Even with a passionately active social media lifestyle, Penelope Garcia avoids photo-sharing communities.
Because photographs are something she’s come to hate: curling-edge glossies of home invasions sliding out of manila folders; screen shots of bodies in alleys, riverbeds, cars; printed close ups of dead, staring eyes, pinned to the bulletin board.
But she has a secret stash — talismans, an antidote of sorts to the dreadful anonymities of the dead. Just snapshots, really, full of personality and spirit. J.J. and Prentiss, heads together at the bar, watching Morgan dancing with cat-like grace. Hotch, standing over Reid at his desk, one hand on Reid’s shoulder and a look of encouragement on his face. Reid himself, mugging for the camera, holding up his necktie like a noose. Rossi on the plane, a sheaf of papers in his hand but his gaze directed out the window at the setting sun. An arm’s-length cellphone shot of her and Kevin, squashed in the seat on the Sky Screamer at Six Flags.
If their photographic evidence was a necessary evil, silent witness to the horrors of humankind, then her virtual photo album was, for her, proof of life, and even a touch of the divine.
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Date: 2011-12-22 04:58 am (UTC)Even with a passionately active social media lifestyle, Penelope Garcia avoids photo-sharing communities.
Because photographs are something she’s come to hate: curling-edge glossies of home invasions sliding out of manila folders; screen shots of bodies in alleys, riverbeds, cars; printed close ups of dead, staring eyes, pinned to the bulletin board.
But she has a secret stash — talismans, an antidote of sorts to the dreadful anonymities of the dead. Just snapshots, really, full of personality and spirit. J.J. and Prentiss, heads together at the bar, watching Morgan dancing with cat-like grace. Hotch, standing over Reid at his desk, one hand on Reid’s shoulder and a look of encouragement on his face. Reid himself, mugging for the camera, holding up his necktie like a noose. Rossi on the plane, a sheaf of papers in his hand but his gaze directed out the window at the setting sun. An arm’s-length cellphone shot of her and Kevin, squashed in the seat on the Sky Screamer at Six Flags.
If their photographic evidence was a necessary evil, silent witness to the horrors of humankind, then her virtual photo album was, for her, proof of life, and even a touch of the divine.