Sacred Artifacts in the Era of the Digitalized Family
Like most families we knew growing up, mine had a collection of photo albums divided into various eras of family history. Each sibling had their own album, documenting moments from infancy through adolescence. But one album was special. It was a slender blue volume of narrow, interleaved print sleeves, each partially obscuring the contents of the one below it, and stacked in vertical layers facing each other on adjoining pages. Encased within the worn pages of this broken album was a treasured collection of prints that provided a glimpse into our young family: my mother and father as first-time parents, and my earliest years as their firstborn.
Family Group (Mrs. White, Maynard & Lewis), Gertrude Käsebier, ca. 1899. National Gallery of Art.
As young Armenian immigrants, my parents had embarked on a voyage to the United States seeking a brighter future. Looking at these old prints documenting their first few years in the country, I am intrigued by the vague familiarity of their surroundings, drawn to the hope that radiated from their expressions, and captivated by the images of myself as a baby and toddler. In those moments frozen in time, I witness the hope, resilience, and dreams of those remarkable chapters of our shared history and feel an immense gratitude for the sacrifices made by those who came before me.
Like icons, my old photographs are linked to shared traditions of image making and sharing. Family photos stimulate our curiosity and help us become more aware of our connection to others, as well as the transitory nature of time and the influence that places we’ve lived in have had in shaping us. These photos are also gateways that can transport us beyond our small, individualized sense of self, joining with others in a shared humanity that foregrounds nothing less than the divine nature we share in God.
Today, the prints we own are the formal portraits taken by studio photographers. These are carefully selected, retouched, framed, and arranged on walls or atop side tables in our rooms, and rarely handled. Meanwhile, the family images we most often engage with are the candid, everyday shots that exist only as pixels on a screen. These are the “slice-of-life” pictures taken of us and others in the course of a normal day, on trips, or on special occasions. But when we printed these family pictures to see them, over time and through their preservation, they acquired a sacramental quality, imbued with a profound significance that they wouldn't have had they merely existed as files on our computer.
Reaching for one of those old, hefty photo albums, I settle into a comfortable spot and open its dilapidated pages, readying myself to embark on a journey through time. Each turn reveals a snapshot of family history, moments frozen in faded colors and familiar faces. Leafing through these pages, I find solace and joy in reliving the precious moments that have shaped my family’s story. Yet, the years have taken their toll. Some of the snapshots, having separated from the sticky surface of their page, have slipped out of place, threatening to drop into my lap. The protective plastic sheets peel off as the years pass, exposing the prints to further decay. Instead of fulfilling their promise to safeguard my history against the ravages of time, the albums only intensify my sense of its impermanence.
Today, the very nature and purpose of the family snapshot has changed. What does it mean that the majority of our pictures of family have become dematerialized? Stacked together on our shelves to gather dust, those thick, aging albums—tombs for our neglected prints—have been replaced by digital image archives like Amazon Photos, Shutterfly, and Snapfish. We’ve been on the go, consuming private moments as bits of information in a never-ending rush of images. Images that in the past might have stood apart as sacred artifacts are now submerged into the vast digital sea that surrounds us, mixing into the profane realm of public scrutiny and spectacle.
The pleasure derived from modeling ourselves on figures in the media—images that mirror back to us our own desires—influences how we “brand” ourselves, including our families and our personal history. The carefully constructed images of family life we wish to project can be free of mistakes in framing, lighting, and exposure: signs of the photographer’s hand in the analog days. But time, continuity, and context are equally dispensed with as our images become detached from meaning, briefly floating in the digital patchwork before becoming lost and forgotten.
In the midst of changes in our reception, access, and ways of looking at family photos, the meaning of sharing has changed. It is no longer necessary to be alone, to take the time, or to find a quiet place to sit with our images. Nor do we often partake in the communal ritual of studying albums with others at gatherings. Instead, we rely on texts, instant messages, and social media to elevate our family moments. Though we may have gained more images of our loved ones and the ability to document our lives easily and thoroughly, what good are more images if we take less time to really see them?
With today’s technology, those old prints can be digitized, cleaned up, and endlessly reproduced. But these are supplements to the original objects which bore the marks of having been handed from one family member to another over the years. Older prints for which we no longer have the negatives are now one-of-a-kind. They are rare objects that require careful handling, encourage us to slow down, reward sharing in the moment, occupy our homes, and age as we do.
Peasant, Auguste Giraudon, ca. 1870. National Gallery of Art.
Unlike images on a television or computer screen, the photographic print is tangible and carries not just the memory of the subject depicted, but a physical history. The snapshots we used to pick up at the local photo lab were the result of multiple stages of production, handling, and transportation, all of which left scars of the print’s journey sealed in the paper. A print’s surface—whether glossy, matte, or textured—adds to the remembered experience of holding it or studying its details. The aging of a photographic print—its yellowing, fading, and discoloration—indicates its history and the passing of time. As does a handwritten note, scrawled decades ago on the back of a print, identifying the subjects and the occasion. Each print lives and decays in the world as a physical thing. What’s more, its authenticity as a unique object reminds us that the image captures a non-reproducible moment.
Having been produced using materials and processes that are sensitive to light, heat, and humidity, our old prints have required care and preservation. But despite their fragility, each serves as a memorial to my past as important as any national monument of bronze or stone.
Prints fade with time and touch us with a reminder of our own eventual disappearance. Our body memories of time spent with the photographic object, an extension of our very selves, have now been displaced by the instantaneous swipe of a screen. What makes digital images so appealing? Is it their lack of vulnerability? The way they preserve the illusion of permanence?
Consider how today’s snapshots can be replicated infinitely without degradation, giving the impression of eternal existence. Stored in servers, they can be accessed from any device at any time, adding to their sense of timelessness. Unlike physical prints, digital images are not susceptible to fading, discoloration, or wear, maintaining their pristine appearance. They can be effortlessly backed up and stored in multiple locations, safeguarding against accidental loss or damage. And the ease of sharing our pictures across various platforms allows them to reach a wider audience, enhancing their perceived permanence.
In contrast, the print photo serves as a poignant reminder of our finitude. But paradoxically, it also invites us to transcend ourselves as we forge connections with our past selves and others, all immortalized in the mere click of a shutter.
Photos as personal as the ones from that old blue album have the unique power to connect me to the suprapersonal. To take me back through my own history to a love that is both within and beyond me and working outside of time. It begins with a set of images that have the power to mediate the presence of those with whom we have lived our earliest experiences. But then my family photos become gateways, leading me beyond their fragile material form to contemplate the infinite and permanent divine love which is their source.
Arthur Aghajanian is a Christian contemplative, essayist, and educator. His work explores visual culture through a spiritual lens. His essays have appeared in a variety of publications, including Ekstasis, Tiferet Journal, Dappled Things, Radix Magazine, and many others. His podcast, “Visually Sacred: Conversations on the Power of Images” explores how images influence our understanding of reality and the sacred. Arthur holds an M.F.A. from Otis College of Art and Design. Visit him at https://www.imageandfaith.com/