The Last Portrait Photo Folder

Written by Damhuri Muhammad

(Twitter: @damhurimuhammad)

“Everything exists to end in a photograph.”

― Susan Sontag

How long can you look back at the face you captured in the photo after he died? You asked while looking for a self-portrait of a personage in a special folder on your laptop.

A writer of the obituary article wanted it because the well-known man had just been reported dead.

What if what appears on the screen is your father's face, which you may have captured before he passed away? Can you stare at that face for several hours?

For you, it is the most terrible job. It may be more dangerous than endeavoring to gain photoshoot momentum in a precarious situation. The face in the photo looks like it wants to talk to you. His lips seemed to move.

His hand seems to be outstretched asking you to be quiet for a moment, listening to his request.

With all kinds of expressions, he seems to be begging you to convey things that are not conveyed in his life. He revealed all the secrets about all sorts of accusations that he might have denied when he was alive.

Portraits of a dead person are like virtual homes in which there is a lot of hope, and everything is meant for you.

“Supposedly, if the person is dead, all the photos should also be buried! So as not to cause trouble," you said, annoyed.

That's what makes you more passionate about capturing inanimate objects than taking pictures of living people. If you can't avoid humans, you will choose a human who is already lying in the coffin. But, of course, there are times when you can't resist pointing the mouth of the lens at the face of a living person. Do you remember when your father suddenly asked for taking a picture with the background of the Kangkung garden which he worked on with the remnants of his strength after years of working as a well digger?

“You are so busy taking pictures for other people. Now, take a photo of me. Show this expanse of vegetable gardens as proof that I am still energetic,” said your father on one occasion when you returned home several years ago.

“Please make it so that my face doesn't look too old. Likewise for my body. Try to make it not look frail," your father requested, even though he was seventy-two at that time.

"Why are you still silent? Hurry up and get your tools ready!”

A request that is not only unusual but also makes you gasp for a few pauses. You know, ever since you were a kid, there have been no family photos hanging on the walls of your living room.

Even if there were photos, it's just a photo of your younger brother receiving a speech competition trophy, or a photo of your other younger brother when his classmate in junior high took part in an inter-school competition.

Even though three scholars lived in that house (including yourself), not a single graduation photo was posted. No pictures of your mother, not your father, not even their wedding picture.

But then, at the age of seventy-two, he suddenly asked you to prepare a photo shoot to capture him. I don't know for what purpose.

Without asking too much, you take the best lenses out of your backpack, flash-off lamps. You also install tripods and light reflectors in the Kangkung garden area behind your childhood home.

You let your father stand in the comfortable position without being directed at all. You just let him talk freely during the photoshoot.

The afternoon light was quite bright. The atmosphere is cool and calm, with interludes of light jokes, until you finally manage to get fifty frames from various shooting angles, with image sharpness and perfect detail.

"No check the results needed. I believe you are already an expert!”

“You may send one or two to my brothers. Just to show that I'm still strong. I haven't been made fragile by diseases like them."

"Just keep the rest. You'll need it later."

From the chat during the photoshoot, you were actually aware that he wanted to pose with you, which you could've done via selfie mode on your digital camera. But your father hesitated to convey a wish that might have sounded exaggerated. He knew since your childhood that you always refused every invitation to take pictures.

Your first experience with photography was the experience of facing fear. At that time, standing a few steps in front of the lens mouth, it was like resigning yourself to a deadly shot from an executor's rifle with a terrible face, even though the photographer was your father's youngest brother.

You feel threatened every time you have to face the camera. Your face feels like you're going to be skinned, your ears feel like they're going to be cut, and your chest feels like you're going to be stabbed.

"People who are afraid to be photographed as a child later grow up to be photographers," said your uncle hopefully. Your father immediately agreed with him.

That wish came true later on. Time polished your photography skills.

Your days cannot be separated from the camera.

Nothing is more interesting to you than drawing with light, even though your field of science has absolutely nothing to do with photography. However, your behavior has not changed. Left alone with the reality of the image, you are afraid to reveal yourself. You always reduce the risk of being exposed to many people.

You like to hide from anyone.

When you can't avoid having to pose in front of the camera, the results are predictable: forced smiles and a giddy aura that you can't deny. Friends call you a photographer with one taboo: being the object of the photoshoot. When that happens, they say, your reputation as a great photographer will be destroyed.

One year after you sent several photo frames of your father to his siblings via e-mail, you heard the news that your father had passed away. Several people carried your father's body from the Kangkung garden.

At that time, he was harvesting, and was waiting to bring the results to the market for a buyer. Suddenly, your father was struck by asphyxiation until he collapsed and slumped limply on the ground.

Your father lay in a weakened state for several months until his life was unable to be saved.

So, the photoshoot that produced 50 frames was your last time with him. You even failed to see your father to his grave. The plane you were taking from Jakarta was delayed. All you can see when you arrive at your village is that your father's burial ground is still brown.

"Until now I have not been able to open the folder containing my father's photos!" You said with an increasingly confused look.

“Once I accidentally opened it, then I hastily closed it. My father lives in those photos!”

The photos in a special folder on the laptop are not yet how thrilling your chest. When we were students, do you remember taking me to your village?

At that time I brought an analog camera, a prize I got from a photo contest. With that camera (of course with amateurish skills and cheap support tools) I made a group photo pose in your yard; you, two of your younger brothers, and your father. The photo is still intact in my archives.

The photos are outdated, and of course the colors are dull. But the memories that live in them, I guarantee they will not rust. In the past, after we printed the photo negative, you were very excited to say that your father is still energetic.

At that time your father was toughness. After digging a well in someone's house, his whole body was covered in clay. You noted that only his tongue was not clay colored.

“As long as the shovel is still hitting the rocks in the depths of the well, never hesitate. I'll get dirty with clay, and you guys have fun at school,” your father encouraged.

You can't take care of your father the way he casually takes your little body to the health center when you have a high fever after playing football in the pouring rain.

You can't give him his favorite food because he has lost his appetite.

While in childhood, a piece of cake that was almost put in his mouth he snatched back because he saw your eyes want the cake.

Now he is gone.

Your joy with him is also long gone.

But you won't forget the smell of clay that has fused with your father's skin.

You'll never forget the way he laughed, the stubby base of his arm. Missing the old days hanging on your father's shoulders is a kind of joy that will no longer make a sound. Or a kind of silence that will no longer be spoken of for the rest of your life.

The negative of the old photo has disappeared. However, I have saved it by converting to digital format. I have sent the softcopy to your email address. Download and keep it safe. You will need it soon...

About the Author:

Damhuri Muhammad was born in Sumatra, and lives in Jakarta, Indonesia. He is a graduate of the postgraduate philosophy program at Gadjah Mada University, Yogyakarta.

He writes fiction, literary criticism, and opinion columns. His work has

appeared in The Daily Star, Eksentrika, The MuslimMirror, and elsewhere. He currently serves as a lecturer in philosophy at Darma Persada University, Jakarta.

He can be found on Twitter @damhurimuhammad