Fiore Photo Album
One of my early memories of living in Montreal was when I would rummage through a box that contained old family photographs buried deep inside my great aunt, chickee’s closet set right behind her collection of shoes. At the time, I wasn’t aware of their value on a personal level, but I remember always being drawn to them, where each photo represented someone I would never come to know directly but come to see bridged by generations and experience their likeness through the photograph. I grew up in an immigrant family home with my brother, mother, grandmother, great-aunt, and, for a short while, my great-grandmother. We moved from Italy to live with them after my parent’s divorce. I was delighted to be reunited with my grandmother and her siblings.
On a summer morning, I crept into my aunt’s room, sneaking around and trying to hide from her to scare her, when I leapt into her closet and came across a box. The box no longer exists. For some reason, the contents were removed and stored in another box. I remember the box had a decorative pattern of turquoise and green flower petals. It was ornate, working-class ornate. I never ended up scaring my aunt that day; instead, I asked her about the box and what it contained. They were all black and white photographs, and we looked through them together; it was a treasure trove of memories for her and a new beginning for me. That was my first time being introduced to her past, one I now share and manifested into my own physical and social makeup as an adult. After that summer’s day, I would periodically visit the box and carefully place it back behind my aunt's shoes. Like a secret treasure not to be disturbed. A box allowing our ancestors to remain in peace.
Living with my relatives under one roof felt normal. However, I was periodically reminded how different we were when I visited my friends' homes and was exposed to their customs and rituals. These often consisted of a more North Americanized version of how things were, such as fast food, hockey, and doing things independently from the family. I quickly realized we lived differently, and looking at the photos of our past reinforced this observation. We didn’t have photos of family picnics or vacation destinations. Instead, they consisted of Sunday gatherings, weddings, communions, religious events, photos of my uncle in Normandy, France, who enlisted in the Canadian Army during the Second World War, and family members interacting in their backyard. There are no sports, other than my uncle’s boxing photo that a professional photographer took in a studio setting. Boxing wasn’t a sport; it was a lifeline, and the same can be said when the same uncle, Frank, enlisted to fight in the war.
The photographs date from 1915 to the 1950s in Montreal, including photographs used as correspondence between families still living in Casacalenda, Italy, in the province of Campobasso.
Later, the role of the photograph changed from the formal studio portrait photograph to the portable, more democratic Kodak camera, which came into my family's possession around the 1930s and was now accessible even to people living on a modest wage. This invention of the portable camera, working under the slogan, “You take the picture, and we do the rest,” enabled my family to record their life on their terms, in their own micro-cultural vernacular, independent from the macro culture. However, my conversations with my relatives, who have now passed away, described that even with all their efforts, despite the fact most of the siblings were born in Montreal remained challenging to integrate into the dominant society. My family built their home and lived on St-Urbain, close to Jarry park and later relocated to Park-X when their home was condemned for demolition to make way for a factory. Today, the same site has been bulldozed and is home to a large condominium complex.
Brief Note:
There were approximately two waves of mass Italian emigration to Canada, mainly resettling in New York, Montreal, and Toronto. My family landed in New York in around 1905, belonging to the first wave, and settled in Montreal, working mainly in constructing the railway systems that led into the city.
The studio portraits are simple, often containing little props and the relatives wearing their best attire, their “Sunday Best.” Most family members were workers, so they only had one or two good sets of clothes. Most of the family members have dispersed, and others have passed away, leaving behind their legacy through these images, which contain evidence of their lives. These images may mean little to an outside observer and perhaps, in some way, may represent a similar situation.
