Family Health

Bill Linnane: 'Record all the things your kids won't remember and you will someday forget'

I sometimes joke that if our house went on fire, the first thing I would save is the computer. I usually qualify this by explaining that obviously, I would drag people out first, but of the personal belongings, the computer would be the only one worth running back into a burning building for.

This isn’t because I want to erase my browsing history, but because I want to save our family history.

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The transition to digital photographs means that the last 15 years of our lives are recorded on the hard-drive of the kitchen computer, and just as my parents’ generation said they would save the photo album from a burning house and little else, I would risk life and limb for those 60,000+ images.

If I could give you one piece of parenting advice, apart from the obvious ‘Don’t have kids’, it would be to go and buy a decent camera. When my parents were young, photos were a luxury, like having your portrait painted.

Then cameras got cheap, and photos equally so. Then, once phone cameras became slightly better than an Etch-A-Sketch at capturing moments of our lives, we just gave up on cameras, and on good quality photos generally.

Sure, we are snapping away at everything we see – meals, homeless people, road traffic accidents – but it is purely for our social media channels, to posture on Insta, to virtue signal on Twitter, or to horrify on WhatsApp. Photos of our kids all seem to end up on Facebook, in fact Zuck’s black hole consumes 136,000 photos a minute, with more than 300 million photos per day being uploaded to the site.

This is all well and good, but as we change phones almost annually, Facebook has become our photo albums – a worrying thought when you realise that someday our world might be rid of it, and all your photos might go too.

Good luck explaining to your kids that the reason you don’t have any photos of them is because when society finally fell to the fake news zombie armies, nobody was left to run the servers and the internet collapsed.

My camera is an entry-level DSLR. It only needs to be entry level because the photos most people are throwing onto Facebook are so bad that I look like Ansel Adams in comparison.

Most people baulk at the idea of paying €300 or €400 for a basic DSLR, but think nothing of throwing down a grand on an iPhone simply because it has a camera that is almost as good as a DSLR.

The photos I take serve two purposes – they are a visual record of a hectic life, when days can run into each other, years whip by and memories become muddled.

Photos also serve to reassure me that I am getting some of this right. You can say, well maybe if you just existed in the moment and enjoyed it, rather than obsessively recording, you might feel better about your attempts at life. Perhaps, but there will come a point where memory fades, and having a record will matter. I scroll back through the albums on the computer and realise that I haven’t got everything wrong. It’s like a compilation of my greatest hits, because nobody takes photos of the arguments, the sleepless nights, the worries. Our photos are all perfect moments (with the exception of the ones taken by the four-year-old of his brother mooning) – chips and seagulls at Knockadoon, chasing after mara in Fota, bobbing about in a boat somewhere off the coast, all smiles and laughter. It’s like Rappaport’s Testament in Primo Levi’s Moments Of Reprieve: “While I could I drank, I ate, I made love… I studied, I learned, travelled and looked at things. I kept my eyes wide open; I didn’t waste a crumb. I’ve been diligent; I don’t think I could have done more or better. Things went well for me; I accumulated a large quantity of good things, and all that good has not disappeared. It’s inside me, safe and sound. I don’t let it fade, I’ve held onto it. Nobody can take it from me.”

So get a camera, take nice photos, bear witness to your life; record all the things your kids won’t remember and you will someday forget, store them where they are safe, and for the love of God, check the batteries on your smoke alarms.

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