4,000 Days of Juju

I spent the best days of my childhood sitting near the edge of my bed, swinging my legs, with the photo albums I’d snuck out of my great-grandmother’s closet spread across my knees. Every page was adorned with three to four photos, covered in plastic, capturing a moment. If I was lucky, Muss would get the albums out herself, sit me down, and deliver the story behind each photo. During one session, she told me that photos are a blueprint for who you are and from where you come. Muss was our family’s archivist and the preserver of our history. When she died, my mother and I inherited two 18-gallon Sterilite containers of photos.

Reflection is in my DNA. Today, I own more than 20,000 photos—not including the pictures Muss left behind. My archives are an expansive, 11-year long narrative of me. In June, I moved the photos from my phone onto a hard drive and began to comb through them, taking in who I was 11-years-ago, and who that young woman became, for the first time.

Cringing at the digital camera-mirror combo.

Each photo gives insight to who I was at the time and allows me to witness the evolution of my voice and history. I’m going to share the revelations I had while mining my past, and a few photos, with y’all. The first installment will drop on Monday and cover 2010 to 2015. The second will recount 2016 to now and pop into your inbox the following week.

Meanwhile, tell me what photos mean to you in the comments. Or, you can tweet me: @juliacraven.

Take care.