What A Photograph Can Do To You: A Story
"This way," he said, gesturing grandly to the old set of double doors that looked out of place and much too large for the small house we were in. "It's like, our family treasury or something. These things are priceless, because some of them have been preserved since the Holy Roman Empire. We also have pictures of Oliver Cromwell's beard. And we're not crazy," he added.
"Riley, Oliver Cromwell came to power in the late 1500s and photography began in the 1700s," I pointed out. "I hate to say it, but your family is nuts."
He shrugged nonchalantly, one hand already on the handle of the door. The whole Jackson family was a little bit odd, a whole lot eccentric, and they were equally proud of their heritage. That was initially how his sister and I became friends. "History's not my thing. And maybe it's not Oliver Cromwell, but it's equally interesting." He turned to look at me impatiently, bouncing lightly in his steps. "Hurry up! Don't you want to see it?"
I rolled my eyes. For a 16 year old boy, Riley sure wasn't meeting the 'average' standards. His tall, lanky form and easy manner wasn't something most people would associate with his love for relics, mild obsession with bird-watching, and almost a shy hesitance to interact with the opposite sex his age. He seemed so fresh and young and innocent, and it vaguely reminded me of how we all used to be. Sometimes, I wonder what he hid under all of that, and how he still managed to maintain his eagerness to help out and live.
I made my way towards him, exaggerating my steps and pretended to be interested in the yellowing wallpaper, and the cracks that appeared underneath a black and white picture frame. Finally, I arrived next to him, and I put a hand over my heart, gasping. "Wow, that was some hard work."
It was his turn to roll his eyes and snort. "When you act dumber and younger than I am, it's priceless."
"Shut up and open the door," I told him, composing myself for whatever I was about to see.
Riley's expression changed to one of excitement, and he gained an air of business and superiority. "Right, right. Okay, yeah." He nodded and then turned to face me, his back to the door, spreading his arms out grandly, until his fingertips almost brushed the wall. "This," he began with flourish, "is a family treasury - like a scrapbook almost, things left to remember people by. It's a storage room, almost like a blast from the past, that thing you do - what do you call it? Time castle or something."
"Right. So when you step inside this room, it's like stepping inside a museum of sorts. And not to brag," he added, "but we have super cool stuff."
I grinned at this, amused by his speech and how his normally extended vocabulary was shortened by his excitement. "Okay, so let's see it."
Riley performed an elaborate bow and then stepped off to the side, his index finger hooking onto the handle, and he tugged the door open. He waved me in, and curiously and cautiously, I stepped inside the room. Distantly, I could hear him mutter about how much he was going to screw up his graduation speech.
I could see why Riley got so worked up about this family museum thing; it was seemingly the most important room in the whole house. What was originally a small room was added to, going out farther into the yard. Where the brick ended, someone had destroyed the back wall and extended the room, but with planks of wood instead, so it looked like you were stepping into different houses that were joined together. There were antique tables standing at random all over the place, where objects were being displayed. I caught sight of things like a phonograph, a stuffed dog (taxidermy always kind of fascinated me in a creepy way), weapons, hunting horns, and photographs - so many of them. Polaroids of black and white, and early developed color, and to this day and age, hung around the room like trophies.
I passed by most of the objects easily. It wasn't as because the objects weren't interesting; they were, but I had my eye set on the Polaroids. Sure enough, I came to a stop in front of the window, where they were tacked to it, some overlapping one another. There was no order, it was just old and new photographs of different shapes and sizes, and different eras stuck together, like a random assortment of memories. I was guessing that was their photo album.
My eyes scanned the pictures. There was a big black and white photo of a huge family - theirs, obviously - in front of a farmhouse. There was a picture of a couple holding hands, running along a fence, the sun's rays beaming cheerfully down on them, and making everything seem surreal. There were other less "professional pictures", like a picture of Riley grinning with something stuck in his teeth next to a greasy looking burger, a picture of Meg squinting and flaring her nostrils at the same time, and one of a group of them in middle school with bad hair and braces.
And then among them, there was an old, almost torn up photograph of someone standing on a cliff, back turned, staring out at the mountains beyond them, and down at the forest that spread out below. I studied it, feeling something tug at my heartstrings by the way he held himself and how small he looked, looking almost lost, but knowing that he could be found in such a lovely, lonely place.
I turned away a little, only to see another picture of a set of wooden stairs leading down to the sand and the crashing waves. It looked so peaceful, somehow. For a moment there, I wish I was on that beach, feeling the sand curl between my toes and stepping into the tide as the water folded around me and pulled me in deeper, so that somehow, by being away from the familiarity of the shore and my previous life, I can somehow manage to find who I am in the strange and unfamiliar depths.
I almost jumped, heart pounding, as I spun around to catch Riley gazing curiously at me. I'd almost forgotten he was there, or where I was for a moment. Nodding, I turned back, gesturing lamely at the photos. "Yeah, they're really..nice."
"My uncle took them." He stepped closer, glancing at other pictures. "He always liked to make the person long for the place he captured in his photographs. Like this, see?" Riley pointed at another picture, this one of a city - London - smack dab in the middle, where a fountain was spurting out water as dusk settled in, people pushing past, and streetlights blinking on. I could see the Big Ben lighting up in the distance, and the picture almost seemed like it had a life of its own.
"Yeah. I see. It's almost as if you want to jump in a plane and fly away," I said. "It's...I don't know. It just makes you rethink your life, and now you know it's pretty boring."
"Yes," I said immediately, and so firmly, I surprised myself. "I mean...my life is kind of a routine, and I feel so...confined in this small town and in my family where my parents don't even talk to each other, and then my only escape is you guys, and your family, where it makes me feel alive, but that's not even often. And I mean," I continued, realizing that I was going on a tangent and for once not caring what I said, "now that I look at these pictures, I feel like there's something that's calling me, like there's another life that's beckoning me forward to leave and to travel, and to find myself in that chaos, because it would help me look at things more differently, you know? It would help me discover things I wouldn't before."
Riley was quiet, his eyes watching me, an eyebrow raised slightly, as if surprised and almost impressed at how much I'd revealed, and how much I'd felt just from these few pictures that his uncle took, probably not even seriously. Maybe it had just been the right timing, at the right place, with the right amount of light to produce the desired longing effect, but it had impacted me, and his work hadn't gone to waste. And that was all I knew.
And it wasn't because the feeling for elsewhere, the feeling to get away because you know you didn't belong here was new to me. It wasn't, I just wasn't able to really pinpoint it until now.
And I didn't know it then, but this feeling would grow and grow and grow, until one day, I would get up and leave. Quietly, without any fussing, but I would finally fulfill those long ago desires, and find myself along the way.
But for now, it was just a feeling, one that ached so deeply, my chest started to hurt.
"Okay," I said, breaking the silence after a while. "So I saw the stuffed dog. That a work of your uncle too?"
As he led me towards the table, I could still feel the hollow pangs of fernweh stirring, just waiting. It wasn't forgotten.