Capstone - Lillie Ketterman Photography

The first time my grandfather forgot my name, I thought he was just tired. My grandmother assured me at the time that he knew who I was, and he remembered my name later. Dementia is unforgiving, though, and his room is now riddled with photos of days he has no recollection of, hung up by people whose names, on most days, he has forgotten. It is on these days, when it seems that he no longer knows me, that photos become the most important things in the world.

We can only remember the things we can remember. Hands begin to shake as we hold onto photos when moments slip away in a blur. No other medium demonstrates this distortion as pointedly as the photo scanner. It captures this trembling reality pressed onto its surface, and temporary movement becomes a permanent image. I think of my grandfather as I approach the scanner and lay my memory on the glass. The memory displayed grows contorted, despite the grip it may rest in. What remains clear when the scan is complete is only the hands holding each memory and the physical objects with them in this bygone moment.