Saudade Photo Essay
I have a deep obsession with nostalgia. Growing up as a first-generation Brazilian American, I was circumstantially surrounded by a reminiscence of the past. Not necessarily to romanticize it—I didn’t own rose-colored glasses—but as an avenue of the existential grief that migration creates. There’s a noun in Portuguese that doesn’t translate as palpably as the English word for longing—saudade. Saudade is a longing and melancholy that stays present with you. I have saudade for my family’s country of origin and the people there, even though I never lived there myself.
I also grew up in the evangelical sphere, where there is an emphasis on our own physical mortality and impermanence. I consider myself more of an agnostic today, but the existential leanings of my childhood faith have stayed with me. This verse stood out to me from a very young age. “What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” James 4:14b.
The idea that nothing is permanent can be a bit of a double-edged sword. Too much of a fixation on the past can keep you from focusing on the present. On the other hand, honoring the past can give you an appreciation for the present moment because you know that the future isn’t guaranteed. This series represents my own personal exploration for the right balance between fixation on the past and living in the present.
After looking through piles of albums that my mother keeps in a closet at home, I chose a handful of candid moments that provoked strong memories. Taking the photographs with me, I visited each of the homes and tried to recreate the scenes.
Although the prints were originally in color, the grayscale is meant to express time change. I wanted the photographs to seem like they were vanishing into the past. The moments depicted were impermanent, and the inevitable changes of time can be seen when looking back at them. The blurring and shifting of edges depicts the present moment as dreamlike, to emphasize the fleeting nature also in this present moment.
I never had the experience of being physically displaced or without the financial means to a home, but I grew up with an uncertainty of what home actually meant. Because my parents were undocumented throughout my childhood, there was always the looming question of whether this country was really our home, and whether or not we would be able to stay in it. I knew how important owning a house was to my parents, and I witnessed their many obstacles on the path to achieving that goal. Now they’ve been in the same home for almost 20 years and I can appreciate the growing roots I’ve seen along with the memories created there.
