Power of Images - Insights From a Motivational Speaker

Personal stories are a motivational speaker's secret weapon. This is one of mine.

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My family was unremarkable except for one thing

A solitary man with a shopping bag stopping the column of tanks rolling into Tiananmen Square

The individual against the machine of government

The power of an image

I learnt a lot about the power of images

and oddly it wasn't when I was a cameraman for ABCTV

I learnt it in my own home, here in Brisbane where I've always lived.

and my childhood was utterly suburban Brisbane

that was one of the plug of my thong coming out mid stride and finding myself with bare feet stranded in a patch of bindis

one of chlorine irritated eyes and a weeks worth of wet towels festering in my school swimming bag

my family was unremarkable

except for one thing

until I opened our family photo albums that is and saw the name Gundlupet

Gundlupet in South India was a place filled with romance and adventure.

My father was an Englishman born in India.

My grandmother moved there in the 1930's, still a time of the Raj. She got a job as governess to the Maharini (the female of a Maharaja) of Mysore.

My family photo album was page upon page teasing me with the majesty of elephants bedecked in ceremonial garb below towering domes of excessive Indian architecture.

Every second photo of Dad as a toddler has a dead tiger in it. That was my Uncle Mickey who made his living as a game hunter. Our family photo albums were a who’s who of Indian wildlife. Unfortunately for the most part they were dead.

My Dad would regale us with stories, my personal favourite was when my Uncle Mickey was bitten on the big toe by a deadly Cobra so he immediately grabbed his gun and without hesitation show his big toe off to stop the poison spreading.

His enthusiasm for the simple Indian life spilled into my life.

It became a nagging mystery that I wanted to see ...

so you can imagine my frustration that my father would never accompany me back there

I don't like flying

then we'll go by ship... no ...a touch sea sick

I'll pay ... no, that wouldn't be right

there was always a reason

With him or without him I was going. It was without him.

So at 27 yrs of age , my wife and I found myself sitting in an overcrowded bus as it pulled into the station. I anxiously scanned all the signs ... and then I saw it  ... the word Gundlupet on the grubby, faded turquoise walls. My pilgrimage was beginning.

From the crowd of confusion that is simply India a voice said, “Michael” (my Uncle Mickey's real name). A straggly looking man beckoned. We followed. All eyes were upon us. We were expected. “Kole-dore” pronounced collie-door-ray came with the occasional whisper and pointing. Uncle Mickey had about one hundred chickens that he had inherited from my grand father and as this was a poor farming area, he was known as the Kole-dore or ‘Chicken King’.

I would never shake his hand though as Uncle Mickey, sadly had died eleven months earlier. But his wife greeted us as we came up the red soil drive way of the farm. Her name is Bibi, a tribal Indian woman with heavily tattooed arms who has never spoken a word of English. She wanted us tell us something.

My cousin Veena, an Anglo Indian married to a Tamil doctor, translated. Stay close to the house. A leopard has been prowling the past few nights. We will try to shoot it tonight.

The pages of the photo albums were coming to life.

My wife and I were quite the royal couple as we took visits from village people who wanted to pay their respects to this bloke and his missus from suburban Brisbane.

An elderly man was particularly beaming with his smile and held and squeezed my hand for longer than usual. “Shaun-apa ….Shaun-apa” he kept saying. (Shaun was my father's name)

He was one of the men who looked after my dad during my father’s cherished childhood years. The moment I had walked in he had recognised my father in my face.

Disappointment and anger took turns at heading up my emotions over the next few days. Why hadn’t Dad come with us? This was the India my father had always talked of, the simple farm life, an island away from the bustle, the gentle faces.

Our time was way too short and there remained one important task, to visit my father’s old family home named ‘Dharmacrag.’ I knew it well from photographs and the imaginary tours, room by room that my Dad had taken us on.

Time had been unkind and now about half a dozen families, one per room, squatted in the tumbling down ruin. The cameraman in me took over and I shot off a whole roll of photos to document every aspect of its new form.

We couldn’t get my father to return so I had done the next best thing and left no stone unturned. What I couldn’t convey in words, the pictures would.

It was very sad leaving India. There was definitely a part of me rooted in Gundlupet and I’d been thankful for the opportunity to explore it.

Back in Brisbane, Dad came around. Question after question came about India. “I said you should have come with us’” I berated him as gave him the photos of his old family home. He put his glasses on and thumbed through a few, swore, dropped the photos and stormed off. I’d rarely seen my father angry or upset. He refused to look at any more photos and didn’t want to speak further. In eagerness to piece together parts of my make up I had unwittingly shattered a part of his. His joyous memories of his childhood were of a time and place that had passed and he was wise enough to know that. He never wanted to return because he knew India could never live up to his expectations. The fear of flying was always a convenient excuse.

My youthful zeal and arrogance didn't understand a lot of things ...  but the damage was done.

Once you start using video you will be struck every now and then by its power. When you make a simple video message for someone and it lands at exactly the right time, when they needed to see you.

So start to videofy your messages, videofy your stories.

Be prepared to be surprised.

Summary:

A man embarks on a journey to Gundlupet, South India, to connect with his family's past, following the stories of his father’s childhood. His father, born in India during the British Raj, shared tales of their family history—elephants, dead tigers, and the adventure of rural life. Despite his father's reluctance to return, the son ventures there with his wife, meeting relatives and locals who recognize his father in his face. However, when the son returns to Brisbane and shows his father photos of their old family home, the nostalgic memories clash with the harsh reality of time. His father becomes angry and upset, highlighting the emotional power of images and the complex relationship between memory and reality.

Lessons Learned:

• The emotional power of images: Pictures can evoke deep memories and emotions, sometimes more strongly than words.
• The importance of timing: Visual messages can have a significant impact when shared at the right moment.
• The contrast between memory and reality: Revisiting a place tied to fond memories can shatter cherished illusions.
• Respect for others' emotional boundaries: It’s important to recognize that some people prefer to keep certain memories untouched.
• The enduring connection of family history: Even across time and distance, physical resemblances and family legacies can create powerful connections.