gabbi c's

FRAMING

The people you see here, in this photo 640 pixels by 480 pixels, are the same people that are standing over there. See? Your mother’s blue eyes are also observable in this photograph. Yes…they do look a little brighter in this picture, but the camera’s flashbulb was on. That’s also why the bags under her eyes look like bruises and the small crinkles tugging at the corners of her face are so sharp. And the same has happened to your father. His dark skin, which under natural lighting obscures any imperfections, is peppered with pockmarks. His eyes shine brighter in the photo, more alert than normal. Was it the flash of the camera or something else? Do you remember what words were being exchanged when you walked into the room with the camera in your hands? No. The image on the digital screen did not have sound.

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These people, the ones in the photo, are not who you thought they were or who you think they are now. They are trapped in this image, in those same clothes, with surprised smiles splashed on their faces forever. It doesn’t matter how, afterward, your mother might have wanted to fiddle with that out-of-place hair or your father went to change his oil-stained workshirt. Oh! What about the photo of your sister? She has those lavender wire-framed glasses sliding off her nose and a silly buck-toothed grin that would get you killed if anyone else saw it. Her long hair was shining, not like a model’s, but greasy, and it hung in messy waves, also not like a model’s but like a seven year-old’s. Which she is. Or was.

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You see, these people are only modeled after your real life family. You can keep these miniatures forever, and their skin will never sag, their bones will never burgeon nor will they break, their eyes will never close, their body will never disintegrate. Indirectly, you hold these people—the real ones—in your hands. Press them into a box of pixels, and make them smile without saying a word. They are easily manipulated by the presence of another, the silent director in front of you: the camera.

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Really Real?

We “should be grateful.” We “should know how lucky we are.” Who else do we know “who’s been to as many places, seen as many things as we have?” My mom scolded my sister and me every time the backseat seemed to shrink in size and the air seemed too thin and we feuded, or one side of the car was hotter than the other and we complained, or the next destination was up for debate and we disagreed. We saw many of the national parks and cities and people that America had to offer, but at the moment, we were just sick of seeing each other. It was easier to feel tired of the static backseat life when between seatbelt-choked sitting and deliriously watching the white line along the road skim by the window, we got to see marvelous spectacles. But how to put those moments of wonder into words? It was easier to put anger into words than appreciation. I could tell you about the time my family’s car crunched through the barely discernible snow path at an outdoor museum of snow sculptures, but you couldn’t grasp the majesty of impermanent art that people nonetheless took the time to carve. I could tell you about the sound of a hundred crinkling plastic garbage bags as we rode on a boat to the base of Niagara Falls where the power of the water created a hurricane force wind that whipped my hair in and out of my face, stinging my cheeks and probably my sister’s eyes bracing herself behind me. I could tell you about chasing my sister down a mucky beach in flip flops, racing into a ditch, hearing the squelch of mud that won’t let go, and coming up the next hill with bare feet. I could tell you about wandering around for an hour and a half in “The World’s Largest Maze” through the fluctuating temperament of Hawaiian rain and sunshine. I could tell you about paddling a canoe in the reserved darkness of a tropical night, the sparkling of lime green bioluminescent organisms at the base of the boats as our only source of light.

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Was the wind really that strong?

Did I really lose my shoes that quickly?

Were we really in the maze that long?

Was it green or was it really a blue glow in the water?

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I’m afraid I’m telling you the wrong things. I’m afraid that I’m remembering the wrong things. I can no longer see that sky. I can no longer see my sister on that day. I can no longer feel that excitement or confusion or thrill or reverence. I could barely register those things while I was living it. And besides, no one experiences anything the same way as anyone else.

If I asked my mother about our trips, she might think about the wind that whipped sand into our eyes and flung buckets of water up the beach as we raced away from the impending sandstorm. If I asked my sister, she might more vividly remember being mistaken for a celebrity as I raced after her with my camera in the streets of New York City. If I asked my father, he would tell me how the misty rain at the top of that mountain in Mexico is how it feels standing inside of a cloud. If I asked anyone else in our tour group about the trip to Bio-luminescent Bay, the jarring bumps along a sinkhole laden road in a junky van with the ceiling fabric peeling off and a wooden board for a backseat might have been more memorable.

While I want to tell you all these stories, what can be seen should not be told in words alone.

Stories deserve more than that.