How can the photographic image serve as an instrument for memory in the context of grief and loss?

The presence of photographs following death or bereavement is something most people will have experienced. Whether this be a photograph of the deceased displayed at a funeral, the act of flicking through a photo album as a family, or simply viewing images digitally to recount past memories, we tend to gravitate towards photographs as a source of comfort in grief. The selection of this topic follows my own experience of grief over the past few months, during which I found myself turning to photographs of deceased loved ones as a means of comfort, processing the loss, and preserving the memories depicted by the images. This prompted me to reflect on how photographs function not only as reminders of happier times, but also as crucial objects that mediate the complex emotions of loss and memory.

In this essay, I will explore the dual role of the photograph in both remembering and forgetting, specifically within the context of grief. By investigating the photograph as a mediator of memory, an instrument for emotional processing, and a conduit for confronting mortality, I aim to uncover how images can function as both a means of preservation and an artefact of inevitable loss. To understand this topic in depth, I will focus on the theories of Geoffrey Batchen, Martha Langford, and Roland Barthes. Langford’s ‘Scissors, Paper, Stone’ (2007) and ‘Suspended Conversations’ (2021) provide a theoretical framework for understanding photography as a means of communication, particularly examining the role of the photographic album as a mediator of loss. Batchen’s ‘Forget me Not’ (2004) situates photographs as ‘Memory Objects’, analysing the ways in which we use them to hold on to the past in the face of mortality. He also contends that photographs not only preserve memories, but also contribute to the process of forgetting. Barthes’ ‘Camera Lucida’ (1980) explores the emotional resonance of images, and argues that every photograph is a trace of the past, and carries with it the idea of mortality, as the moment of capture has already ‘died’. I will also be examining Proust’s ‘In Search of Lost Time’ as a secondary lens through which to inspect the intersection of memory, grief, and temporality in relation to photography. By synthesising these sources with additional academic perspectives, this essay will formulate a holistic view of the ways in which photography serves as an anchor to memory, and confronts the inevitability of loss. 

To support this, I will examine several examples of vernacular photography in relation to these theories. Vernacular photography refers to “ordinary and regional artifacts” (Batchen, 2001 p. 57), photographs that are taken for purposes other than being perceived as a fine art. Several of the images I will use are found images with no known date or author, collected from a flea market in Germany; the choice to use these found images in particular stems from their mystery, and the nature of how they have been ‘forgotten’, or detached from their original heritage for reasons unknown. In tandem, I will analyse photographs from my personal collection to offer an anecdotal insight into the direct effects of grief and loss, with the intention of providing a more holistic view of the topic.

In Camera Lucida (1993), Barthes introduces the key concepts of the studium and punctum. He writes that not every photograph contains both – the studium as the superficial, observable details that do not require further looking, and the punctum as the poignant subtext that ‘pricks’ a viewer on an emotional level (Barthes, 1993, p.27). Photographs with a punctum can provoke an emotional response in the viewer, regardless of what is physically represented by the image. Each person’s relationship to an image will be unique to their own experience, or inexperience, of its subject, and informed by the wider context around them (Becker, 2017, p.19). From this, we can deduce that there are an impossibly large number of ways for a viewer to be emotionally affected by an image and its punctum.

Surrounding the context of death and mourning, this emotional response can become heightened – Barthes goes on to explain his relationship with photography in the wake of his mother’s passing. Whilst sorting through photographs of his mother, he takes no comfort in the way that the images portrayed many of her recognisable features, but instead explains that he feels separated from her by the presence of history (Barthes, 1993, p.64). This prompted Barthes to contemplate the painful question of whether he recognised his mother in the images, or simply recognises fragments of his memories of her. This question itself could be considered the punctum of the images – an involuntary emotional response prompted by the context in which the photographs were being viewed. The exposure to pain and loss uncovered by the subject of the photographs – in this case, his deceased mother – can be attributed to the notion of the punctum as a ‘wound’ (Barthes, 1993 p.27). Here, we can consider the photograph as a bearer of grief, having activated the feelings of absence whilst reminding Barthes of his mother’s historical presence. He compares this fragmentation - the almost-recognition of a person in a photograph - to the way in which we dream, questioning the difference between seeing and knowing (Barthes, 1993 p.66). When we are confronted by the memories evoked by a photograph, we are, according to Barthes (1993, p.66) “straining toward the essence” of the person captured in the image. It is at this point in the text that we can observe a shift in intent – Barthes is no longer seeking the truth of a photograph, but a photograph that will allow the truest essence of the subject to shine through (Sarkonak, 1982 p.56). 

To further understand the concept of a photograph’s essence, we can examine images that have a more comprehensive narrative. Fig. 1 depicts a younger version of myself with my childhood dog Winston, exploring local farmland. This image stood out as one that was previously unfamiliar, but I happened upon it shortly after his recent passing. Whilst I don’t recall the exact moment in which the photograph was captured, the image felt symbolic – having grown up together, it wasn’t unusual for Winston to be by my side on adventures. This photograph served as a reminder of how often this would have been the case, almost as verification that this moment really happened. Fig. 1 offers itself as proof that we once stood together, in an innocent and curious way, even if my memory failed to preserve it, which is reflected in Barthes’ statement “every photograph is a certificate of presence” (1993, p.87).

Secondary to the comfort of this ‘proof’, though, lay an ache for the void of accurate memory. Given my state of grief and lamenting the inevitability of the passage of time, Barthes’ (1993, p.96) comparison of the photograph to “a catastrophe which has already occurred” resonated loudly.  The imperious nature of inevitable loss becomes a challenge woven into every photograph, obvious or not. Through this lens, the new punctum of all photographs becomes time (Barthes, 1993 p.96), as once a moment is captured, it is no longer that moment that exists in the frame. Fig. 1 then became a signifier of grief, for me – for Winston, for my memories (or lack thereof), and for a time I no longer recognise. Are these feelings rational, though, in taking this photograph as factual proof, as the record of that moment? Barthes’ theory of reality effects (1986, p.148) claims that an image does not denote reality directly, but in fact signifies it. Perhaps my inability to recall the precise location depicted in the photograph paired with my failure to recall the day it was taken throw into question the legitimacy of what the image depicts; but ultimately, it is undeniable that I was there.  This photograph represents a new being – one that is not reality nor the image itself, but a new reality that cannot be touched (Barthes, 1993 p.87). The comfort of knowing what once was real cohabits with the longing for a newly unattainable reality, creating a complex emotional landscape – one that arose as if by mistake upon the viewing of the photograph – a punctum in the purest sense. 

Following on from this, Geoffrey Batchen explores the relationship between photography and death in depth. In Forget Me Not, he acknowledges that photography is an important role in the sustenance of memory, particularly within the family dynamic (Batchen, 2004 p.10). He situates the physical photograph as a ‘memory object’, observing the tangible nature of printed photos as “a kind of chemical fingerprint” (Batchen, 2004 p.31), comparing the photographic impression to the likeness of a death mask.  Whilst Batchen does not directly define his concept of the memory object, the term is central to his understanding of the relationship between death and photography. The focus on being able to physically handle an image is crucial to understanding Batchen’s perspective, with the role of the senses - particularly touch - considered as unique forms of perception. Physical photographic objects, particularly in a domestic or family environment, allow those who are grieving to connect more effectively with their loved ones, as the capacity to incite remembrance is heightened by the physicality of images (Batchen, 2004 p.31).

Batchen goes on to detail a vast number of ways in which photographs have been utilised as physical objects across many different cultures and time periods. He notes that these practices are a way of giving an otherwise static image new meaning, evoking the invisible indexes woven into an image, such as memories, emotions, and the relationship between the viewer and the subject (Batchen, 2004 p.96). From here, we can begin to speculate the impact that these memory objects have on their intended audience. Batchen argues that photography can actually be detrimental to memory, involuntarily replacing it with informational images as opposed to the authentic recollection of a moment (Batchen, 2004 p.94). In contrast, Barthes’ observations in Camera Lucida focus less on the direct impact on memory, but instead the presence of moment that exists when an individual observes a photograph. On this, he writes:

“In front of a photograph, our consciousness does not necessarily take the nostalgic path of memory, but for every photograph existing in the world, the path of certainty: the photograph’s essence is to ratify what it represents.” (Barthes, 1993, p.85)

The acknowledgement of potential absence of conscious memory in response to photograph viewing ties in with Batchen’s view that photographs can be a hindrance to memory. To replicate memories in an authentic way, the photograph must be presented in a way that takes the viewer out of the past, bringing the attention to the present (Batchen, 2004 p.94). Batchen claims there are many ways in which this can be done, but all require physical efforts – framing, embroidery, the inclusion of photographs in jewellery, etc. – to eliminate the reduction of photography to static records of presence. He believes these practices are undertaken as an attempt to remedy the loss of memories (Batchen, 2004 p.95). However, this acts in contrast to Barthes’ quote on consciousness and memory, claiming that photographs act uniquely as a verification of what is depicted by the image subject. Importantly, though, we must acknowledge the contexts of these claims – whilst Barthes is analysing the role of the photograph in a more individual and private manner, Batchen investigates this in a more social, collective context, focusing on the domestic environment in which memory objects would typically be found (Batchen, 2004 p.96). 

Considering my own domestic environment, I was drawn to the photograph depicted in Fig. 2. In this image, a more recent depiction of myself and Winston provides a kind of follow-up from Fig. 1, and a different relation to the memory behind the photograph. This serves as a memory object of its own, sitting on my desk, in a frame selected specifically for the photograph to be housed in. This supports Batchen’s ideas of commodifying images to bring dimension to the photograph as an attempt to remember the deceased as living presences (Batchen, 2004 p.97). Harrowingly, I fear Fig. 2 also acts as evidence in favour of the notion that immediate memories can be easily replaced by images (Batchen, 2004 p.94), as the repeated viewing of the memory object has transcended beyond the moment of capture into a routine of reminiscence.

The reason Fig. 2 gained my affection, to the point of having it printed and displayed in my immediate environment, is because of the playfulness it depicts. Similar to the curiosity portrayed by Fig. 1, Fig. 2 illustrates the bond shared between myself and Winston. His front paws being lifted off the floor (emphasised by the reflections in the water) characterise an act of play, particularly a motion that was more frequent in his youth. At the time of capture in Fig. 2, Winston was showing signs of old age that had instilled a deep sense of anticipatory grief within me, and so this display of a then-infrequent behaviour served as a nostalgic glimpse into the past. For me, this photograph captures a special moment of fervour. Batchen describes a photograph as a “renewal of life”, seeking to remember the subject as “someone now dead, but as someone once alive, young and vital, with a future before him” (Batchen, 2004 p.82). Fig. 2 acts as exactly that – the preservation of a moment that displays life in its purest essence.

On the preservation of moments and memories, we can use the extensive work of Marcel Proust to further understand the role of photography in memory. In Search of Lost Time, a novel originally published in seven volumes between 1913 and 1927, explores the theme of memory very heavily. Volume 4, translated to Sodom and Gomorrah (1927), provides a useful focus on themes of photography. Describing a photograph of his grandmother, Proust muses “it was I whose heart they were rending now that there was no longer possible, ever again, the consolation of a thousand kisses” (Proust, 1927 p.103). The reality of loss became overwhelmingly clear to Proust upon viewing the photograph, and so became the absence of presence – the acknowledgement of what is no longer. The image realised the death of his grandmother, as in the image she briefly lived again (Ellison, 2010 p.125). It is common for people in mourning to cling onto their grief, almost as a source of comfort, as the intensity of emotion is reflective of the presence of internal memories, acting as proof that they exist (Proust, 1927 p.93). 

Proust also remarks on his reluctance to push feelings of grief away, as they deepened the memories of his grandmother into his consciousness, acknowledging his desire to grieve as a commitment to the lived truth. Despite the emotions roused by the photograph of his grandmother, Proust suggests that photographs are a limited medium, unable to accurately preserve a person’s essence (Proust, 1927 p.104). The dynamic nature of human behaviour becomes reduced to a moment frozen in time, with an image displaying only the subject’s external features in one particular moment, erasing all complexity that would otherwise be stored in memories. Proust argues that what is captured in a photograph is no more than a shallow reminder of how we once saw a loved one (Sontag, 1977 p.164), unable to compete with the evocative and vivid nature of memory (Proust, 1927 p.120). This is also altered by whether a photograph appears to be candid or posed, as snapshot images “always make the person appear more alive” (Proust, 2023 p.535). 

Introducing the concept of involuntary memory, Proust recalls the sudden memory of his grandmother’s face and essence, which Barthes refers to as a “sentiment as certain as remembrance” (Barthes, 1993 p.70). This also supports Barthes’ idea that the photograph disincarnates a person’s physical features, but harbours the genetic essence (Barthes, 1993 p.105), as Proust recalls his grandmother’s facial features with more memorial likeness than a photograph. Perhaps this essence, as both Proust and Barthes describe it, is not obtainable without the interference of anecdotal memory, and the viewer’s relationship with the passage of time (a common theme to speculate whilst grieving) enhances the emotional response to a photograph, which concurrently represents the past, present and future in one format (Batchen, 2009 p.13).

To offer a more nuanced approach to the role of the photograph as an instrument for interactivity during the grieving process, we can examine the work of Martha Langford.

Rather than reducing photography to a method of documentation, Langford situates photographs as complex emotional artefacts that incite unique emotional responses in each individual viewer, as opposed to a visual depiction of an event. Central to Langford’s work is the metaphor that photographs can be viewed as a form of ‘suspended conversation’ (Langford, 2021 p.19), in which she explains that images capture a moment in time, effectively pausing or ‘freezing’ the moment, and functioning instead as a dialogue between the bereaved and the deceased. This act of preservation, Langford argues, allows the bereaved to continue practicing their relationship with the deceased despite their physical absence (Langford, 2021 p.97). Through the presence of the photograph, it becomes a visual reminder of a memory that can bring comfort to those in mourning, with the image becoming an active participant in the grieving process. Langford examines the role of photographic albums, particularly within the family dynamic, and their presence in mourning rituals. Many turn to the viewing of family photo albums after a loss, recounting stories and memories as a collective (Langford, 2021 p.63). Langford argues that the collective act of viewership of these albums serves as an act of remembrance, and may aid the recollection of memories, but may also hinder it through false recollection as stories become retold and their authenticity becomes obscured. 

Specifically in rediscovering a photograph that was previously forgotten, grief can cross with the doubt of memory to taint the photographic experience, causing a viewer to be unsure of where the true essence of an image resides (Langford, 2007 p.16). This confusion is something familiar to me throughout the process of grieving – struggling to separate what is a true memory, and what is a memory replaced by photographic image. Perhaps, then, it is illogical to take photographs with the intention of documenting moments we wish to remember? Moreso, would it be foolish to resist the process of forgetting as an inevitable part of ageing? According to Langford (2007, p.19), “whether through gradual erosion or violent elision, forgetting is an imperfect process that leaves its marks”. These ‘marks’ can hail back to Barthes’ idea of the punctum, and that which “also bruises me” (Barthes, 1993 p.27) – the repeated comparison between emotional reactions incited by photographs and physical wounds highlight the intensity of grief that can be heightened by viewing images. 

Fig. 3 and Fig. 4 are both images collected from a Flea Market in Germany, so are stripped of the context of their origins, and the journey they took to wind up in my possession remains unclear. These vernacular photographs appear to depict scenes of everyday life, yet feel tinged with an unsettling sense of loss – perhaps this lies in the knowledge that they have become estranged from their original sources. Contemplating the family album, we can observe that images displayed in such context are “no longer traditional family portraits but rather the disturbing presence of lives halted at a set moment in their duration, freed from their destiny” (Bazin and Gray, 1960 p.8). This rings true of Fig. 3 and Fig. 4, as the subjects will have gone on to live whole lives beyond the moment captured that we have no evidence or understanding of. To be freed of their destiny, in this captured moment, is to immortalise a depiction of their reality; “photography does not create eternity, as does art, it embalms time, rescuing it simply from its proper corruption” (Bazin and Gray, 1960 p.8). This argument serves as an abutment to the beliefs held by Batchen, with Fig. 3 and Fig. 4 portraying the subjects as individuals with life ahead of them. 

Fig. 3 depicts two subjects at what appears to be a gravesite, posing solemnly before a bouquet of flowers. The metaphors surrounding life and death in photography extend to cases of grief such as this one, as the moment of mourning is eternalised in a photograph, much as we would preserve the life of a loved one by capturing them. Here, it is the absence of life being memorialised. With the photographs being taken from a private collection into the eyes of the public – in this case, my own – they are not stripped of context, but instead viewed in different conditions altogether (Langford, 2021 p.18). Everything taken from this photograph must be speculative, with no tangible methods of verification. One can assume, from the scene in Fig. 3, that the subjects are bereaved – though what we see in this image is not death, but mourning (Langford, 2021 p.163). 

In Fig. 4, we can see almost the opposite. The ten figures captured around two dining tables exude life – not through the remarkable, but the unremarkable. The complete ordinary of this image feels significant for its ability to represent daily routine through something as simple as the act of sitting down to eat a meal. It is these rituals of life that provides confirmation of memories for families and individuals (Dessureault, 1995 p.6), and the patterns of mundanity offered up by the subjects found in typical family albums can prove as a reminder of routines and habits (Langford, 2021 p.130). Thus, Both Fig. 3 and Fig. 4 can provide speculative insight into how photographs might provide comfort in times of grief.

In conclusion, we can draw from the key theorists, such as Barthes, Batchen, Proust, and Langford, to discern the relationship between the photographic image and the process of grief. The repeated comparisons of a moment captured by a photograph to a subject’s death, preservation of life, and physical pain proves how intertwined our emotions become to photographic images of loved ones, and how turning to these in times of mourning can be equally comforting or detrimental to one’s emotional state. These acts of remembrance can be aided by the commodification of an image as a memory object, and situating them in domestic spaces to memorialise the subject.

To summarise this nicely, “the lesson here is that remembering also institutes a kind of forgetting” (Bate, 2010 p.246). We can observe the fragility of memory, with complexities such as false memory and photographic replacement of memory becoming present in the face of grief, and examine several attitudes to the role of the photograph in aiding or hindering the preservation and recollection of authentic memories. By investigating photographs from my own personal archive and anecdotal experiences of grief, this essay provides a holistic and in-depth view of the interplay between the photograph and memory. 

Bibliography

Barthes, R. (1986) The Reality Effect, in The Rustle of Language. Oxford: Blackwell, p.148.

Barthes, R. (1993) Camera Lucida. Vintage.

Batchen, G. (2001) Each wild Idea: Writing, Photography, History. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.

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Batchen, G. (2004) Forget me Not: Photography & Remembrance. Amsterdam, New York: Van Gogh Museum; Princeton Architectural Press.

Bate, D. (2010) The Memory of Photography, Photographies 3(2). Available at: https://doi.org/10.1080/17540763.2010.499609.

Bazin, A. and Gray, H. (1960) The ontology of the photographic image. Film Quarterly, 13(4).

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Dessureault, P. (1995) Sandra Semchuk: How Far Back is Home... Ottawa: Canadian Museum of Contemporary Photography.

Langford, M. (2021) Suspended Conversations: The Afterlife of Memory in Photographic Albums Second Edition. 2nd ed. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Available at: http://public.eblib.com/choice/PublicFullRecord.aspx?p=6515550 (Accessed: November 21, 2024).

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Proust, M. (2023) The Captive and the Fugitive: In Search of Lost Time. Volume 5. Edited by W.C. Carter. Translated by C.K. Scott-Moncrieff. New Haven: Yale University Press. Available at: https://www.degruyter.com/isbn/9780300189643 (Accessed: January 2, 2025).

Proust, M. (1927) In Search of Lost Time, Vol 4: Sodom and Gomorrah. Translated by C.K. Scott Moncrieff.

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Sontag, S. (1977) On photography. London: Penguin.

Figures

Fig. 1 – Jones, C. (2009) Child and Dog Exploring, Digital Photograph

Fig. 2 – Ball, A. (2023) Woman and Dog Playing, Analogue Photograph

Fig. 3 – Two Mourners at a Gravesite (no date), Printed Photograph. Origins unknown. Purchased from a German Flea Market in January 2024

Fig. 4 – Family Around a Table (no date), Printed Photograph. Origins unknown. Purchased from a German Flea Market in January 2024