Remembering A Moment
I took this picture in downtown Nashville on March 17, 2017 and posted it on Instagram on March 31. I was a relative newcomer to Nashville, having moved there nine months earlier. Leaving Birmingham after 28 years was a big decision, but I wanted to be near my daughter and her family, which now included a granddaughter. The move was also driven by the desire to have a place to take street photography when I was not traveling. I was dutiful about going out once a week to different parts of the city or to the festival of the week. We do have some great festivals in non-pandemic times. By looking back at Instagram, which is something of record of my photographic life, this was only the second trip I had made into the downtown area.
I did not know it at the time, but this photo was the first of many pictures I would eventually take of interesting characters on Broadway, the street that goes through our entertainment district. Even then, as it is now, this man’s status as someone who worked on Broadway had extra interest for me. This picture also marked another first for me. It was recognized by @urbancowgirl70x7, who was a fellow carriage driver. It was a bit of a shocking realization that my Instagram account could be “outed”. All is well that ends well. I sent her an 8x10 copy of the picture to give to her friend. I was honored that she thought he would like it.
You might be wondering where I am going with this “old news”. This week, I got a notification from Instagram that there was a new comment on this post. How odd. It was from Stacey, the Instagram cowgirl, and she said, “Sadly and heartbreaking..my friend in this picture passed away 😢his memorial is August 14, 2021…man we miss him so much already😔”
The next day, I woke up early, before 5:30 a.m., thinking about this man and feeling a little sad. Mind you, I did not know him. I never rode in his carriage. But I remember him and this moment in time like it was yesterday. I realize that I remember each moment in time of the vast majority of pictures that I have, at least, published. I think that adds amazing texture and points of reference, if you will, to my life.
In the case of this carriage driver, it was a combination of the horse and the person who got my attention. I am not a horse person, not at all, but when I was a little girl my family would sometimes take my brother and I to ride the ponies around a small track on Main Street in Houston after church. There are family pictures of the activity. That little stable was still operating when my first son was born. I have a picture of him sitting on a pony. Even though I have had limited exposure to horses, I have very pleasant emotions associated with them. I brought those feelings to this carriage driver and his horse.
The picture of the carriage driver is oddly conflated for me with this vintage picture.
Now that I recognize how much I remember certain moments, it raises a lot of questions.
In how many of my pictures do I remember the moment? Is it tens of thousands, thousands or just the ones on my iPad plus those posted to Instagram?
Does that memory stay in top-of-mind awareness because I see these pictures fairly often? My 700 or so Instagram posts roll as a slideshow on a device in my living room.
Is it the nature of people doing something that creates the memory? I ask, because I have vintage portraits of family members that in some cases I cannot tell who is even who.
Because of technology, my daughter takes many more photos of her children than I did. Will she remember details of their childhood better than I remember the details of my children’s childhood?
I have hundreds, if not thousands, of these memories that are fairly accessible to me. If you do not take photography, do you have an equivalent way of remembering times past?
I am pondering on these questions because of how I feel about this particular photograph.
Russell Bassett, carriage driver, interesting character, friend to your work colleagues and, as described by Stacey, hippie and animal lover, may you Rest in Peace. Thank you for your service of helping people have a good time in our city. We are diminished by losing you.