it's not narcissism, it's an archive
a case for self-documentation
The week before last, an old coworker sent an email sharing that someone we’d known had died. I’d dated that someone, but hadn’t spoken to him in probably close to fifteen years. There was no bad blood, no dramatic break-up, just an amicable drifting apart after a mutual acknowledgment that our lifestyles were more or less incompatible in the long run. I’d wonder how he was doing from time to time, but the news of his death was the first update I’d gotten in years.
I’ve always been an archivist. I have saved every single letter my mom has written me; I still have handwritten hall passes, folded notes from high school friends, a small pile of concert and movie tickets. I’ve kept middle school journals that are excruciating to read, a folder of every MySpace photo I ever took. But I could not find a single piece of photographic or written evidence to indicate that I had ever spent time with him. I’ve never deleted a personal email—if we’d written to each other, it would still be lurking in my Gmail archive. This was pre-smartphone1, so there were no text messages to look back on, but I used both a film and a digital camera regularly back then.
It’s not as though there was nothing to document. This was someone who prioritized art and adventure over all material things, who lived on a decommissioned ferry boat docked in Newtown Creek, who loved a thrifted bolero jacket and a captain’s hat. On Thanksgiving Day in 2009, I made a ginger pear crisp and wore a thrifted handmade floral dress2 (very Batsheva-esque, actually) to his mother’s Chinatown loft, where her ferret ran across the length of the apartment as we ate. The exposed pipes were painted bright red. Why had I not documented any of this in some way?
2025 has been a year of adjacency to loss. My best friends both suffered devastating losses earlier this year; one of them also recently found out about the death of a college boyfriend. I almost held back from sharing this news with them—I didn’t want to suggest that this news compared to what they’ve recently endured. But when I texted the group chat, one of them responded, “I remember him!! I went on that boat!”
I plumbed her for memories: had she attended a party there? No, but she’d gotten a full tour when she came to visit me around that time. We’d even planned a themed party inspired by it, the ‘fur coat boat party,’ which I’d completely forgotten about. I’m sure at the time I thought, “I’ll always remember this! I don’t need to take pictures!” I bet my outfit was amazing—but now I’ll never know.
As someone who moved frequently for the majority of her adult life3, I’ve had to drastically dial back my archival tendencies. Though I’ve refused to cull my memento archive (and I have many a bankers box to show for it), I’ve been pretty ruthless in regard to both books and clothing. One thing that helps, especially when culling clothing, is holding onto photographic evidence. If I regret getting rid of something, at least it’s preserved on film. In the same way that all vintage clothing starts out as brand-new, memories start out as ordinary, in the present. It’s only time that gives them meaning.
So this is my official argument for the personal archive. When you think twice about taking a photo, if you worry that it’s lame or boring or overly sentimental, or that people will think you’re only taking it for Instagram—let it go. (It’s not the camera that interrupts the moment, it’s posting in real time.) Go forth and document your life! Take the daily outfit photos, take the selfies, photograph your friends and lovers while they’re laughing, save the movie ticket, the museum program, the restaurant matchbook, tuck the paper menu into your purse. You’re not just preserving moments with people you used to know; you’re preserving your younger self. You don’t have to do anything for the plot, but you should do it for the archive.
There’s a tribute post on Instagram, a carousel of photos of him, mostly in close proximity to a body of water. In one of them, he’s seated at the bow of a small fishing boat with a huge smile on his face. He’s got a cigarette in one hand and the tiller in another, the wake trailing behind him. He took us out in that same boat one night, under the Kosciuszko and Pulaski Bridges and into the East River. An ordinary, uneventful evening—but fifteen years later, I wish I’d taken my own pictures that night, that it didn’t take a stranger’s photograph to jog my memory. (Again, I wonder, what did I wear? Was I precious about my shoes? Did I bring my purse?)
An important note: your archive does not have to be composed of good photos. Of course it’s lovely to have a box of gorgeous grainy film photographs, but it’s just as important to keep the bad ones, the pixelated JPEGS, the overexposed iPhone selfies. The specificity of the medium only makes the memory stronger.
When I went back through my files to write this post, I found one picture of him, from the night of the bookstore’s grand opening. It was taken on someone else’s cheap digital camera. I don’t even remember who sent it to me. I’m in the foreground with two coworkers, his face clearly visible among the crowd in the background. The finality of knowing that there will never be a future run-in, a serendipitous encounter with an old friend, is tempered—at least slightly—by that photographic affirmation that the past still exists.
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the one that got away
I’ve lost more beanies in my lifetime than I care to count (on bus seats, neighboring barstools, airplanes) but for the most part, I’m good at holding onto my clothes—or at least letting them go intentionally by reselling or donating. I’ve only truly lost a few items—
I had a Razr my last year of high school, but I downgraded to a camera-less flip phone for most of college.
From the Salvation Army on Bedford and North 7th … RIP!
I’ve been in my current apartment for five years now, but off the top of my head I can count at least ten other apartments I’ve lived in since 2009!
I too am an archivist when it comes to keepsakes that tell a story about a loved one. I learned to do this after losing my grandparents (but getting to read all of their precious old postcards) and losing my brother (while getting to revisit the moments we shared anytime I like on Facebook and IG, which were just getting started then). Now I keep every card my son has made me, as well as all the little drawings and lists that I've made for him. I imagine him one day having to wake up without me, and I want my archive to be full to bursting, there to remind him of how gigantically he was loved while I lived, and how loved he remains.
This is really lovely. Thanks for sharing your memories w/ us (& making the case for continuing to preserve our own!). If only there were an affordable way to preserve/digitize a steamer trunk full of 20 years of journals…😵💫