Wednesday, February 19, 2020 // The Statement
2B
Managing Statement Editor
Magdalena Mihaylova
Deputy Editors
Emily Stillman
Marisa Wright
Associate Editor
Reece Meyhoefer
Designers
Liz Bigham
Kate Glad
Copy Editors
Madison Gagne
Sadia Jiban
Photo Editor
Keemya Esmael
Editor in Chief
Elizabeth Lawrence
Managing Editor
Erin White
I
n March 2019, I found a YouTube video titled “How
to Remember Your Life” that proposed the unthink-
able: The only way to remember your life is to delete
your photos. Instead of keeping hundreds of vacation pho-
tos, you whittle them down to a few and turn your camera
roll into a highlight reel. Each photo becomes more precious
than before, a real documentation of your memories rather
than a dump of disconnected moments.
I felt increasingly anxious as the video progressed. I’ve
accumulated thousands of photos and videos over the years,
documenting every fleeting moment, and even the thought
of deleting them seemed insurmountable to me. It would
feel like erasing my own life.
Deleting photos felt like cleaning my bedroom as a child
when I hoarded anything that resembled a memory — even
if it was a broken doll part or an expired gift card. Once in
fifth grade, when my floor was covered by at least four lay-
ers of clothes, my mom marched upstairs with a trash bag
and waded through the mess to throw things out. Years-old
receipts, paper snowflakes and scrap fabric all mercilessly
went in the bag. I sobbed and told her I was saving them for
something, though I wasn’t sure what, and wrote a scathing
entry in my diary: “My life is ruined.”
Though I believed I’d grown out of my hoarding phase,
finding that YouTube video made me realize I’m still in it.
Even today, I would feel as if my life was ruined if I lost my
pictures. But it isn’t just about the photos, just as my hoard-
ing as a child wasn’t about keeping paper scraps — it was the
fear I’d forget the moments associated with them. It wasn’t
about the objects, it was about the memories.
I
think I’m a memory hoarder. This means I collect
memories like inanimate objects, clinging to them
out of fear of forgetting my life. I need to document
everything as accurately as possible in case I want to expe-
rience it again — otherwise, my life would feel like a collec-
tion of single-use moments, waiting to be thrown away after
living them just one time.
I’m a photographer, which makes it much easier for me
to hoard memories. I can capture moments closely to how
I experienced them, find the right angle and edit them to
match reality, then re-visit the photos as many times as I’d
like. I regret the shots I don’t take if I have the chance.
But my position creates a paradox: Does taking a picture
help you remember a moment, or does it distract you from
experiencing it?
I lived in Costa Rica this past summer and brought my
professional camera everywhere, including when my
friends and I went horseback riding. As our horses twisted
their way up the green hills of Monteverde, I gripped my
camera, leaning back in my saddle and steadying my hand
despite the gallop of my horse. I put my eye to the viewfind-
er and searched for the perfect angle.
When we got to the top of the hill, I got about two min-
utes with the full, magnificent view — and spent the entire
time taking photos. I was desperate to capture
the scene correctly, to finally get to enjoy the ride,
because the only way I can stay in a moment is if
I know I’ve captured it already. But by the time I
got the shot, the ride was over.
By now, I’ve spent more time looking at the
photos from horseback riding than I did actu-
ally experiencing it. Though I can still picture
the scene from how my eyes authentically saw it,
those memories are slowly being replaced with
the photo representations. My fear of forgetting, it
seems, might actually stop me from remembering.
I
n the 2012 movie adaptation of “The
Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” Walter Mitty
finds Sean O’Connell, a traveling film
photographer, searching for a rare snow leopard
in the Himalayas. When it finally walks in view
of his lens, Sean leans away from the viewfinder.
Walter asks when he’ll take the photo.
“Sometimes I don’t,” Sean responds. “If I like
a moment ... I don’t like to have the distraction of
the camera. I just want to stay in it.” The leopard
passes without any documentation.
The scene frustrates me each time I watch this
movie. Isn’t there a way to capture the moment
and still experience it? Doesn’t he want proof?
Still, I identify with his distaste for the distrac-
tion — I wish I could have taken photos in Costa
Rica without having to sacrifice the experience of
those moments.
I’ve dreamed of the day when I can take a pic-
ture with just my eyes, like the episode of “Black
Mirror” where humans have cameras in their
brains. In the show, though, this leads to their
downfall as they obsessively watch their lives
over again, to the point where it’s difficult to justify creating
new memories.
Though we don’t have the technology to make this a
reality yet, it seems as though the concept is already a
trend — we aren’t shooting on film with 24 shots to a roll,
but instead, we have phones with increasingly high-quality
cameras, connected to the seemingly-infinite storage of the
internet. We have GoPro travel videos and 20-minute daily
vlogs generating quick clicks for influencers. The urge to
capture is always there because the bounds are limitless for
what we can remember.
I began using social media as a way to create a highlight
reel of my favorite moments without having to sort through
my camera roll. But now, it’s transformed into something
different; memories become capital to be liked and shared,
or to appear on Timehop and be reminded of past memo-
ries. In a way, it isn’t just the camera that distracts you, but
reviewing those moments is also another distraction.
Maybe memory hoarding is just the norm now, and it’s
better to miss some moments if it means you’ll have a digi-
tal archive of your life. Or maybe it’s just the new nostalgia,
more enticing to capture than not, and we’ll never know
how much our digital memories will paint over the analog.
D
uring my last week in Costa Rica, I had to leave
my camera behind when I went snorkeling in a
coral reef. I remember almost every minute of
those two hours swimming with my face in the water, drift-
ing past sea urchins and vibrant fish as if I was part of their
habitat. I was immersed — the only filter between my eyes
and the water was my goggles, not the viewfinder of a cam-
era. I was free to absorb the scene without inhibition.
Though I don’t have a photo to relive the experience, it’s
still a vivid memory. Maybe I should have tried to bring
my GoPro, or maybe it’s better to let the memory live and
die organically. Sometimes you want the distraction of the
camera, and sometimes you have to let the leopard walk by.
Either way, the best memories will always find their way in.
You just have to let them.
statement
THE MICHIGAN DAILY | FEBRUARY 19, 2020
BY HANNAH BRAUER, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
Am I a memory hoarder?
PHOTO COURTESY OF HANNAH BRAUER