My Grandfather’s Gift to Me

My mother’s father was a professional studio photographer. He conducted his business entirely in his home: one corner of his tiny living room was curtained off for sittings, another corner was transformed into a dark room, and a third corner was where he kept his abacus and books. Besides being a photographer, he raised birds and plants, all within a two bedroom apartment, while raising a family of seven on the crowded, little island of Cheung Chau.

My memory of my grandfather was that he was a very quiet man. He spoke maybe no more than a total of a hundred words to me, in Cantonese or English, and yet he made a stronger impression on my young life than any other person. All the portraits of me as a little girl were taken by him through his monstrous old-fashioned camera. He would signal to me, tell me where and how to sit, then shuffle back to his camera and hide under its curtain. Then magically, a few hours later, my face was captured on paper in subtle shades of gray. When I was old enough, he invited me to watch him work in the dark room, not knowing that someday I would develop my own photos under a red light.

I have very little now to remind me of my grandfather. This photo, of my mother and me, is one of the few mementos. When my grandfather could no longer take portraits, his children gave away or sold all his equipment. The dark room and studio were transformed back into a dull, ordinary living room. I wish now that I had had the chance to study under him, or to show him my photos, or to at least inherit something of his. But then again, I did inherit something from him– my love for black and white photography. And if he was here, I would tell him how much I miss film and the dark room, but not as much as I miss him.