I haven’t printed any of my pictures in over a year-and-a-half. Never fear . . . I have taken hundreds (okay, let’s face it, thousands) of photos over the last 18 months. But the last time I printed any August wasn’t even walking.
This is not good.
Taking photos, saving them on my computer, editing them, sharing them digitally, backing them up on a CD–check, check, check, check, and check. But none of this takes the place of printing.
There is something comforting about holding an album in your lap as opposed to watching a slide show on your laptop, something familiar about turning the pages and watching time go by.
Oscar found our most recent album (circa 2010) and sat for the better part of a half-hour, sunk into our big livingroom chair, talking about what he remembered (and couldn’t believe he didn’t remember) as he moved through the photographs.
He said, “I should really take more time and look at our photos.”
And it was at that moment I realized I need to take more time where our photos are concerned, too.
When I walk through our house and look at the photos that adorn our walls–photos of my gorgeous grandmother from the 1930s, black-and-white childhood photos, our wedding photograph, photographs of our children–there isn’t a computer anywhere in sight.
And it wouldn’t make sense if there were. There is a warmth in a printed photograph that can never be replicated by a display on a monitor.
So, next week, you’ll undoubtedly find me at the Kodak kiosk at our local drugstore, inserting CD after CD and printing until they run out of ink–because as much as I appreciate my computer, I appreciate moments such as the one in the photo you see here (which I will be printing, of course) a whole lot more.