At 10, I got a camera for my birthday, which I celebrated in New York City. The camera was some sort of point-and-shoot, probably a Pentax or Minolta, I don't remember, although even today I could probably load film into it with my eyes closed. My parents had business in New York: an art fair in Rhinebeck and another in Central Park. They coupled the work trip with a family vacation, one that coincided with my tenth birthday.
In my home office, I have boxes and boxes of photos—I truly don't know what to do with them, do you? Most are from my childhood, many are from my pre-digital 20s, some are family photos bequeathed to me, and many more are junk and duplicates and unworthy of the psychic and physical space they're taking up in my closet.
Recently, I went in search of the photos I took of the Statue of Liberty on my tenth birthday. That day on the ferry to Ellis Island, I took many, many photos. It became something of a joke between my parents, all those photos of the Statue of Liberty from the ferry. My mother loved to tease me about it, but she was to blame. She was generous with film and taught me about "bracketing," which is when you take multiple photos of your subject at different exposures. Or in my case at age 10, from many, many different angles and distances.
The other day, I asked my father if he remembered why they thought it was so funny that I took so many photos. He told me that they found it amusing because there was so much to see in New York City—and we saw so much!—that it seemed odd I was so focused on the statue.
This gave me pause, because I remember a great deal about that journey and what I saw and what I wore and what New York City felt like in the summer of 1983. We went to a Yankees-Red Sox game and rode back to our hotel in a sketchy off-meter cab and we took fast elevators to the top of the World Trade Center and the Empire State Building. For years, I kept the clip-on visitors pin from the Museum of Modern Art, the ones that look like miniature frying pans. And yes, I remember how fun it was to have a new camera. It is still fun to get a new camera!
But this is no wallow in nostalgia. I was looking for these Statue of Liberty photos because I'm poking around the edges of a new project. It's a nascent idea about monuments and memorials and big statuary, and as I start to dig in, I'm trying to understand why I am interested in this subject. Is it possible my interest dates as far back as my tenth birthday?
Recently, I re-visited Mount Rushmore National Memorial in South Dakota, partly because I was driving through the area, but also because I wanted to see it with my adult eyes. Something tugged me there, and I followed my instinct. I also found myself drawn to Devil's Tower, the nation's first National Monument in the form of land—a slightly adjacent definition that feels connected to this new idea of mine as well.
I'm not certain why I was drawn to these places this summer, but I heeded their call. Something tells me that if I can understand where my modern-day curiosity began, I might be able to understand a little more about why monuments and memorials and colossi have always been so intriguing to me. Maybe I can unearth something from the cultural forces that worked on me from a young age, the ones that prompted a kid with a new camera to snap dozens of photos of the Statue of Liberty. If I can understand how my own thinking was shaped, well, perhaps I also will understand a little more about the meaning in modern American life of memorials and monuments and massive heads in sacred hills.
New ideas are fragile and they need to be nurtured before exposing them to the world's opinions or its doubt. Yet I am deliberately sharing my nascent idea because I want some feedback about it. And truthfully, it's not that nascent. I took all those pictures when I was 10! And I wrote a year or so ago about how in the Western United States, people are rethinking monuments that represent conquest.
Some people might resist sharing new ideas because they don't want others to "steal" them. Look, there's already centuries of scholarship and decades of popular media about monuments and memorials, not to mention a whole endeavor called Monument Lab devoted to rethinking memorials in America. So no one is going to rip off whatever version of this idea I pursue. Plus, ideas are cheap. There's plenty to go around.
Nonetheless, I wouldn't be considering this project if I didn't think I would emerge from my research and reporting—and fingers crossed, filming and recording, too—with something fresh to say or show. Even though I don't yet know what that is!
And finally, I’m sharing this idea because I would like to hear from other people in different parts of the country about their first experience seeing a massive monument, memorial or colossus. (Or the world! Who knows?! This project may take me to Petra and the Pyramids.) Monuments draw a crowd, which means I'm not alone in my curiosity. I want to hear what others have to say. Do you have a monument story? Reply to this email to share it with me!
Even after digging through my photo boxes for an hour, I couldn't find the childhood album I have in my mind's eye, the one that has all the photos of the colossus of New York Harbor from all her angles. (Mostly from far away, off-kilter, and often out of focus.) After a while, I stopped looking for the photos. Going through the boxes always fills me with this terrible ache of unfinished work. I also find it exhausting to come across the sadness behind the eyes in the photos of my twentysomething self.
So the 1983 Statue of Liberty pics went unfound, and I shoved the photo boxes back in the closet. I promised myself—yet again—to do something about all those photos sometime soon. Really and truly this time.
But I did unearth something unexpected during my search. I found photos I took in 1993 of Mount Rushmore! They are unremarkable, which feels appropriate, because when I was there this summer, I took another set of unremarkable photos. The chief activity at Mount Rushmore is either 1) taking mediocre pictures of giant heads, or 2) snapping a selfie of you and your companions in front of giant heads, perhaps while wearing red-white-and-blue clothing. "Well, now we've done that," I overheard one woman say, which made me laugh and wonder what it really means for most people to be there.
Yours,
Erika
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If you’re in Portland, come see my film! To Be Rich will be shown at 7 p.m. on Sept. 18 at Cinema 21. It’s part of a showcase of short films by local filmmakers, put on by the Catalyst Film Collective. Tickets are $15.
Windfall is still half off at Barnes & Noble. Through tomorrow at the store’s annual Book Haul sale. It won’t be out in paperback until March 2024, so if you are a premium B&N member, this is an excellent time to nab it for $13.49. If you’re buying it for a holiday gift, let me know. I can send you signed bookplates.
Make this cake. We have a scraggly yet high-producing plum tree, and every year, we make this coffee cake. A couple of ‘em get tucked away in the freezer to enjoy in the depths of February, when summer seems so far away. Best jazzed up with freshly grated ginger and lemon peel, plus vanilla and cinnamon. Topped with whipping cream or ice cream, of course.
Hi Erika, I grew up in Indianapolis, a city of war monuments. The only monument that has truly moved me is the FDR monument in Washington DC - something about its more human scale.
I grew up near Gettysburg and I must say some of the monuments there just move me to the core of my heart knowing all the turmoil that went on there and sacrifice on both sides.
Re: pictures, I had a suitcase of pictures I inherited from my Mom when she passed and some from my Dad and grandparents when they passed. I took them to different family get togethers and told family to take all and any they wanted. I weeded out ones that were duplicate and not clear or I had no idea who they even were. It dwindled down the suitcase by quite a bit. Just an idea because I hate to throw them out but I am not a collector. My cousin downloaded several to his computer so I know that is an option too. I always enjoy your e mail.