Rummaging through the bastions of family albums of late, I shed a tear for this bygone generation. What still proliferated circa 2000-2002 faced a sudden prejudicial decline to become nearly extinct a few years after.
In spite the established 4x6 inch print, however bizarre, I’m of a rather particular zeal for the 3x5 so convenient for the palm of the hand. And whatever cheap Minolta, Canon or Nikon you happened to employ in at least the daylight hour, everything within a standard deviation appears as crisp, as vivid as the best of the digital population sample, and usually the more convincing: for all I care to discern among this treasure grove.
That being the commonplace format across at least the US, I’m all the more charmed by the motley of Soviet photography developed in all sorts of grind houses, bathrooms, closets, kitchens and cellars adapted into darkrooms to survive the regime and subsequently expatriate.
Particularly interesting were the smaller specimen of thick, tooth-razor edge prints, twisted out of shape, rugged yet resilient, fashionable in the 1950s and as convenient for a cardboard box abysm as for a marker within a fine pulp novel.
But talk of the sheer range of formats encountered from the assortment spanning several twentieth century decades: of every dimension from nearly a mugshot to a sizable plot of farmland, paper quality from feeble and decrepit to as thick and sturdy as a billboard or tin can, no regularity identifiable: quiet the paradox considering the socialist paradigm.
Organizing these invaluable black and white artifacts across your standardized 4x6 photo album makes for no small chore and no less of an abuse to the very prints as well as the album inserts.
I say black and white, but some radiate an altogether different spectral dichotomy: some of it paler, some darker and quiet the bolder, some repulsively verdant, some pale yellowish, some nigh sepia to add to the incredible range of character.
Now come the bookkeeping and we face an even bigger ache. There weren’t means to label and document these photo prints to match the convenience of computer file and directory metadata. So then enter the common practice of back surface handwriting. But therein the expected can of worms: some chicken scratch unintelligible, some severely faded and nearly invisible.
But be none of that the case, fitted into the photo album insert, you can’t see what’s on the back or if there be anything at all, can you now? And while many of these ampler sized albums feature the memo regions to the side for precisely such measures, their usage eternally binds the photo to the placeholder. And thus the other alternative of these rogue post-it notes.
All said and done and the few nuisances aren’t much to discourage me from appreciating this otherwise palpable, interactive and artistic medium of not only genealogical but historical value.
Long live the 35mm film. Live long the glossy photo print.
Questions, comments? Connect.