Doorway to a Connection

A Conversation Begins with a Single Photograph

Jul 16, 2023

Tita’s Dresser, 2008. From the Cubao Series. Photograph by Stella Kalaw

When Curator Jessica Chen chose this image for the poster of the group exhibition, The Stories We Tell, I shared it with Tita Tas (my aunt).

“I hope this brings you good memories, Tita,” I texted. “You have to tell me stories about those objects on your dresser. I’d love to hear them.”

During the lockdowns, I struggled to find the right approach to reach out to her. Aware of her immunocompromised condition, she had not ventured out since the pandemic. Sharing a photograph unexpectedly forged a connection, as she responded in a meaningful moment I didn't anticipate.

“My picture on the very top was taken by Jess–my ex. Remember him?” Her text began.

She recalled how Jess liked her shoulder-length hair so she kept it that way. He took her portrait, developed the film, and printed the photograph. She remembered it was mounted on hard cardboard. The photo session took place in his older brother’s place in Santa Ana. They were both 4th-year medical students in the midst of their clinical clerkship.

“Isn’t one of those photographs on your dresser taken in China?” I asked. It’s funny how I remember random things in the past such as this one.

She pointed to the red stuffed doll on her dresser which she purchased on that same trip. She was invited to join a group of doctors to tour hospitals and some medical schools.

“Mostly sightseeing,” she clarified.

She brought Lola (grandmother) with her along with my mom. They visited several cities: Beijing, Nanking, Suchow, Hanchow, Canton, and two other cities whose names she had forgotten.

“We really enjoyed this tour and our group got super close.” She added.

Afterward, they traveled to Hong Kong and met up with my Dad.

Before we ended our text conversation, she told me she didn’t get a chance to retrieve her belongings. She was living in Boston when the Cubao house was demolished.

“The day before it was going to be torn down, I dreamt of Lola. Maybe she was sad about it.” They were talking about the house but she couldn’t remember any details.

It was close to 2:00 am, Manila time. I only realized it after looking at the time on my iPhone. I apologized for keeping her up.

“Ok, lang,” she replied.

She thanked me again for the beautiful pictures of the Cubao home. She asked if she could have a copy of the poster. I promised to have one printed for her.

“But when the photograph outlives the body — when people die, scenes change, trees grow or are chopped down — it becomes a memorial. And when the thing photographed is a work of art or architecture that has been destroyed, this effect is amplified even further. A painting, sculpture or temple, as a record of both human skill and emotion, is already a site of memory; when its only remaining trace is a photograph, that photograph becomes a memorial to a memory. ”

— Teju Cole, writer. "Memories of Things Unseen." NYTimes.

The quote above points to the core of why I love photography and the way I practice the medium. Whether they are quiet pictures of interiors, God-filled light basking the landscape, a portrait, or still life, I am cognizant of the fact that what is in front of my lens is temporary. That pause–that moment of realization weighs heavily on me to make sure the photographs I make or capture contain some depth of emotion or meaning before I press the shutter. So when I view these pictures decades later, they still carry with them the meaningfulness of that fleeting moment.