Adam Scher

December 6, 2010
Writing and Research
Motivation and Impetus
Chris Prentice

My memories are sacred. My memories are amorphous. My memories are

mysterious. My memories are unique to me and me alone.

It was the summer of 1996, and I sat in the television room of my mother’s

new house in upstate New York. Her and my stepfather had recently moved across

the country, and this was my first visit to their new home. The heat of the summer

was different than what I was used to in California, thick humidity paired with a

constant stickiness. Afternoon sunlight filled the room, as my mother and I sat

watching the Summer Olympics. Although I normally would have protested the

programming, I sat quietly and watched. It was her company that I was invested in,

not the gymnastics.

She rested in her dark leather recliner chair, as I sat on the couch. Between

us, was a small square coffee table that had traveled with her from Los Angeles to

New York. I remember how strange it was to see the piece of furniture out of its

original context. On top of it, a bowl of peanut M&Ms. All of the green one’s skillfully

removed from the bowl, ending up in my mouth. There was little conversation

between us that afternoon, just the sound of the television and the comfort of each

other’s presence.

That is my last memory of my mother.

 I replay this scene over and over in my head, trying to grasp on to any other

detail that my mind can afford to give up. What was it that happened right before

this moment, or right after? I just can’t remember. And I am left distressed,

accepting the loss of those vacant moments. Perhaps the acceptance that precious

memories of my childhood have faded over time has driven my current research

and design practice.

I am afraid that my memories will be lost over time if I do not carefully file

and store them away. I believe their organization must be meticulous. But memories

are not tangible and cannot be handled like the artifacts I associate with them. In

fact, they operate on their own terms, leaving me powerless to their comings and

goings. At times I struggle to remember the sound of my mother’s voice, but can

recall the act of eating green M&Ms the last day I saw her. These inconsistencies and

unpredictable behaviors appear to be out of my control, and perhaps is what

fascinates me about them.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve begun to compensate for my inability to preserve

these memories through documenting and saving the present moment. The brief act

of snapping a photograph or saving a file reassures me that the moment will not be

lost in my mind, and will be available for reflection at any point. How often do I go

back and filter through these growing bins of digital memories? Hardly ever. How

often do I think about that single afternoon in the summer of 1996? Almost daily.

What I feel it comes down to is significance. We don’t remember static

moments of our lives. The memories build upon one another to create magical
scenes that we are able to recreate in our minds. A photograph might ignite such a

stream of thoughts, but the actual object is incapable of transcending time and

space. Without the fluidity and unpredictability of our minds behavior, we might

never trigger lost memories. However it is a gamble, because there is always the

chance that those thoughts could be gone forever.