Michael Korda's Photo

The 20-year old Michael Korda book had been culled by the library and I picked it up from the pile under a sign that said, Take A Book. His photo was on the back. He was dressed in suit and tie and leaned against the side of an open door.

The glass panels of the door itself took up about 20% of the photo. Because there were trees filling the opening behind him I knew it was an outside door.
He wore huge glasses like mine. On closer examination I could see tiny lines making squares in his shirt. His resemblance to a horrible boss, a control freak, that I worked for once struck me but did not stop me reading the book.

His head was turned three quarters toward the photographer and his arms were crossed.
I could almost hear the photographer say, “Turn your head Michael. Now fold your arms. A little more toward me. A half smile, no not that much.” The shutter would have clicked and he would have broken from the position and the moment was caught in time for someone to see 3000 miles away and 20 years later.

That set me wondering. Had he just put down a cup of coffee? Was he late for his next appointment? Did he like/love the photographer? Did he change from the suit into jeans and sweater afterwards?

That is what photos do. They stop life. A family can be squabbling, a person arrives with a camera, everyone freezes a smile on their faces and years later, they might remember the day as a happy event. Or some may remember it that way. In most families two peoples’ memories of the same event retold makes the listener wonder if they were talking about the same thing.

In other photos the viewer can imagine the dynamics. Five members of the family are squeezed together, one stands apart. A mother cuddles a child who is stiff in her arms.

I also wonder about photos people keep on CD-ROM. What happens when CD-ROMs become outmoded? Or all the family photos on hard disk get eaten up? When fires destroy a home so often people say what upsets them most is the loss of photos.

I am not a picture taker overall, although I went through a phase of it when I lived on The Riverway in Boston. The number of pictures of my daughter in dresses makes one think that she only wore dresses, but the reality is she wore them so seldomly that we took her picture when she did. Still there are photos of all stages of my life, from being propped up on an overstuffed chair before I could sit, to tossing a salad in a Paris apartment.

Looking at photos of my childhood seem so remote it is like the life belonged to someone else.

Yet in most cases I remember what I did after that photo was snapped. I don’t have to wonder like I wonder about Korda’s actions when he broke the pose. Of course, the other people in the photos have different memories, but that’s okay.