Los Angeles, 1992
Once when I was a teenager, I overheard my father tell a friend that when his daughters were born, we became his main subject. He described his current project as “The Story of Teenage Girls”. My sister and I resented this, began to rebel, hid from the camera and hid from my father. He was not telling our story, he was telling his own. We were just characters in it. I was often dismayed that my most vivid memories from my childhood happened to also be the ones my father had photographed. Did I have any of my own memories? Were these photographs taking the place of my own genuine memory? Was his story of my life replacing my story?
Everyone told my sister and I that someday we would be grateful for these images. They wished they had a photographer for a father. His photographs would keep our memories alive, were like little time machines, they said, but I didn’t understand why this was a good thing. Why would I want time to stand still, especially in moments that I didn’t even choose? My father was the one editing reality, selecting which moments were important enough to document. Why couldn’t I keep my own memories alive? I remember doubting whether I could remember my own story or if I was only depending on a copy of a moment made permanent on film.
See original: mydadtakespictures:
Los Angeles, 1992
Once when I...
