On stolen photographs

On my most recent trip to Brazil, I decided to start collecting documents and photographs from my family as another lap within my long-lasting project of trying to learn about my heritage. I have been working on it for the past seven years: trying to build my family tree in the midst of a rather blurry past. It is like that of many other Brazilian families, deprived from their roots, especially when those families are poor and/or black — but that is a conversation for another time.

While digging into the archives of cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents’ siblings, I have encountered, in my aunt’s possession, a few photos that immediately drew my attention: prints featuring my parents at a younger age and some that even included my sister and me. To my surprise, I had never seen those images. On the back of a particular photograph of the four of us, printed on Kodak standard paper, I have even found (in my mother’s distinctive handwriting) the following message: “Sé Square, in front of the cathedral”. At the bottom, a subtle “to [my sister] Abigail”. It turns out that these photos were not with the said sister. Rather, they were found under guard of my father’s sister, Nice, much southwards — on the other side of the country. When I discreetly quizzed her on why this photo was there, she, visibly embarrased, replied: “your mother gave it to me”.

I did not believe her for a moment.

And I was not bothered, either. My mother would probably have furtively stolen it back had she seen it there, I bet she would have. I, for one, understood it as a little secret that occurs amongst Brazilian families for a long, long time. The illegal yet innofensive act of stealing photographs so they can be added to the culprit’s archives has almost turned into a tradition. The silent, mutual understanding that comes when one sees their stolen image in a frame or an album, either because the crime was forgotten or by sheer sloppiness, is also part of the experience.

I had many questions regarding the entire process. Why steal, why not ask for a copy? What is the motivation behind it… impatience, control, love? An undiagnosed kleptomania? In today’s context, it must be reminded here that print is a dying phenomenon within families. The advent of Mark Zuckerberg’s evil triad of Facebook, Instagram and Whatsapp is gradually strangling quality and physicality of family photography. Decades before that, however, it was not so easy nor cheap to produce a good copy of a photograph, let alone the risk of losing the original forever with back and forth correspondences between long-distance relatives. I am aware I might be nodding to the stealing of photographs, and this is a correct read. I find such a behaviour amusing, to say the least. The entire point for a photograph’s existence, besides its obvious historical and commemorative functions, is the distribution of images amongst people. It is a product and proof of our existence and it only achieves its purpose and potential by its sharing with others.

My aunt Abigail probably would have been happy with that photo had she received it back in the late 90s. It would have made her happy, it would have possibly strengthened the sisterly bond between my mother and her, but I doubt this photo would still be achievable and in good conditions by now. Owing to my aunt Nice’s little mischievous act, I managed to see such a beautiful and essential moment of my close family. In this case, the act of stealing denoted a strong desire to keep a memory safe and sound, rescued to be timelessly preserved for future generations, or just a nostalgic onlooker like me.