On Visceral Memory
‘Golden Hour for Poets’ - Fuji X-T1, XF 35mm, F1.4, ISO 1000, 1/160th
People are often surprised when I can pinpoint the exact year a song was released when that date happens to fall some time during the ages of 11 to 18. I probably should be surprised as well. My memory for a lot of things isn't that great. Actors' names and movie titles are often beyond the reach of my cerebrum, as is much of the time between 1993 and 1997. (No, I was not frequently under the influence of anything in particular during that time).
However, my memory of approximate release dates for songs can be explained by a few simple conditions - 1) I moved nine times between the ages of 2 and 16, and each of those moves was to a different country. So, there is often a very specific place associated with these songs. 2) those were pretty emotional years for me (as they are for all of us), and 3) I went shopping for music with friends a LOT in my early to mid-teens. Music was a hobby. Makes sense now, right?
But what I have a much harder time explaining is another type of memory I'm about to share with you. I can experience emotions very similar to those I had in specific places I've lived or visited when I witness natural light that mimics the light in moments that are now decades behind me.
To be clear, there is no narrative, story, or chronology of events associated with these memories. Sometimes I will experience a vague scene in my mind's eye of the place and time of day that most closely aligns with the origin of that feeling, however when that's the case, there is often more than one time or place that are in no way related through narrative.
Here's how it shows up for me - I’m out walking as the sun is setting, and there are streams of golden light pouring over the grass and the garbage cans in our neighbourhood. The colour of the light is literally orange, which is why we photographers call this time of day is called 'golden hour'. And often in that orange light, I can remember what it felt like to be 7 years old, in the Philippine Islands. This is not a memory of a specific story or series of events. It is a vague recollection of the feelings that little boy felt that are the memory--in any number of moments, and any number of places where this light was present.
I was literally walking the dog at Golden Hour when I started searching for the words to describe this feeling. The words 'visceral memory' came to mind, so I went home and googled that phrase. Turns out it's a thing. Often associated with trauma (although not always) this is a memory your body, brain and nervous system have access to, but that has no specific set of events or narrative associated with it. Another good example would be your fingers remembering the combination on a lock that you didn't remember before you were standing in front of the lock.
To be clear, these are feelings I relish. They are visceral memories I want to have. And this experience doesn't show up just at Golden hour. The colour temperature and intensity of the light seems to be important. For example, feelings emerge from my time in London or Stockholm when clouds set in just before a storm, and anything green seems to intensify in colour. But what does seem consistent is the fact that I never experience this type of memory unless it is triggered by light.
This is the closest I think I will ever come to time travel. It is literally is like I'm there, and nowhere specific all at once. I’ve also become increasingly convinced that my emotional attachment to light is one reason I love photography.
I'm sharing a few photos here to attempt to capture the kinds of conditions that trigger this for me so that I can share it with you, but I'm not sure these will quite land the idea, so I'm also sharing a poem I wrote about this, below. I hope you like it.
- Brent
Any Sky
This could be any sky -
1976, 1985, 2000.
But my eyes
Have fallen to the tree
Across the street
And the shimmering
Dawn through the branches,
Alive in a fervent
Whirling tango ,
With the wind that has
Swept away last night’s storm.
I live
For these timeless moments -
The dance of greens
And blues and greys
Remind me that
Experience is ours to shape;
That a blade of grass
In the right light
Can be the bridge
The child inside me
Is willing to cross
Into my now,
My tomorrow,
And the day after that.
I am reminded
Of how often I am moved
By what I cannot see.
A child’s laugh,
Or the Mountain of life
Beneath the ocean waves
Crashing at my sandy feet
Under the blanket of a cloudy night
At the beach edge.
Now, before my plans have begun
This morning light
These branches
This sky
Are the syllables of my mantra.
Sweeping away the night,
Clearing a path
Through my heart
Toward a horizon
I’ve always known as my own.
The one that will always be there.
The one I will be content
To never reach,
The one that comes
Into sharp relief
When I am willing
To see anything
For the first time.
Copyright © 2014 Brent Ross
