She hands me a manila envelope, tipping it to spill old slides and prints into my hands. "Have you scanned these in?" I ask. "I don't know how," she says. "Then they don't exist," I reply. It's bedroom-level profundity, but I surprise myself by believing it more than a little bit.
I pick up a photo of her father. He's spread out on a bed with his shirt off, his infant daughter sleeping in a bundle on the floor beside him. The little tab in the corner of the print says "1982".
"My mom never liked having that picture of him in the album," she says. "She thought he looked too sexy." I tilt the picture in my hands just a bit until I can see the scratches on the matte surface. There are hundreds of little indentions, tracks from fingernails showing the many times the photo has been held.
When we scan this picture in those scuffs will disappear. The rest of the world will see only the young, bearded man smiling in some sepia living room. They'll increment the file's viewcount by one, leaving their own perfect hash mark. It won't be the same as the photo I'm holding in my hands, shifting in the light to read its physical metadata, but it won't be inferior, either.
A very thought-provoking piece of sad-but-beautiful writing about digital memories by Joel Johnson for Gizmodo. Worth reading in full.
