, camera lenses, and microfiber cloths. I had memories of his camera hanging around his neck, watching him reach for it, bring it to his eyes, hearing the click of the shutter—it was an order of gestures I believed to be reserved for solely capturing beautiful and monumental moments. The camera was for graduations and family reunions and choir concerts, and dance performances. But it was also used for the in-between moments, evenings at the park by the water, and my older brother’s high school basketball games. We rarely saw these photos that my father took. Sometimes it would be years after the fact that he would casually show us a photo on his digital camera from two or three years before. He’d say, Look, and tilt the camera towards me, and I would look.
::
In February 2023, Raven texted me: Do you have any photos or videos from your sleepover in 8th grade, or 8th grade in general? I'm trying to find any memories of Tiana.
My mind conjured an image of her. Tiana at fourteen. She was a bit taller than me. Light-skinned. Loose tees. Blue skinny jeans. Standing in my living room. It was not fixed like a photograph. It was moving and cyclical. Her mouth was open, then closed, then open again. She was laughing. I was, too. I think back to the lessons of my photography instructor, Mrs. S. taught us composition, the difference in shooting on digital versus film, and the importance of knowing your subject. Each image must tell a story. What is the narrative? What are you trying to communicate? What will you leave out of the frame? I wanted each photo to mean something. I wanted purpose. I wanted what was on the other side of the camera to be worth the film.
I looked through my phone’s camera roll, opened the suitcase under my bed where I kept old diaries, letters, and holiday cards over the years. Nothing. I was ashamed. I couldn’t locate any piece of our past. I had nothing tangible to offer. All I had was a scar on my knee. A vague memory from my 14th birthday party. There was no physicality. There was no singularity, too; in most of my memories, it was rarely the two of us. There was Tiana, my friend Allison, who had just moved to America from New Zealand in 2014, and myself. We all lived in the same neighborhood and would spend our weekends and after-school hours together. When I thought of Tiana, I thought of the last time I saw her. It was painful, so I put those feelings aside; I didn’t want to remember that. And since there was no image, no photograph of the moment, to confirm, I thought perhaps it didn’t exist.
I didn’t respond to Raven immediately.
A few days later, I texted her back: No, I’m sorry.
::
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::
Susan Sontag’s essay In Plato’s Cave, argues that to
photograph is to appropriate the subject or occurrence. And since this was
written in 1977, Sontag mainly writes of photography’s physicality. Photographs
are packaged in albums, legitimized in books, framed on walls, and side tables.
And this is still how we interact with photographs, but now, the majority of
our photos and images are digital and much more abundant. We can carry
thousands of images in our palms, whether it’s online or in our digital photo
albums. The sole function of a camera is to photograph, whereas our phones have
several uses. The internet and I grew up together. There are memories of life
pre-smart phones. I remember its early days. For most of my life, the internet
was a physical space. It existed on a desk in the corner of our living room.
I’d log onto the computer to play online games or watch videos back when
YouTube was overpopulated with cat videos and pop music song parodies. Now, the
internet is everywhere. I am split into two uneven parts. There is the physical
reality and then there’s the digital world. Each move at a different pace. The
modern smartphone is a tool for communication and entertainment. Through our
phones, a photograph functions as a scan of a memory—an adaptation, or perhaps
it is a shortcut to remembrance.
::
A summer ago, I left Maryland for New Jersey, and my life was
still in boxes and storage bins when I received an email from my mother with a
link to a storage cloud titled “Kailah’s photos,” and I laughed. Since my
siblings and I were little, I always saw a digital camera in my mother’s hand,
and as technology evolved, it was her smartphone capturing still images of our
fast-moving lives. It made sense that my mother had an archive. I took a break
from my unboxing and opened the link and started clicking through the
photos.
I scrolled. I saw myself as a toddler, the age was unknown, but I was wearing a white dress and holding a sippy cup in my little hands. We were in a gymnasium; my grandfather was there. I scrolled some more. My sister and I, seven and eight years old, wearing blue-black and white dresses, standing by the front steps of our home. Then there was me again, as a preteen.
I scrolled. I saw myself as a toddler, the age was unknown, but I was wearing a white dress and holding a sippy cup in my little hands. We were in a gymnasium; my grandfather was there. I scrolled some more. My sister and I, seven and eight years old, wearing blue-black and white dresses, standing by the front steps of our home. Then there was me again, as a preteen.
IMAGE: I am 13, sitting on our living room floor with a storage bin in front of me. There are vinyl records scattered all over the floor. In my left hand I hold a vinyl of Method Man’s album Tical 2000: Judgement Day.
They were my father’s records from when he worked at the photo lab under Def Jam Records in the 90s. Sometimes the guys upstairs would come down and give him free stuff. Sometimes my father would see famous Hip Hop artists and R&B singers passing through. I had just gotten my first record player that year. My father let me look through his collection, but he didn’t let me take much.
I scrolled. I saw a photo of me and my church friends on a trip to Times Square to celebrate my 12th birthday. I saw myself, spring of my 20th year, smiling under the Eiffel Tower. I saw my little brother, my father, and I playing pool at a family friend’s house. I saw a Christmas tree filled with ornaments and surrounded by presents. I saw my mother and I.
IMAGE: My mother and I on the New York City subway. She wears a black and white polka dotted dress; I wear a red floral print and a jean jacket. Headphones in ear. My mother is smiling, and I am too.
We were touring colleges together, on our way to Pratt Institute. I was going to be the first in our family to go to a 4-year university. My mother grew up in Brooklyn. When we visited, she said, This isn’t the New York I grew up in. We did not call our trip a homecoming. I scrolled some more. High school graduation. My sister’s sweet sixteen. My grandfather and I are standing in front of a statue. And then I saw Tiana, Allison, and myself.
IMAGE: Tiana, Allison, and I in my living room. We are wearing our summer uniform: red and pink short sleeves and tank tops. Jean skirts and basketball shorts. All three of us are smiling at the camera.
It scared me. To see her, to us, younger, happier. I didn’t know where she was lodged in my brain, but the photographs told me she wasn’t so far away.
::
When I was first learning how to shoot on film,
the darkroom was a vector for creation. I pulled my photo from the fixer; I had
completed the final step. I left the dark room, and when I crossed into the
fluorescent glow of the photo lab, there was no image. The paper faded to
black. I went back in and tried again. When I returned to the enlarger, I
pulled my film strip from the viewfinder. All my images were overexposed or
completely blank. The roll was ruined. I missed a step that I did not see. I
was defeated. I would never get any of them back. Mrs. S. told me it was a rite
of passage—ruining your first roll of film—but you pick up the camera and start
over. The images I took did not transfer, and I had no true recollection of
where I took these photos and what the subjects were. They were gone, and I
could not go back. I could only try again.
Some images only exist behind my eyelids. I can’t call it memory. It’s too blurry, under-exposed. Will a photograph restore the frayed edges of a memory? The blackouts? The holes? Or is it like the developer turning a blank sheet into a portrait of our life? Memory is a darkroom. Reality a living creature, wild, breathing, in the ecosystem of our world. Only this creature does not run away from the hunters or trade.
It lives to be contained. Memory
announces itself, it wants to be on display.Some images only exist behind my eyelids. I can’t call it memory. It’s too blurry, under-exposed. Will a photograph restore the frayed edges of a memory? The blackouts? The holes? Or is it like the developer turning a blank sheet into a portrait of our life? Memory is a darkroom. Reality a living creature, wild, breathing, in the ecosystem of our world. Only this creature does not run away from the hunters or trade.
::
click click click click
click click click click click click
::
There was a time when Tiana, Allison, and I spent more time together than we did in our homes. We were all very different, but our apartment complex brought us today. We were minutes away from one another. Allison was born in the Philippines and grew up in New Zealand. She had only been in the US for almost a year. Tiana was born and raised in Baltimore City. She lived while this was only my second year in Baltimore County after moving from another part of Maryland. After school, we’d walk laps around Target and imagine the lives we would live in the future. First dates, picnics, and dances. Allison and I didn’t even have phones; we had iPod touches, desperately trying to connect to WIFI wherever we went. We picked out nail polish from the beauty section, purchased lipstick, and eyeshadow. We licked whipped cream from Frappuccinos, plucked sunglasses off the displays, and looked in the slim mirror. Smiled. Tried on another pair.
In the summers, we’d hang out on the tennis court and lounge on the deck of the pool house when we wanted to relax but didn’t want to be at home. Especially in the summers when the pool opened and the lifeguards were shirtless. Sometimes we’d hang out by the creek. The water was still and clear. A fallen tree created a path from one side of the creek to the other, Allison watched as Tiana crossed to the other side. I was right behind. The creek was a secret. It wasn’t grand, but it was ours, most days. We sat at the water’s edge. Talked about the interior of our dream houses, our dream cars, our future lovers, and what we wanted out of our high school experience.
I don’t do much of that kind of dreaming anymore. There’s arrogance in planning future events and logging wishes into the calendar. I’ll never be so certain. The calendar requires guesswork. I’m not very good at it. I draft an image I cannot capture, cannot complete.
::
I have a Pentax K1000 35mm. The camera becomes a method for
fossilization, not narrative. I am not the lens, not the subject. I am the
frame. There’s still a story, even if I refuse to recognize it. Whether
Allison, Tiana, and I were standing and smiling in my living room or posed
against a chain-linked fence, we were always waiting for the shutter, waiting
for the camera to be put down. It’s heavy in our hands, it slows us down and
draws attention to itself. We are often fixated on the sight of a camera and
its creation of stillness, not who stands behind it. Though adaptive camera
lenses originally mimicked the human eye, the phone camera does not, and I
don’t believe it should be a proxy. A photo is not taken from the perspective
of his photographer; it is taken from the perspective of the phone. A
photograph refracts memory. It becomes something else entirely.
Photos are highlight reels. But I need to know the before. I need to know the after. Memory unravels and expands. It does not create a whole image, but its location—in the body—is more tangible than a photograph. Sontag says that all photographs are memento mori, and to take a photo is to participate in another person’s mortality. I do not own many physical photographs. The majority of my photographs from my studies have been digitized, scanned, slipped onto hard drives, or worse, rotting in the photo albums on my phone. Phone photo albums are a series of endings. I see people who are no longer in my life, places I’ll never return to, faces I’ll never wear anymore. It’s a graveyard, only there is no surface to place flowers or a stone to give my condolences to. There are 64,645 photos/videos/images on my phone. 20,050 of them are screenshots and 3,752 are videos. I’d call this gluttony if I could devour these images, but I can’t. And I don’t think the human brain was meant to have so many things.
Memory is stilted by the camera I hold in my hand, but it is also invigorated by my access to photo albums. I didn’t even know that I forgot something until I scrolled past it. But, I don’t give myself to remember my past organically. Sometimes I go searching for what I have left. Sontag writes that cameras are fantasy machines. If so, then our phones are on-the-road carnivals, endless with entertainment and time travel. We can return to the past because we made a landing spot for our future selves to return to. The danger of my 64,645 photos on my phone isn’t my lack of storage or a hint at my digital hoarding tendencies. The danger is that none of those images can be held or assessed in the physical. I want more things to exist in the physical world. I’m terrified at the decline of physical media. I’m terrified that the digital world will be the only archive we have access to. Even if I took photos of Tiana and Allison on my phone, it doesn’t matter because I don’t have them anymore. They’re gone.
Photos are highlight reels. But I need to know the before. I need to know the after. Memory unravels and expands. It does not create a whole image, but its location—in the body—is more tangible than a photograph. Sontag says that all photographs are memento mori, and to take a photo is to participate in another person’s mortality. I do not own many physical photographs. The majority of my photographs from my studies have been digitized, scanned, slipped onto hard drives, or worse, rotting in the photo albums on my phone. Phone photo albums are a series of endings. I see people who are no longer in my life, places I’ll never return to, faces I’ll never wear anymore. It’s a graveyard, only there is no surface to place flowers or a stone to give my condolences to. There are 64,645 photos/videos/images on my phone. 20,050 of them are screenshots and 3,752 are videos. I’d call this gluttony if I could devour these images, but I can’t. And I don’t think the human brain was meant to have so many things.
Memory is stilted by the camera I hold in my hand, but it is also invigorated by my access to photo albums. I didn’t even know that I forgot something until I scrolled past it. But, I don’t give myself to remember my past organically. Sometimes I go searching for what I have left. Sontag writes that cameras are fantasy machines. If so, then our phones are on-the-road carnivals, endless with entertainment and time travel. We can return to the past because we made a landing spot for our future selves to return to. The danger of my 64,645 photos on my phone isn’t my lack of storage or a hint at my digital hoarding tendencies. The danger is that none of those images can be held or assessed in the physical. I want more things to exist in the physical world. I’m terrified at the decline of physical media. I’m terrified that the digital world will be the only archive we have access to. Even if I took photos of Tiana and Allison on my phone, it doesn’t matter because I don’t have them anymore. They’re gone.
: :
remember? remember? remember? remember? remember? remember? remember?
: :
My girlhood was painful, but looking back, every pinch feels
necessary, expansive. This is not mythos or folklore; these are markings of a
lived-in life.
IMAGE: Allison and I sitting at the creek.
In time, Allison and I started hanging out more frequently.
Despite going to two different high schools, we kept in contact. We’d met up to
sled down the hills on snow days. I went to her house after school to watch
movies on her laptop. We walked around Target with Frappuccinos in our hands.
In the summer, Allison and I spent our afternoons at the pool. One day, we
entered the deep end, and Allison taught me how to swim and tread water. This
is something I will never forget. I don’t have many photographs of her, of
myself, or the three of us. We were close, and then time continued its
tradition. It kept going. We got older. I went to a different high school than
they did. And in two years, Allison moved to Texas, and Tiana left the
neighborhood. I stayed there until I left for college.
I don’t know how to grieve her again. My words gather and shapeshift into an image. It’s blurry, measureless. There is nothing to see. Only a grievance: I wish I had taken more photos.
I don’t know how to grieve her again. My words gather and shapeshift into an image. It’s blurry, measureless. There is nothing to see. Only a grievance: I wish I had taken more photos.
IMAGE: Tiana and I standing together outside. It is spring, we are sunlit. I am smiling with my thumb up, wearing a baby pink windbreaker. Tiana is looking at me, gray hoodie and blue jeans, she smiles too.
At seventeen, several years after the last time we spoke, I was in
the car with my mother, and we were driving through our neighborhood. I saw
Tiana walking on the sidewalk and she saw me, too. I went to lift my hand to
wave, but she had already looked away. She kept walking. We kept driving. I put
my hand on my lap. That was the last time I saw her. I don’t know where she was
going; she was walking in the opposite direction from her home. It’s not always
trauma; sometimes I simply forget. I don’t remember the cadence of her voice. I
don’t remember her birthday, but I know there was a celebration. I remember I
remember I remember, and then I don’t. When I think of Tiana, I don’t think of
our ending. I think of our Target trips. Our days on the pool house patio. I
think of my girlhood, the small creek. I’m not sure if we drifted apart, if I
pushed her away, or if she left by her own volition. I don’t know how she would
talk about me if she were still alive. Girlhood becomes a ghost story. It is
more mythos than memory, and though every story has the same ending, it's
something I don’t want to forget.