Since its debut in 1839, photography has possessed a magical quality. While the 19th-century “mirror with a memory” intrigued and enthralled most of the general public, a minority of people was somewhat less enthusiastic, more concerned about what they perceived to be outer body experiences, to use modern terms. They believed that each time a person had a portrait made, a piece of that individual’s soul was captured. The camera was a vessel for memory, holding a precious sliver of life’s history within its frame and the printed image became a quasi icon, an item suitable for contemplation and remembrance.

There was something almost biblical about the early process of creating an image. Needing a source of illumination, pictures were seemingly carried on rays of light, traveling from the subject and momentarily transferred or hidden inside the camera, adhering itself onto a negative. Then, from a place deep inside the photographer’s darkroom, the printed image arose, miraculously appearing on a previously blank piece of paper soaked in a bath of chemicals.

Around 1900, the small hand-held Brownie camera, a relatively inexpensive point-and-shoot device made by Kodak, made its way to market, enabling the average Joe and Jane to collect and protect their memories, to become visual chroniclers of all aspects of daily life, from the important to the mundane, from the exciting to the ordinary. Great moments of history and bits of nothingness, frozen in emulsion, were inserted in albums, hinged on the pages of scrapbooks, hung on walls, and stored away in boxes. All around the world, concrete bits of paper held pieces of lives, tangible evidence of deeds and events.

Over the years, steps of technological progress gave the photographer — whether amateur or professional — more control. In order for Kodak’s early pictures to be developed, the entire camera, not just the film, had to be sent back to the company, which then returned the printed pictures along with a new roll of film inside the camera. Later on, rolls of film could easily be taken out of the camera. Up to the late 1940s, however, there were still two stages to producing a final image: first, shooting the picture and making a negative, and then developing the printed picture. Lots of variables contributed to the product: light, lenses, paper, chemicals and, obviously and most importantly, the photographer’s eye.

But in the late 1940s, another advance in technology was introduced to the public — instant picture making. Sixty years ago, Polaroid provided to pop culture a device that provided instant gratification — finished images developed within seconds, a printed picture that came out of the camera. Hit the button and, seconds later, the image appears. (See Louis P. Masur’s recent consideration of the snapshot in The Chronicle Review here.)

Until the end of the 20th century almost all photographs were tangible — that is to say, the memory was something that could be held in your hand, felt, touched, as well as seen. Most families considered their personal treasure troves of photographs to be sacred collections, something worth saving at almost all costs; photographs were physical assets.

Today, the gratification is faster than instant. Take out your phone or digital camera, aim, press, and before you can say, “cheese,” the image is electronically placed on a server, distributed all over the world to be shared with friends and strangers.

Polaroid is no longer making film; Kodak has restructured its product line. Cameras have changed in both size and structure. What hasn’t changed, however, is the public’s thirst for mementos. But now pictures are commonly viewed on screens, preserved in formats that make them more fleeting, less hand-held, and easy prey to the delete button. Endless collections of photos are placed in cyberspace each day, posted to the likes of flickr, facebook, shutterfly, ning, snapfish, picassa, smugmug, ringo, and others — part of global social networks. This gives a whole new meaning to the expression collective memory.

While printed pictures still can be made, doing so is rare; the intimacy of the touch is gone. What was once a keepsake is now but a glimmer, making Andy Warhol’s concept of “fifteen minutes of fame” seem like an eternity. Snap your fingers once and the digital camera captures the image. Snap twice and the image is on your screen. With three snaps, the picture is off into cyberspace, perhaps to be shared, perhaps gone forever. What was once a religious mystery is now a technological wonder. What, I wonder, do those images say to each other when they pass through the night?

(Image from Photobucket.com)