Hi there:
Please excuse the gap between issues. My latest selection is quite long and I was out-of-town during the extended Lunar New Year break in China. (Happy Year of the Rabbit BTW!)
This moving story speaks for itself. All I want to say is that sometimes changing the world doesn’t mean dictating public policy, winning a prestigious award or tournament or invading a country, for that matter. All it takes is a simple act of kindness.
The source material is a podcast first aired by Story FM on Dec. 20.
In the next two issues, I’ll be shifting the focus back to COVID with two personal accounts that examine the aftermath of China’s containment strategy and its abrupt reversal.
Take care and see you soon.
—ML
Touching Seniors’ Hearts in Mountain Villages, One Free Portrait at a Time
Narrator: Yang Xin
Transcribed by Jieyi
1.
My name is Yang Xin. I'm an active volunteer from the city of Shangluo in Shaanxi Province. My Douyin (TikTok) handle is @TallGirlLovesPhotography. Because of my relatively tall stature, everyone likes to call me Tall Girl. In my day job, I work as a photographer for a local newspaper.
As a photojournalist, I'm required to be where the news is. That's why I travel frequently to the countryside, where I often take pictures of elderly people in mountainous areas.
On one reporting trip, I came across a river in a village that was missing a bridge. Villagers told us an elderly person living on the other side of the river passed away unnoticed for days before being discovered because of the lack of access. The deceased's immediate family scrambled to put together a funeral after rushing back to the village.
Villagers said the old man enjoyed a long life but left little in the way of a legacy, not even a photo. The oversight upset them dearly.
That particular detail hit me hard. It reminded me of how I loved to hear Grandma tell me stories about Grandpa. My paternal grandfather died young. I never managed to find pictures of him at home, so I never knew what he looked like. My impression was confined to Grandma's retellings.
Grandma lived with us for an extended period when I was in primary school and junior high. As a matter of routine, I ran to Grandma's room every day after school. Nestled in her extra-thick blanket, I listened to stories about her youth, as well as recollections about Grandpa.
She said Grandpa was a rural paramedic well-known to locals. A bamboo pole slung over his shadow, he liked to sell tofu while treating patients at the same time. He'd be gone for days without returning home.
Yet every time Grandma spoke of Grandpa, she never described his looks. Whenever I asked, she just said Grandpa was quite tall and left it at that. Perhaps she lamented the fact that she no longer remembered what she looked like.
2.
My family was quite poor when I was a child, so I rarely had my photo taken.
When I was 4 or 5, a neighbor took a picture of me using their point-and-shoot camera and made a copy for us. In the photo, I was wearing a pair of pants that had an obvious patch. I was posing with a few other children next to our old home, my head lowered to the point of near-obscurity. That was my first picture.
Meanwhile, the photo albums of my playmates were bursting at the seams, featuring their official month-old and year-old portraits. I always felt something was missing.
Perhaps as a means of compensation, I chose photography as my major in college. By then, Grandma was quite old. I brought black-and white film back from school and took tons of pictures of her—of her disfigured feet from foot binding, her worn hands filled with warts and cracks from years of labor. I even took a proper portrait.
"What great sunlight. Why don't you stand by the wall and let me take a solo picture of you," I told Grandma.
Breaking out a smile, Grandma patted the dust and dirt off her body, straightened her clothes and declared: "Fine, then. Let me stand here and let my baby take a picture of me."
She looks exceedingly happy in the photo.
As I took the picture, I was thinking when Grandma is gone, I'll never be able to record the physical toll life exacted on her. I'd never be able to capture her smile. That's why I was extra meticulous.
I ended up developing the picture by hand. I scanned the film and magnified the picture to 16 inches tall. I made three copies, one for each family.
Less than two years after I took the photo, Grandma passed away. The portrait ended up becoming Grandma's funeral portrait.
When she was buried, the photo was placed in front of Grandma's burial plot. I took a picture of the portrait and posted it on my blog with the title A Smile from Heaven.
3.
After starting my professional career, I visited and documented the homes of many elderly people who lived in the mountains near Shangluo. Taking in their impoverished lives made me want to do something for them within my power.
In 2017, I established the Shangluo Rainbow Charity Center and began volunteering on my weekends. We targeted needy elders 65 or older living in the mountains, handing out free down jackets, lamb wool knee warmers, back protectors and lamb wool socks to help them weather the bitterly cold winters at higher altitude.
The work brought me into the homes of even more elderly people, which led to a rather unexpected observation. At a time when smartphone photos demanded the simple act of a click, most of the old men and women living in the mountains surrounding Shangluo still didn't have photos at home. They still treated pictures as a luxury.
It's also then that I gave birth to the idea of taking free portraits for them.
In particular, I remember one occasion when I delivered clothing to an old woman. When I entered the house, a primitive mud stove came into view. The firewood left the entire room enveloped in flames and smoke. The stove was connected to an old-fashioned kang bed. The wood cabinet facing the main entrance had a piece of white cardboard on top, which was inscribed with the words "Altar of XXX."
In front of the cardboard was placed an incense burner. You could tell the altar was being used because there were incense stick butts in the burner.
"How long has it been since your partner passed away?" I asked Granny.
She said about a dozen years.
I asked her if she remembered what he looked like.
The old woman smiled. It was an awkward smile, followed by silence. It seemed she had forgotten.
I asked if she had a picture of her late husband.
"Who takes pictures in the mountains?" she responded.
It was that comment that drove home for me the fact that having their picture taken was a tremendous luxury for seniors living in the mountains.
Shangluo is located in southern Shaanxi, in the belly of the Qinling Mountains. As the traditional saying goes, the landscape is "eight parts mountain, one part water and another farmland." In other words, 80 percent of the geography comprises mountain ranges, while 10 percent is made up of bodies of water and farmland accounts for the remaining 10.
For urban residents like ourselves, we enjoy better exposure to the outside world. Once you're deep in the mountains, you'll find that every home is built along a slope. Shopping depends on periodic town fairs. But many marketplaces only sell goods and aren't equipped with photo salons. You need to venture to the closest city to get yourself a standard 12-inch photo printout.
For villages or townships that aren't that remote, the closest city may be a 20- or 30-minute bus ride away. The more outlying locations may be separated from the nearest city by a mountain or two, serviced by a single daily bus run.
Shangluo is a labor-exporting region. Most young people have left to work in neighboring cities or beyond. Most of the residents that have stayed in the mountains are elderly empty nesters and a small number of left-behind children. It's a tall ask for old men and women in their 70s or 80s to tackle public transport and scale mountains.
Among these elderly residents, smartphone users are an utmost rarity. Most of them use old phones that aren't equipped with cameras. The elderly use them as flashlights, to listen to the radio and take calls from their children.
More common is the old man or woman without a cell phone. The odds of having your photo taken are extremely slim, but that hasn't dimmed the desire.
4.
Once a fellow photographer who shoots regularly on mountain tops told me he ran into an old man who began eyeing his camera. "Young man, do you think you could take a picture of me for me to use as funeral portrait?" the old man asked.
My friend specialized in scenery, not funeral portraits, so he asked me if I could go instead.
When I eventually found time to make the trip, I came across a group of elderly residents who grew veggies that thrived in high altitude. The area was so remote there was no mobile phone coverage. I ran into old man who was watering his plants. He said he was 68 and that some 30-plus old men and women lived on the mountain top. They ranged in age from their 60s and 70s to 80s.
I then asked: "Uncle, can I discuss something with you? Please don't be mad. What do you think about me taking free funeral portraits for you all?"
"What? Free funeral portraits for real?" he responded incredulously.
When I repeatedly explained that not only would I not charge for the photos, I would also have the pictures framed and delivered for free, the old man flashed a huge smile. "That's great—superb!" he said.
He said his fellow residents who wanted to have their pictures taken had to descend the mountain and head into town. Their advanced age made them reluctant to take public buses. If you didn't know how to ride a motorbike, traveling long distances was a major hassle.
The old man had also encountered vendors who drove to the mountain top by minivan, claiming to offer free portraits. But that deal only covered a head shot, which was then grafted onto the picture of someone else's body. The vendor charged for the print of the composite photo, as well as framing, the pricing ranging from 30 or 40 yuan (US$4 or US$6) to 70 or 80 yuan to as much as 100-plus yuan.
Uncle splurged on a framed picture, which he hung at home. Recently he noticed the photo had faded.
All the mountain-top residents who could afford the Photoshopped portrait had theirs done. Following Uncle's lead, I tracked down another old man who also had his portrait taken. I wanted to see what his picture looked like.
That old man was having a meal at the time. His wife ran into their bedroom and extracted a piece of rolled paper from their belongings in a large wooden wardrobe. Uncle didn't want to pay extra for framing, so he simply stored the printout at the bottom of his wardrobe.
Uncle carefully unrolled the picture on a flat surface. His head was attached to the body of someone wearing a suit and seated on a luxurious European-style plush chair.
"It's kind of an ugly photo. He doesn't look like himself at all," Auntie whispered.
But Uncle felt comforted by the fact that at least he had a picture of himself on file.
"They drove all the way to take portraits. You gotta have a picture of yourself just in case," Uncle said.
What he actually meant was that at his age, he could pass away suddenly. If possible, all elderly folk wanted to have that portrait ready. It was something for their children to remember by. Also, that way their children wouldn't have to scramble to find a picture while organizing their funeral. They wouldn't want to add to their children's trouble at a time like that.
Before I left Uncle's home, I pinned a piece of red cloth to his wall as a backdrop and took a fresh funeral portrait for him. Situated in front of a familiar front entrance and surrounded by his wife and neighbors, he wore the most natural and relaxed smile.
5.
The fact that these elders were enthusiastic and not turned off by the prospect of having their funeral portraits taken left me reassured. I decided to push ahead with the free portrait service. Eventually I named the campaign "Preserving Memories for Seniors."
In 2018, funding came down for several organizations to launch charity projects. We seized the moment and held our first funeral portrait for the elderly residents in the mountains.
The location of the event was the town square in front of the local village party committee. It was very much a lively scene, also featuring free medical consultations and traditional harvest song, dance and drumming performances. Before the event we were concerned that elderly residents might avoid having their funeral portraits taken because of taboo around the subject of death.
Our fears were quickly dispelled.
We set up cloth backdrops with scaffolding, one red and the other blue. The elderly residents could queue up based on their color preference. After we were done setting up, an old man approached me to ask: "So the village head says you are taking our pictures for free. Is that right?"
"Indeed! We taking 12-inch portraits for you and we'll have the prints framed and delivered, all for free," I said.
Delighted, the old man proceeded to line up with his ID to register his personal information.
We shot some 300 old men and women that day taking us from 9 a.m. to well after 2 p.m. The crowd forming the queue was packed, extending some 20 or 30 meters. The response was so overwhelming that volunteers from another organization ended up helping us maintain order, to prevent a stampede.
Many of the seniors went home after having their pictures taken to encourage their neighbors to do the same. The neighbors would then mobilize their relatives. People came trudging along with their canes while residents of more remote locations had younger relatives transport them via motorbike, tricycle or trolley. All so they could get their portraits taken for free.
Most of the old men and women picked the red backdrop because they found it livelier and auspicious.
6.
To avoid turning off the elders, when we discussed the matter with them, we generally avoided the term "funeral portrait," using local euphemisms like "elderly photo" or "old photo" instead. But the fact is I realized the seniors were perfectly clear on the purpose of these pictures. There was no reluctance to talk about death.
The mood on set was rather cheerful. Every person having their picture taken was flanked by a volunteer on each side, responsible for spraying water onto and combing disheveled hair, as well straightening every single layer of clothing and removing dust from collars with a small brush.
Some people were so nervous that they didn't know where to put their arms and hands when they sat down on the designated stool, alternating between their laps and straight form by their sides. When I told one old man to let his arms drop, so his shoulders would relax, he used so much force even his fingers were taut.
"Uncle, just relax, don't exert yourself. Getting your picture taken doesn't hurt. What are you afraid of?" I asked.
The old man smiled and responded: "I've never had my picture taken."
If the particular old man or woman was extremely tight, I would take up to a dozen or even 20-plus shots and use the frame with the most natural expression.
The other old men and women in line would also help the person sitting for a portrait relax by teasing him or her. "You old goofball, flash a smile. Look how many hoops you're making the kid jump through. If you don't smile properly, the kids is going to chuck your pictures," they'd say.
The person getting his or her picture taken would turn around and retort: "Your photo won't be kept either. I'm going to have someone toss it."
The atmosphere instantly lightened with all this bantering going on. It was as if the long queues made the elderly residents think: "You're gonna die. I'm gonna die. Why can't we take it in stride?"
7.
The ease with which the elders face death also may have something to do with local custom in Shangluo. In our community, death is a big deal you need to prepare for ahead of time. Anyone who passes at the age of 60 or older is considered a "happy death." Firecrackers are lit. And the older the deceased, the more elaborate the celebration.
When seniors in Shangluo live beyond 60, they buy their coffins in advance, as well as the clothes they want to be buried in. Once the coffin has been made, the elder in question even treats friends and family to a meal.
In the mountains, I noticed many elders had their coffins wrapped in plastic and placed inside their homes.
If an elderly person has his or her affairs in order before dying, then his fellow villagers will deem his or her children and grandchildren extremely filial and consider the deceased's life a blessed one.
Meanwhile, if an old man or woman dies suddenly having made no preparations, the situation is viewed as hasty, even something to frown on.
8.
Almost none of the seniors made demands about their portraits.
After the pictures are taken, we typically do a little post-production before sending the files off for laser printing and framing in bulk. Our alterations mainly aim to create a natural look by tweaking contrast and color grading. But in special cases, we also make more substantive changes.
Some of the elderly residents often venture into the wild to chop firewood, which may lead to facial scars. We typically airbrush these scars.
The other scenario is old men or women whose mouths or eyes are slanted from strokes. We typically tell people who fall into this category: "If you don't mind a few fixes, we'll turn you into a beauty/handsome man, just like you used to be."
Most of these elderly residents aren't aware of the possibility of changes. On one occasion, when an old man who had lost one eye received his doctored portrait, he was delighted. His neighbors surrounded him and exclaimed: "Lord, who knew this technology existed? You look exactly like you used to!"
There was the praise on one hand, and the wonder of seeing his "complete" self before illness on the other. Perhaps only the old man himself can appreciate the weight of this gift.
9.
My original intention in offering free portraits for the elderly residents was simply to fulfill a wish, to deliver quality pictures of themselves without hassle. But the more people I came in contact with, the more I realized the service meant much more than a free photo.
When you're in the mountains, you're struck by the utter quiet. There isn't a single bit of noise pollution. Only at around 10 a.m. or 3 or 4 in the afternoon during mealtime can you see a few old men and women chitchatting under a tree or in someone's front yard, rice bowls in hand.
The rest of the time they're either tending to their fields or busy working in their front or backyards, picking persimmons, making persimmon cake or drying herbs they've collected.
In our community, elders in their 60s are still pivotal workers and prime labor in their respective villages.
During one shoot we ran into a 68-year-old man whose face was covered in traces of cement. He asked us frantically if he could cut in line. Road construction was going in his village and he was working on site mixing cement.
One of our recent shoots coincided with persimmon cake season. I came across an 80-year-old woman scaling a persimmon tree with a ladder. "You're so old. Why don't you leave such a dangerous job for your children when they come back?" I asked.
She said her children were stuck in their respective cities because of COVID restrictions, plus her grandchildren had school. Her children had their own children to take care of. How could they make time for her household chores? The old woman said she was picking at her own pace—however many she managed to take down was good enough. Buyers were going door-to-door during that period sourcing persimmons. Any batch she could sell would generate income.
That's how these seniors operated. As long as they were still mobile, they wouldn't stop working. They were all working within their ability to reduce the burden they posed to their children.
"Do you miss your children?" I asked the old woman.
"When I do, I just videoconference with them," she responded.
"You know how to videoconference?" I was pleasantly surprised.
She said she didn't but knew how to answer when her children made video calls.
Whenever we arrived in a mountain village for a photo shoot or to deliver framed portraits, we were always mobbed by its elderly residents, who flocked from their homes. It was always a lively scene. Many of the old men and women would be excited by the sight of young volunteers their grandchildren's age and be extremely hospitable.
During one shoot, a volunteer headed for the toilet behind the offices of the village party committee. It was nearly noon at the time, our usual lunch hour.
The volunteer was spotted by an old man who just had his portrait taken. The old man grabbed the volunteer and said: "Aiya, this kid must be famished. Come to my house. Come."
He made a bowl of bean jelly noodles for the volunteer and gave him a piece of bread he had baked. It was probably the old man's own afternoon snack.
Our volunteers always patiently sorted whatever outfits the elderly residents wore for their portraits and made small talk with them. One old woman once said: "How come you kids are so nice? You're even more attentive than my own daughter."
The reality is that many of these seniors are lonely souls.
If you chitchat with them and ask: "What did you have for lunch?" or "What crops have you planted?" Odds are they will use these topics to segue into many other items.
If you ask them how many grandchildren they have, they'll say: "My oldest grandson and second-oldest grandson are going to school at so and so and they are doing this and that."
The topic of children brings broad smiles to the faces of the elders. They normally don't get to talk about them much.
The seniors also tend to stay put after we're done delivering frame portraits. They're bound to linger. When we're done packing up, they usually invite us home for meal.
As a matter of principle, we always decline, because we don't want to create more work for the seniors. They'll treat you with food they had prepared as their own lunch, or stuff our pockets with walnuts. I know these are walnuts they planned on selling in the first place.
There's also the homemade bread. If you don't have some, the elders will think you consider them outsiders. In time like this, we'll accept one piece and split it among multiple people.
When the seniors watch us eat, they wear smiles that remind me of my own grandmother's smile when she watched me eat. It's an expression of bliss and doting love.
Every event we hold in the mountains is an opportunity to chat with the seniors. The elders also exchange updates among themselves. What they have gained is not just a portrait, but more importantly, companionship and human warmth.
On the other hand, myself and other volunteers have found our interactions with the seniors a healing process as well.
On one occasion, a volunteer ran into an old woman who resembled her maternal grandmother. After the event, the old woman stayed behind, so the volunteer approached her. "Granny, you look like my maternal grandmother. Can I give you a hug?" she said.
The old woman was delighted. She grabbed the volunteer's hand and said: "You look like my granddaughter too, kid."
As the two women chatted, hands joined, the other volunteers found themselves touched to tears. The volunteer gave the old woman a tight embrace that pressed their cheeks against each other.
The same volunteer later told me that she grew up with her maternal grandmother, whom she adored. Sadly, her grandmother had passed away. To run into a granny who looked just like her grandmother at one of our events, and for the old woman to be so friendly—it was too much for the volunteer, flooding her with memories of her grandmother.
The seniors live a hard life in the mountain villages, and yet they remain optimistic and have great perspective, which is enlightening for us.
The more time we spend with the elders, the more we realize that human life is so precious. When you ponder issues that used to bother you and then think about how the seniors approach life, you realize that these problems are such trivial matters. That's why I think both the volunteers and the elders gain from our events.
10.
Delivering the framed portraits to the seniors is a task just as important as the photo shoot itself.
Due to inexperience, after our first-ever photo shoot, we processed the portraits we took in three villages together and delivered them in the same batch. The delivery took place some three or four months after the shoot itself.
It was only during the delivery when we found out that four of the seniors we took pictures of had already passed away. They didn't live to see their own portraits.
After that mishap, my team and I made a point of getting the framed portraits into the hands of the elders within a month after the shoot. We also started the tradition of staging a photo exhibit when the portraits are delivered.
The exhibit entailed stringing together hundreds of 12-inch tall portraits with gold framing with metal wire, presenting a collage of the seniors' beaming smiles set against red backdrops. It was also an occasion for the elders to get together.
It's hardly an overstatement to say that for the seniors who are already in their 70s or 80s, this might be the last chance for them to see each other. Who knows when the person you're talking to might pass away?
That's why we wanted to create a setting for the elders to have fun and compare portraits—a tea party of sorts. The exhibit brings a sudden hustle and bustle to the tiny village that's more used to quiet.
11.
When we deliver the portraits, the seniors will say thank you and things like "look at all the trouble we put you through."
One old man in particular left a deep impression. He had a birthmark on his face. He was already on his way out before retracing his steps and telling me: "You kids are so nice as to come all the way to take our photos and then deliver the prints. And all for free. I don't have much to thank you with. Let me sing you a bit of Shaanxi Opera.*
And so he began performing on the tiny town square.
It was a rather cloudy day, and windy. The old man belted verses while clutching his own funeral portrait. The scene inevitably weighed on my mood.
When the old man finished, he said: "It's nothing to write home about, but I just want to thank you properly."
12.
One another occasion, an old man kept pacing in front of his portrait. I approached and asked: "Uncle, do you think we did a good job?"
When he responded with a yes, I went with the flow and said: "That's all that matters. Your children will be happy to see the picture too."
Little did I expect the old man to start tearing up when I finished my sentence.
The village official standing next to me told me the old man was receiving full welfare benefits because he was single, childless and had no living relatives. Only then did it dawn on me I had misspoken.
I chased down the old man and told him to pick up his portrait. The tears were still there. I then added: *Since you live only once, you have to live for yourself. The most important thing is that you approve of the portrait!
He is the only senior I have seen to date who cried when picking up a portrait.
I also learned my lesson. Unless the senior mentioned he or she mentioned kids, never again did I say anything along the lines of: "Your children will be happy to see the picture too."
13.
There was also the uncle we mentioned earlier who stored the printout of his Photoshopped portrait in the bottom of his wardrobe. Because he lives in a remote location on a mountain top, we delivered his framed portrait to his house.
I still remember the day vividly. He retrieved his house keys from a shoe by the front entrance. He was a bit embarrassed when he caught all of us looking.
After unlocking his front door, Uncle entered clutching his portrait. He placed the photo on top of the big wooden wardrobe facing the main entrance.
On the wall behind the wardrobe was posted a large poster displaying a kinship chart of sorts. I suspected that's where Uncle worshiped his ancestors. His own photo shouldn't end up on the chart until he himself passed away. Yet he put up his portrait anyway.
That caught me completely off-guard. I rushed to Uncle's side and said: "Uncle, why don't you put away the photo first. Otherwise your children will blame us when they come back."
In retrospect, he probably wasn't thinking about superstition. He simply liked his portrait.
And it was on that day that my team and I decided that we had to keep this project going. It was something the elders genuinely needed.
Even though a photo itself is quite thin, it carries the subject's lifetime worth of memories. The elders don't want to be forgotten, especially by the children they raised for decades.
For posterity to have a portrait on hand that captures a senior's best moment, so that they can witness his or her smiling face when worshiping him and her on festivals and special occasions—it's bound to fill the descendants' minds with their happiest memories from when the elder still lived among them.
To be able to shoot the elders is also a major blessing in my life. I can't say that I feel a major sense of accomplishment. It just feels like I have finally done something in my life that I truly enjoy that also brings joy to others.
14.
As a matter of habit I always shoot stills and video whenever we hold a photo shoot or delivered portraits. When we get back from the trip, I share the material on Douyin. Initially it was just a matter of keeping a record, just like posting WeChat status updates. Little did I expect one of my videos to be noticed and covered by Chinese media in April.
After the exposure, the comments section of my Douyin account was flooded with messages from all over the country. Some suggested that we travel to their hometowns to shoot the elders there. Others shared stories about seniors in their own families.
When I do live webcasts on Douyin, I always place photos from our events in the background. Once a viewer left an emotional message during a webcast saying: "I can see my mom and dad!"
The viewer said he was a native of Shangluo now working in another city. When we took pictures of his parents, they were in decent health. When the viewer finally made it home and saw the portrait himself, he approved, saying his parents looked like they were in good spirits.
However, the health of the viewer's parents has declined recently. Work keeps people like him away from home for long stretches, he said, and on the rare trip home, he always finds that his parents have aged significantly. Luckily, we took that portrait, which captured his parents in a more resilient state. "I'm so thankful," he said.
It brings great comfort to us to be able to extend a bit of filial care on behalf of these young rural migrant workers.
The fact is once our initiative went viral, the biggest impact hasn't been publicity for our volunteer team. More importantly, it allayed fears about funeral portraits for many other concerned individuals and organizations. More and more people are now launching similar campaigns in both mountainous regions and cities.
As for our biggest challenge now, it may come off as a bit of a cliche. It's the lack of consistent funding that can make this a permanent project.
Our team comprises entirely part-time volunteers. Everyone has a day job. For example, I'm a working journalist. There are also homemakers and small business owners.
And in a small mountain town like Shangluo, our individual salaries are limited.
We need to fund-raise to be able to afford more events. But after all, how much can small organizations like ours raise on their own? We can only rely on grants from more established groups and platforms like Douyin's charity arm.
In 4-plus years, we have shot portraits for nearly 3,000 seniors. Considering the total number of elders living in the mountains, that's just the tip of the iceberg. We want to shoot even more seniors or at least keep shooting elders in the mountains near Shangluo.
We also want to set long-term standards for resolution and printing protocols. We want to make sure that the portraits we leave the elders with are photos that don't fade over time.