Grandpa's shadowpictures

When my grandparents were still alive, it was tradition to visit them on Sundays for cake, flan, and coffee. It was the highlight of the week for them.

After the cake, made by my grandmother herself, my grandfather took out his best brandy, to refine his coffee with, and then he started to tell his story...

-"That was the moment where I got my best photo." he usually started. We all knew the story by heart, but he was a gifted narrator, and he really enjoyed telling it. So, we all listened intently.

Grandpa was a peace-loving man, who raised his family respectfully and lived in peace with the neighbors. He could write but not spell and he had been an enthusiastic hobby photographer for many years.

In my grandfather's time, the wet process was universal, and grandpa was always terribly annoyed when unwanted intruders in the background would present themselves on the exposed plates. It usually did not take too long before my grandma couldn't take his grumbling anymore and told him to shut up because it was probably his own fault for not cleaning the plates properly.

So, Grandpa decided to buy new plates, but with the next portrait he took, another shape appeared in the background, and he got angry about it. And then my grandma added giggling:

-"And also, a little scared."

At that time, spiritualism was exceedingly popular, and my grandfather became interested in the subject. Despite grandma’s fear, that this would give him a bad name in the village, grandpa continued to take pictures, and more often developed images of people who had not been present in his studio when he shot the picture.

One day an old family friend came to visit and told my grandparents that these were probably so-called shadow photos. He introduced my grandfather to a spiritualist association, where the photos were thoroughly examined for fraud.

 A Mr. Bartholomy was the president of that club, and after countless conversations with my grandfather, he encouraged him to continue trying to capture those shadows in photographic images. 

At first, Grandpa was offended and hurt in his artistic honor, because he took pictures for the sake of the art of it, not to capture ghosts or spirits on film. Somewhat reluctantly he continued his hobby. He never knew beforehand whether those shadows would show up as he developed the photos. One time they were noticeably clear, and the next there was no shadow to be seen.

At the club, my grandfather's photos were often discussed, and endless meetings were devoted to the theme. Everyone had their own theory about the phenomenon.

My grandfather had noticed that if he had a beer at lunchtime, or if he was angry or annoyed when he took a picture, he could be sure that there would be shadows in the photo.

In the meantime, the gentlemen of the club's board of directors had concluded that "it" had to be my grandfather. He had to carry "something" within him that would allow the entities, whoever they were, to build themselves up and get enough substance to reflect the rays of light and impress them on a sensitive plate. My grandfather's camera, which was already considered old-fashioned at the time, was examined by professional and expert photographers. They could not find anything that would explain the results.

There was something peculiar about those shadow images. There was always a white drapery to be seen. That was something that the people of the Spiritualist Club who regularly participated in seances were very familiar with. According to Mr. Batholomy, that drapery was a necessity to protect the spirit or ghost from light and radiation that could harm him or her. Anyway, the chairman decided that something could be released from the bodies of spirits, allowing them to be photographed. On closer examination, it looked as if that white mist that seemed to go out in folds from the spirit was a shell in which the ghost had just woken up. Another member of the club thought that perhaps something from the photographer's aura was spreading "something" that enabled the ghost to produce a cast of his likeness when he was still among the living. Mr. Bartholomy looked for people with a scientific appetite and the drive to satisfy this curiosity, whom he could convince primarily to contribute financially, to continue the experiments.

One of the ladies on the board of the club had always sworn that if she died, she would come and visit my grandfather to have herself photographed. When she finally passed away, my grandfather went to work taking pictures. He took the picture of everyone in the village, even the gendarme and the postman. That woman had told my grandfather at the time that he was both clairvoyant and audient, and that therefore he was able to photograph people from the afterlife. But on the other hand, my grandfather had always been afraid of that woman. Although he never told us why.

For some reason, that woman took her time to keep her promise, and my grandfather began to give up hope. One day he uncovered a plate on which he saw the image of a woman he had never seen before. That apparition continued to reveal itself in every photo he took after that. Some members of the club claimed they recognized their recently deceased board member, but my grandfather insisted that this was another woman.

One day, a lady from another city visited the spiritualist club. She wanted some general information. When she saw the photo, my grandfather had taken with that unknown woman in it laying on Mr. Bartholomy's desk, she started screaming that this was her mother, who had died not too long ago. This woman promised to bring a photo of her mother when she was still alive on her next visit. It took a few weeks before she came back, but when she finally showed up with a photo of her mother as evidence, Mr. Bartholomy was willing to pay my grandfather to continue his experiments. Under careful supervision, of course. The authenticity of the photo would be determined if the shadow in the photo was recognized and authenticated by a family member. It had already come to the point where people from everywhere came to my grandfather with an order to photograph their deceased loved ones from the hereafter. A lot of researchers came, even all the way from America, to find out if my grandfather was not some kind of trick photographer. 

My grandfather even seemed to be building a reputation in the afterlife. One day he received a letter from a medium from England, who had heard clairaudient from a recently deceased friend that she should have herself photographed by my grandfather. He wrote the woman back and invited her to come, which she did. My grandfather immediately got to work, but nothing more than a white mist could be seen in the photos. About the same time, something happened to Mr. Bartholomy in the building of the Spiritualist Club. One fine evening, a wild-looking man came into his office with a gun in his hand. Mr. Bartholomy was terrified at the mere sight of the hand weapon. The savage man insisted that my grandfather be picked up and take a picture of him.

My grandfather had packed his camera in a suitcase and made his way to the club to take the picture. When he developed the negative, a figure of a tough bearded man appeared behind the man who had insisted so aggressively his picture be taken .

-"Louis!" the man exclaimed, "That's our Louis!"

The man left with the photo, and everyone had almost forgotten the whole incident when suddenly a whole delegation of stiffly dressed men with sour faces sat in the entrance hall of the spiritualist club waiting for Mr. Bartholomy.

They wanted information about a photo that would have been taken there. Mr. Bartholomy gave a detailed and accurate account of how the photo had come about, but the gentlemen's party did not believe him, and they treated Mr. Bartholomy quite disdainfully. He was interrogated for hours. They wanted to know how this Louis got there. Mr. Bartholomy swore on the bible that he had never met this Louis and that this was a re-enactment from the afterlife, not to mention the terrors he had endured at the hand of the man who commissioned the photo.

This Louis turned out to be a criminal, who was wanted by the police. This whole incident gave the spiritualist movement a bad name. The waters calmed down when this Louis was found dead in South America.

At that point in the story, my grandfather always sighed:

-"The smartest trick photographer or the most skilled magician in the world can't take a picture of someone who has died and is unmistakably recognized by their surviving relatives."

And that, in his view, was proof that through photography the reality of an intelligence other than ours could be proved.

My grandfather has long since passed away. I inherited his passion for photography. In the many thousands of pictures, I've shot over the years, he never once showed up with a greeting from the hereafter.

Maybe just as well. You never know who might follow his lead. Before you know it I could have the FBI or some other select fellowship dedicated to serve and protect with Ray-Bans on their faces all over my case.... what would the neighbors say?