My parents moved to India last year and took all of our photo albums with them. I have virtually no photos of my childhood or adolescence, not that I would particularly care to remember the latter. They had months to pack up the decades of life they spent here in America so, naturally, much was trashed but the most important/sentimental things they had shipped overseas in a few shipping containers. My sister and I, however, did have dibs on whatever we could sneak past our mother's ever-so oblivious eye. The only thing I really have from that house is my bed and an old slide projector from the 70's along with 8 or so reels of slide-photography my father took during his travels before meeting my mother. Neither really hold any obvious connection to my childhood, but I find both intimately comforting all the same. I decided to break out this old projector tonight, begging to the heavens that the bulb wouldn't blow before I could capture some of my more favored shots with my digital camera for safe keeping.
I find it ironic that in the 18 years I lived with my father, I was completely unaware of what an eye he had for photography. I never considered my father an artist in the least. He never gave me a reason to.
But these slides say otherwise. I think I felt more of a connection to him tonight, reeling my way through these gorgeous photos than I ever did growing up.
