There was a night when I was young, maybe ten years old? My father had come home drunk, and had woken us all up. That night, something I witnessed stayed with me: a glimpse of my mother through the wide open door of my parents’ bedroom. She was wearing her torn nightgown and a single sock, posing suggestively for my father as he took her picture.
Years later, I found my father’s picture from that night in a stack of discarded snapshots in our junk drawer. It was like something out of a “Reader’s Wives” section in a porno mag. That’s definitely where this kind of image comes from.
Somehow we have moments saved forever in that drawer that you’d think a family wouldn’t want to remember. The photo remained there for years and years. Occasionally, it would migrate to the top of the drawer. I’ve since swiped it.
The photo corroborates what I remember of that night–she wasn’t happy about having her picture taken. Her reluctant complicity is there in her pose.
It was a picture I did not take, but somehow it’s a faded gateway into my work.
Todd Hido, Artist