Content Warning. The following piece discusses themes of domestic and emotional abuse.

Recently I have been thinking about memories, dreams and photographs. A few weeks ago I awoke from a dream that I was convinced was real even though the dream itself was illogical. I recognised colours of walls and scenarios from my past, set in the time where I can remember furthest back. For days I pondered if these moments had been real as the deep guttural yearning and emotion that had paired with them had convinced me of their reality. I could not shake this aftermath and had considered contacting my family for photos from this era; clues into how my mind had convinced me these scenes were in my past. Yet, I faltered. What if it really was just a dream? Daily, my brain connects dots from different information sources that to me make perfect sense but when sharing my conclusions with others, they give me strange looks in return as if I have changed the subject of the conversation completely. Dreams are the same. The parts of the construct were all real, all memories, but the merging was a creative expression of sleep. 

These thoughts reminded me of a Tiktok video I had seen recently about a mother going out of her way to make a ‘core memory’ for her son. Which reminded me of a screenshot image of a tumblr post reading “can you remember embarrassing things your friend did? No? So no one will remember the embarrassing things you fixate on”.  (Or something along those lines). Why does the brain hold onto specific memories whilst others fall through the cracks? Do images help us remember memories, serve as evidence of a memory or convince us of false memories? There is so much literature and research on memory and photography that it is hard to know where to start. Therefore, I wanted to begin and open this conversation by sharing a photograph from my past. The following memory is one I believe only I will remember and concerns an image I no longer have.

I was about 15 and had begun experimenting with my hair, attacking it weekly with bleach and dyes. One day I had decided to dye my hair a bright, telephone box red. My parents were furious and so was my school. The ‘distracting nature’ of my hair warranted my removal from classes and was made to take my lunch in the deputy head teacher’s office. Threatened with suspension, I was made to dye it a darker, more natural colour, after of course, I had managed to capture this authority-defying hair style.

It was a landscape image, my left arm stretched out to capture my profile, off center of course. My right elbow pointed to the negative space in the left side of the frame, signifying my artistic streak and composition. By a window in my parents room, the image was probably over exposed, my pale skin not helping the automatic functions of my parents small digital camera. I was wearing a bright green tank top, Christmas green, a perfect clash. Moving up the image, I see my face and yet I can’t see it. I recall the expressionless poses that were so common among other emos of the time. I think I was staring at the camera, a whisper of a pout on my lips, head slightly pushed forward to relieve any sign of possible fat under my chin. My eyes looked into the lens. Was I wearing make up? I must have been. I would never have been in front of the camera without at least a heavy handed scrawl of black pencil liner. My hair was swept to the side; some shaggy-pixie-asymmetrical shape that my big sister had cut for me on the floor of her bedroom. It rested over my eyes but was easy to see through as the fragmented pieces of hair were dry and cracked, sticking together from damage. My hair was a glorious bright red. Towards the roots, bright pink. I had run out of formula as I dyed it so relied on whatever my sister had to hand at the time. You would never have been able to see that though in the picture. They were covered by a material black hat. Tight, almost like a beanie, but more square in shape, with a small protruding cap.

It wasn’t a particularly interesting image but it was a photo of myself I liked and it was proof that I had defied school rules, that I was a ‘rebel’ and once had (what I considered at the time) perfect hair.  My friends and I stuck photographs of our escapades on our walls and in our school planners. I don’t recall if this ever made it to the wall, maybe I was ashamed of what it represented to my parents. Keeping it on my Myspace page was a separation from my ‘private’ social life and my home life. It also lived on my laptop which I would revisit from time to time. This photograph, this file, born digital, lived digital and died digital.

During the year that followed I carried on experimenting with my hair and reverted back to a bright choice. Orange this time but with a hint of ‘aux naturelle’. Although I loved my new colour, I would always look back admirably at the red/pink concoction I had accidently achieved the previous year. My then boyfriend was interested in my hair escapades and asked to see pictures. He would comment on the images. Nothing out of the ordinary at first, simple jests about poses but as each image illuminated my laptop screen, the tone began to shift. A bark of a laugh, a comment on my weight, then silence when we reached my ‘perfect hair’ photograph. A single question followed. “When was this taken?” I froze. Why had the energy in the room suddenly become heavy? And why had my stomach dropped?
“Oh, ummm, last year I think?” As I began to ramble out the story of my near suspension, voice bright and with a light, but forced, laugh, the tension only grew. His body ridged next to mine, he asked “When you were dating …?” I nodded, then with almost a whisper he spat the command “Delete it.” I was shocked but not surprised. He hated my ex but the photo was just of me and my hair. Not understanding this situation, I dared to ask why and he snapped. “Are you fucking kidding me?” How dare I keep photos from that time. Was I reminiscing? Did I miss my ex? How could I? He thought I loved him? Hot tears stung my eyes and with a quiet apology, I deleted the photograph.

Last year I attended the PHRC Conference on Photographic History without Photographs.  Some of the speakers discussed the violence of image destruction and the physical removal of subjects by ways of burning and tearing. Some discussed image destruction as a way of destroying evidence and some discussed images missing from archives were in itself evidence of violence. The destruction of my image was by the simple click of a button. This wasn't to destroy evidence of violence. It wasn’t removing someone from the image but removing someone from my documented past. Or at least the idea of a person placed onto it by the one who ordered its destruction.  In a way, we could say the destruction of the image equates to the desired destruction of my former self, a version of me that disregarded and went against the authority and power figures in my life. Unknowingly to me, deleting the image was one of the first acts of control over me which would continue for the next, nearly two years. 

I had originally wanted to title this piece ‘The Lost Myspace Picture’ but suggesting it is lost insinuates it left me accidentally. Losing something also implies fault of the owner. But this is not what happened. I was made to delete it. I believe my mind holds tightly onto the memory of this image and this moment as one of my first encounters of not only domestic control but photographic control.

In this case, the photograph or lack of photograph becomes a ground for reexamination. These are only some initial thoughts on the subject of photography, memory and control but exploring The Deleted Image helps the present version of me confront, heal and learn how my histories with photographs have shaped who I am today.