As far as day jobs go, working at a photo lab is a pretty sweet gig. As a relatively green film photographer, it’s a treasure trove of knowledge, learning the ins and outs of developing film, scanning film, the mechanics of film cameras, and the history of film photography—a medium that many have deemed obsolete. It feels special preserving skills on the brink of extinction, to stick around and carry the torch. But one of the unexpectedly best parts of the job is scanning old family photos. Most people bring in small batches of photos, somewhere between five and 20 towards a specific end, like a birthday or a funeral. But some bring in hundreds—as complete a family history as they have—and in order to scan all of them, I have to look at all of them.
These previously unfamiliar faces become familial: I watch babies be born, grow up, go to school, attend prom, get married, have their own babies—a cycle on endless repeat. I see picnics and parties and weddings under the same Spanish moss-draped oak trees that have occupied my own life, pointing at them like they’re celebrities—hey, I know that tree!
Throughout the decades, these trees don’t change. I see candid moments between people in love—looking at the camera with warm eyes, unconcerned with anyone or anything beyond the person holding it—often knowing that the reason I’m seeing this moment in the first place is because at least one of them is no longer alive. But these photos are proof that they once were, that they lived and loved and made beautiful lives here. These families moved through the city, these trees, on borrowed time, as do I. Such is the nature of life’s bittersweet bargain.
I’ve come to realize some of my favorite customers to help are the ones archiving through their grief. At first, the proximity to loss of a longtime spouse or parent or child made me nervous, unsure of how to properly show up for a stranger who just lost such a monumental part of their life. But quickly it became clear that all any of them, any of us, want is proof of existence—proof that our time here was real, meant something tangible, and will be passed on. These photos often come with stories from the person bringing them in, and I listen intently. I remember them all. My motivation lately comes from them: Seeing how many families have lived full, radiant lives under these oak trees—my own included—I’m compelled to carry them to the next generation. I don’t consider them mine to abandon.
There’s this sense of inevitability in the air, that the future has been decided for us. A recent article put out by The Guardian focuses on a study in the Nature Sustainability journal that has deemed New Orleans a terminal case, positing that relocation of the city must begin now. This assertion, that New Orleans is a lost cause, is not a new one, but in the wake of the immediate panic of pretty much all facets of life right now, it’s hard to not feel weighed down by doom. It’s hard to plan for the future, let alone get out of bed to face the current day, when it feels like the future doesn’t exist. But as I immerse myself in the memories of people who figured out how to exist in this impossible city, I cannot fathom failing them. Their transmissions made it to the future. So I work daily to fulfill my leg of the relay, busting my ass in service of a story much bigger than mine.
This issue that you’re reading marks 22 years of ANTIGRAVITY. For 22 years we have worked to create an archive of this place and the people living here at every given moment. These pages serve as communication to the future, but also a direct line to the past—a collaborative narrative towards a better New Orleans than this one. Within, you will find many avenues through which to donate your time to the communal pot. Pick one, and jump in. I take my lessons from those before me, and I transmit them to those after. Our mission, together, is one of devotion to this profoundly special place. Many tried to write off New Orleans in the wake of Katrina, yet here we have remained, a throughline between the seasons of this city. I write with affection and hard-earned hope that there is a future on the other side, ready and waiting. And when my transmission makes it, I trust they will continue the story. —Marisa Clogher
illustration by Laura Frizzell
About the cover — The concept is inspired by a combination of two of my favorite things: medieval illuminated manuscripts and leisurely walks around Bayou St. John. It’s such a magical place so I liked the idea of leaning into fairytale imagery and drawing a “knight in shining kayak” riding into battle against an enormous alligator lying across the Magnolia Bridge. As this is an anniversary issue, the decorative border features 21 bayou creatures, as well as the big gator in the middle, as a nod to 22 years of ANTIGRAVITY. I illustrate using Procreate on the iPad, and I’m partial to the ColorLab brush set from RetroSupply Co. to achieve a halftone print effect! —Sadie Wiese
