An open frame dialogue
The driving force being love or art, for people, so many family ties shaping conversations that lead to so many creations, regardless of whether those loved ones are still with us physically. Ancestry, tracing lineage, asking questions, the idea of standing on the backs of what others have done before you. The context and history of you. Talk about existential. So many things and objects we enjoy today are literal manifestations of one person’s love for another. As someone who’s very close to her family, I’m incredibly privileged to have access to family knowledge, history, and experience that’s been passed down with such reverence, intention, and divinity — a generational inheritance. And while we’ll be focusing more on familial love here, this can really apply to any form of love you believe in or practice.
I’ve noticed so many great creations sparked and inspired by loved ones. The obvious conclusion is that love equals power, equals the strength to bring something to life. And sure, love and art have always been intertwined and for some artists, creating is a love language in itself. But more specifically with familial love — memory, history, and ancestry are all infused in these creations as a byproduct, a contribution to a cultural archive. The more I think about it and see it in my own life, it almost feels like a responsibility or an obligation. I’m constantly inspired by family and the intimate moments and conversations we share.
A couple of weeks ago I rewatched Saturday Night with my dad. His first watch, my third. I have a real skill for introducing people to films they think they won’t like but actually would love. I’d credit it to taste discernment, but ultimately it comes down to how deep my love and knowledge of the other person runs. I knew my dad would like it. And honestly, I really didn’t want to watch Family Feud again (I’m sorry, dad, it’s fine, we can switch it up sometimes). In the third act, a quote comes up that I think about often: “You ever have nostalgia for a moment while you're still in it? I mean, like you're in the moment, but you're also looking back on it. Like right now I'm here, but I'm also thinking about this moment twenty years from now.” It’s something I feel in so many of the intimate moments I share with family, fully present and immersed, while simultaneously looking ahead at it as a memory. How I’ll retell it, remember it off-guard, how we’ll reminisce. The achingly beautiful melancholy of it all and of our shared existence and experience. Life is really something, to say the least. A few days later, I ended up taking my dad to see My Father’s Shadow — another love letter, this one steeped in Nigerian heritage, which made it extra meaningful as we prepared to go back to Lagos together for the first time in years. Love inspiring art, art creating moments of love.
I also think about memorials. A memorial service is a time to gather in remembrance and honor of the deceased. It can happen alongside a formal funeral or weeks, even years later. Generally, it includes sharing memories, singing, prayer, and sometimes a musical performance. Different cultures around the world approach death and mourning differently, some with festivals and rituals that honor those who’ve passed, all as a reminder that death is a natural part of life. I think the first memorial I can vividly remember attending was last summer. People joke within our community that Nigerians will celebrate and throw a party for anything, but the moment I walked into that venue, I was moved. A family had gathered across generations, twenty years after this person’s passing, to honor her impact and legacy. I didn’t know her, but in that moment, I felt honored to learn about who she was, honored to be invited to witness their collective history with such care. Nothing about it felt sad. Just a celebration of life, which is ultimately what all of this is about. Life, against such immense odds, that we get to experience within the evolution of it all. It caught me off guard how moved I was — the thought of one day doing something like that for someone I love, or having it done for me. To be remembered is a gift and an honor.
I think if we actually normalized memorials after some passage of time or treated them as guaranteed as a funeral, it could maybe, maybe, help just a little with grasping our own mortality in the present. Maybe dampen slightly the incessant need to optimize. Because I do believe the awareness of death is what drives so much of our ambition as a species, on a deeply subconscious level. That’s why I can admit it’s idealistic, but it’s sweet and harmless to wonder about sometimes.
The creations I mentioned earlier, the ones spurred into existence by love for another, truly feel like their own kind of memorial when acknowledged in remembrance. Seeing it that way has given me a deeper appreciation for and connection to the art itself, a warm, fuzzy feeling at being let into someone’s cultural archive, because it really is that deep. And as a byproduct, it offers another kind of comfort in my own confrontation with mortality. A way to be remembered, so that one day we may truly rest.
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