For this fifth and final entry, I’ve chosen a small stack of film pictures of my husband, Dave, when he was a little boy. Dave’s family had a friend and neighbor named Mr. Pepper. Mr. Pepper was an amateur photographer who took his hobby seriously. He always had his 35mm camera at the ready. Out behind his modest home in Colonial Beach, Virginia, Mr. Pepper had a shed where he developed his film and printed his pictures. He often took snapshots where my husband and his younger sister were the subjects.
About 10 years into our marriage, my mother-in-law was cleaning out and and asked if I’d like to have some old pictures of Dave. I said yes (not wanting to hurt her feelings), but secretly wondered what I would do with another stack of not-so-great snapshots. I was surprised when she handed the pictures to me. Beautiful black and white 5 inch X 7 inch prints. My husband, all boy, in each of the images. Not self-conscious at all, his goofy little self shinning from within. This was the man I fell in love with, and I could see why.
These images made me in more than one way. I could plainly tell the difference between these gorgeous prints and the careless point-and-shoot photos I was taking at the time. In one fell swoop, I was swept off my feet by film and pictures to hold. I saw how the picture was not only about the subject, but also, the person taking the picture. I could feel the difference between an authentic shot and a forced one. I could plainly see that Mr. Pepper shot from his heart, and even though I never met him, I loved him for making these pictures.
But I chose these pictures for more than these reasons. Because they remind me that the person I chose to live my life with will always, by some measure, that little boy who was happy simply being himself. I’ve seldom experienced that kind of relationship with myself. Instead, I spent years striving and trying and fixing. He’s the one who taught me how to enjoy myself. There is that old trope of the tortured artist making poignant art from trauma and heartache. And I guess that is true enough. But isn’t it also true that we can make meaningful art from contentment and joy? I hope so.
