Evelyn’s: A Portrait of Aging and Grace in Daydreaming on the Porch

One of the wondrous accomplishments of the best documentary photography is that it delves into and captures the very heart and soul of a subject, whether it be a person or a place. That is what has made not only the practice of, but the study of photography, so fascinating to me over many decades, most of my life, actually.

For a long time black and white photographs doninated in documentarty as well as fine art photography in general until color basically took over. Yes, color is more realistic, but nothing in color can quite match the mood-creating, emotional intensity in black and white pictures.

To keep in close contact with the best art and documentary photography, I’ve been getting a magazine called “LensWork” for almost 20 years now. I first came across it at Barnes & Noble, and have been hooked ever sense. It’s one of only a few magazines I’ve bought and subscribed to over the years where I’ve saved every copy. This includes the February-March 2004 issue of “LensWork,” which contains one of my favorite photo essays. I especially remember this one issue because of a series of pictures by Texas photographer Scott C. Campbell. It tells a story in photographs about his mother who died in 1999. The pictures are simple yet complex, revealing and mood-evoking. The concept of capturing moments and details of someone’s life in photographs that wiil be studied and treasured by future generations reflects the universal need and longing to preserve memories of loved ones through familiar and treasured objects.

Here is how Campbell set the stage for the photo essay about his mother’s life in her home:

There was always a powerful, magical presence that radiated from within her soul. A dedicated in-home piano teacher, nearly everything to her could be related to a song. Some of my most poignant memories are of her singing to me songs by Patsy Cline. Then on December 6, 1999, holding her hand as I did many times before, I said my final farewell to her. Evelyn Campbell. My mother. This just could not be real, I thought.

For the next year and a half, Campbell took his father on 90-mile trips to visit the house he had shared with Evelyn for 22 years.. Then, he went by himself.

He writes, During these visits, time and again the house echoed her presence. Flower bulbs stored in the garage over winter were ready to plant. An unfinished “to-do list” was left in the kitchen drawer. Her hairbrush on the dresser smelled of aerosol hairspray. Cooking utensils hang out attention, ready to be used despite neglect. The Christmas cactus on the front porch continued to grow and bloom. Reflective surfaces retain fingerprints and smudges… each image had a story to tell, and I wanted to gather them all. Then it came time to empty the house and let it get on with its own life – to let new inhabitants bring new memories to its rooms.

I am in a similar situation. Mom passed in January 2020, and because of the pandemic, everything was left exactly as it was when she died. Now we’ve started clearing the house, the home where I have lived for the past 10 years while caregiving for Mom. I will have to move when we sell the house. This is a wrenching experience. Her presence is so palpable in all her possessions, until recently undisturbed. I know it’s time to move on, but before I do, I plan to make my own photo essay of special things I own and which may have been important to mom in ways I never knew.

Photographs in the article:

http://www.easttexasphotographer.com/phone/•evelyn-s.html