Memory

In the summer and fall of 1959, my dad shot two or maybe three photographs on the same frame of exposed film.

One of those exposures may be the last photograph ever taken of my grandfather, John Marty, because he died on October 8 that year after several bed-ridden weeks. Here he is visible standing next to my grandmother, Viola, and she in turn is holding me, about a year-and-a-half old. In the background is our white house with red trim. Their blue Chevy is parked just to the left of it.

Another exposure or maybe two were taken at Como Park Conservatory in a glorious profusion of fall flowers, asters and chrysanthemums. The stone path is unmistakable, but to leave no doubt, more slides of Como Park came in the box dated just after this one.

Double exposures were tossed, but this one my mother kept, undoubtedly because of Grampa's face among the three looking out at us, the viewers. Because of the beauty of those flowers. And because, from the startling combination of these images, the photo possessed a meaning we couldn't put into words. Ghosts next to the living, familiar figures next to strangers, flowers, wood and stone, a path in one photo leading to the house in another, unearthly bright light, the end of a life and the end of a roll of film.

This is how memory works.

Double exposure: John, Viola, and Gayla Marty on the Marty farm; Como Park Conservatory, St. Paul, Minnesota, 1959. Photo by Gordon Marty. Kodachrome.

Comments

[Philip]

Beautiful, and very moving too.