Our photographs, ourselves

One of the recent films that really resonated with me was “Coco,” one of a series of animated smashes that Pixar has made.

Coco turns out to be one of those movies that is ostensibly for kids, but which (like “Walle,” “Up” and “Toy Story 3”) packs quite the emotional wallop for grown-ups.

While the title refers to his great-grandmother (and her significance becomes clear), “Coco” is really the story of a young boy named Miguel, who lives with his family in Mexico, and who yearns to play the guitar. The problem: music is forbidden in his family (and the significance of that becomes clear, too).

Everything plays out on the Day of the Dead, and because it’s Pixar, the fantasy scenes — particularly in the land of the dead, where Miguel’s journey takes him — are stunning, colourful, and a total visual feast.

There are many things I find quite touching about the movie (my husband and son know that just singing “Rememmmmber me,” as Coco’s father does to her in a flashback, when she is a baby, will make the room quite dusty suddenly), although there’s one aspect that’s really had me thinking.

It’s about photos.

In the movie, the ancestors can only return to their loved ones if a photograph of them is put on a table of remembrance, called an ofrenda.

In one emotional scene, Miguel sees a man in the afterlife disappear before his eyes.

Why? There is no one left in the real world left to remember him and his story.

Chills. Chills, chills, chills.

Miguel’s mission becomes not only to return to the land of the living, but to ensure that one particular photograph is brought back, too. I won’t spoil anything here, but I will say you’ll think differently about your photo albums by the time the credits roll.

We don’t have a formal ofrenda in our house, but we do have several places where framed photographs are clustered. In the living room, our bedroom, my office and elsewhere, there are several: wedding photos, vacations, formally posed gatherings, family and friends, and yes, photos of loved ones whose memories we cherish.

Here’s something I’ve been chewing on. Most of those photos happen to date from the era of film, when you’d buy a roll of 24, pop it in your camera, and choose your moment.

Digital photography — as well as the lightning-quick advances in photographic quality on our smartphones — have made it astonishingly easy to share photos with other but the ofrenda, if you will, is now an electronic one.

Every day, Facebook nudges me with reminders of things I’ve done over the years. More often than not, it’s a photograph I shared. As creepy as I sometimes find Facebook’s management of personal information to me, I have to acknowledge I feel connected with so many people in so many places, because of the photos we share.

I also like Instagram, for allowing me to be a little creative. I love colour, flowers, food, the outdoors, the pleasures of life, and Instagram allows me to connect with friends in a different way.

I was surprised to learn (and then not surprised, when I reflected on it) that Instagram was found to be the most stressful social media platform particularly for young people. Why? They feel they need to present themselves perfectly, or at least as always having a great time. I can see that being a stressor, and a downside to the medium.

My advice? Point the camera in another direction and breathe.

The digital transformation has meant we have fewer actual photographs in our house.

Because of “Coco,” I intend to change that. I will be ordering prints of some recent favourites, and (when I find that mythical mountain of spare time) I will be diving deep into our digital archive and building some albums.

I want to continue to be surrounded by memories of those — in the living world, and beyond — who have brought joy and meaning to my life.

A photograph, after all, is how we can help keep our stories, and ourselves, alive.

Martha Muzychka is a writer and cartographer of memories. Email: socialnotes@gmail.com