"Have you heard anything about it?" she asked me. I hadn't. "But it's about a woman who lives right by you who takes pictures, every day. Like twelve pictures a day. It's really strange. But it will blow your mind."

Well, of course, I could not resist the twin promises of a documentary about a woman who lives by me and having my mind blown, so I got in touch with the filmmaker, Ashley Maynor, who hooked me up with a copy of her film.

Which I then watched about ten times in a row. And then, I could not stop thinking about it. I tried to talk Jim Ridley into writing about it, so that someone who understands movies could explain to me what the hell I was seeing, but he declined.

So, the basic premise is simple enough. Maynor's grandmother, Angela Singer, lives between Joelton and Ashland City, up by my vet. Every day, for the last 30 years or so, she's taken at least a handful of pictures. Some are ordinary, like pictures of family members or cows or flowers. Some are stranger, like pictures of checks or multiple pictures of her son's grave or self-portraits of her dressed like an Indian.

But the film is more than that, it's a really poignant meditation on artistry and creativity and legacy and what it means to witness, all crammed into about 30 minutes.

It did blow my mind. And I feel like the community got cheated out of knowing about this film, because it didn't get any coverage.

So, I asked Maynor some questions I had after watching the film, which she was gracious enough to answer. The parts in italics are me. The straight parts are Maynor.

I felt like there was an interesting recursive element to your film — that as much as you were going through a process to understand your grandmother as an artist, this process was also about how you came to understand yourself as an artist. I was really struck by how much talent your grandmother had and how much pride she takes in being a talented photographer (as evidence by the ribbons we see on some of the photographs), but how reluctant she is to understand herself as an artist.

I felt like, with the way she talked about how she just took pictures of ordinary things or ordinary life, that she understands art as being something other people do in weird, exotic places. I wonder what it meant for your development as an artist to grow up with someone so talented and so proud of her work who doesn't consider herself to be an artist (or at least, didn't until you set out to show her she was). Do you feel like that shaped your ideas about artistry and, if so, how?

Until late in my college career, my ideas about what being an artist meant were close to my grandmother's thinking. I never thought growing up that you could make your living as an artist (unless, of course, you were the PBS landscape painter Bob Ross, and I imagined he was an exception!) or that there were many people worthy of that title. To my mind at that time, artists were more akin to royalty — being one wasn't something you could aspire to, it was something you were born into. I thought some were born creative as artists, others weren't. And I certainly never considered myself part of that elite group.

My notions of the terms "artist" and "filmmaker" were profoundly changed by my first filmmaking professor. After we made our first assignment, he proclaimed us all filmmakers. It took me several more years till I would use the term to describe myself. His sense was that all you had to do to be an artist was to make work and that creativity was not a gift from the gods but a habit that required regularity and hard work. I've come to know the same.

Making For Memories' Sake has been, in part, an effort to convince my grandmother that she, too, is an artist in her own way. I'm still not sure she's convinced ...

One thing that really struck me about your grandmother's work is how much like the best of blogging — especially mommyblogging — it seemed. Here's a woman, making a point every day to make a record of her life in a creative way, and, in the process, she transforms that creativity into something really wonderful that gives us a glimpse into her life. You mention in the film that you feel like this is a rare glimpse — that it says something about the way certain rural Southern women have spent their lives, which is usually invisible. I wonder if you'd talk just a little bit about why you think those lives have been invisible and the kinds of barriers that prevented (or maybe still prevent) these women's experiences from being better known.

I, too, have noticed how in the past several years, we have seen an explosion of the use of new technologies (i.e. digital cameras, social networking tools such as Twitter and MySpace, blogs, etc.) that invite individuals to document the minutiae of their daily lives and broadcast it to an audience.

And as much as Angela was documenting her every moment of her life through photographs, I see a number of differences between what Angela was doing as early as the mid-1960s and the kinds of self-documentation/media diaries that many individuals are creating today. For one, Angela's documentations were done when the tools (like 8mm, Super 8, and s35mm stills) were far less accessible and more cost-prohibitive. And perhaps even more significantly, only portions of Angie's documentation (that is, some family snapshots) were ever shared or meant to be shared. In other words, her documentations were meant mostly as a more traditional or private diary and weren't done in any sort of narcissistic or exhibitionist way. The broadcast element was lacking in her practice ...

It's also worth pointing out that unlike most blogs or profiles, there was very little "I" in Angela's photography. I really had to dig deep to find any film footage of her, and, though we see a good deal of these in the film, her self-portraits compose but a tiny fraction of her photo collection. Showing these images of Angie is more a reflection of my voice, of my way of trying to show her, than of her broadcasting or documenting herself.

I do think and hope, though, that audiences can ask themselves questions about these similar kinds of self-documentation—of Angela then/now and of many people online today. What does this increasing trend — this need to document — ultimately say about American culture? Does it mean the lives of women — particularly Southern women and homemakers — are less invisible? Does it give them a voice they otherwise wouldn't have? Or does it marginalize or "box them in" in a new kind of way?

I don't have answers to these questions, but I think they are ones worth asking and that I hope the film raises.

There were two points in the film where I felt like I was seeing something really amazingly generous on the part of the person working the camera. The first comes very early, when your grandmother is talking and she's visibly nervous. She tugs at the sleeves on her shirt and her hand kind of flits about like she's not quite sure what to do with it. It looks like she might take off at any moment and make a run for it. But I, as a viewer, felt, too, that she was incredibly thrilled and proud that someone was talking to her with deep interest about her art. It's obvious from the film that you deeply love your grandmother and I wonder, was that part hard to film? When she's so uncomfortable and doing something that obviously thrills and terrifies her, was it difficult to not stop and let her regroup? I really, really loved that part. I thought letting her be so delighted and terrified was really generous, but I did wonder if it was difficult to film.

I have to give some credit here to my producer-husband and co-cinematographer, Paul Harrill. He was behind the camera during the interview you're referring to.

By that point in the production process, I had easily interviewed my grandmother a half-dozen times on camera, if not more. Each time she was equally excited and terrified, but that didn't really phase me. To direct a documentary, you need a certain level of confidence and tenacity. And, as I see it, it's your job to make the subject feel as though their story is important — it matters — and that it should be told.

During my work making films and as an oral historian, I've interviewed dozens of people — from WWII veterans to community activists to pigeon-keepers — and many of them I hadn't met before the interview. So, on one-level, interviewing my grandmother was easy. I just had a conversation with someone I know well in front of a camera.

The biggest difference to my mind is that having a camera rolling often gives you permission to ask things you wouldn't normally feel appropriate discussing. It's a powerful tool that can sometimes let you dig a little deeper because you're making a historical record. I found this was the case quite often with oral histories I recorded for the Library of Congress's Veteran's History Project. Subjects would often tell me stories — of long lost friendships, romances, indiscretions, or painful memories — that they hadn't even shared with their own children.

Once the filming of For Memories' Sake ended, I think Angela was more disappointed than relieved. As nerve-wracking as it was for her, I think she really enjoyed being in the limelight and she had come to look forward to our filming sessions.

Which brings me to the second part. Late in the documentary, we see portions of film that your grandmother shot that are heartwrenching and unflinching brief looks at terrible events in her own life. Would you talk a little bit about your decision to include those moments and whether and how they affected you as a filmmaker.

When I discovered the home videos I use in For Memories' Sake, I immediately felt they should be part of the film. Many people film birthday parties and family get-togethers, but few people keep the cameras rolling during the most painful moments of their lives. It was these videos that convinced me more than ever that what my grandmother was doing was extraordinary and it was only with her permission that I included these moments in the final film. In fact, we spent several visits looking at different edits of the footage until we found one she felt most comfortable with, and my family, much to my relief, has been supportive of my decision to include that footage in the film.

It was a tough decision to show my grandfather in such an unflattering light in the film. In the home video labeled "Wrath," we see Raymond as a victim of his alcoholism, his disease, as pathetic. Behind the camera, Angela is filming him in a moment of lack of control. And, it seems, having the camera on him is her only way of controlling the situation. Because of the husband-wife relationship between subject and camera person, we see this intimate, raw, unfiltered moment. And the effect is jarring.

A concern I had as the director of For Memories' Sake was what it meant for me to show this home video taken by Angie in such a private moment in the film. One could argue that my decision to include this footage in the film turns the tables once again. Instead of Angie calling the shots (as she did in the real situation), as the director I take control of what is seen and documented. And I put not just Raymond but Angie then as well into a vulnerable situation.

These unique and complicated relationships between subject and cameraperson — husband and wife, granddaughter and grandmother — are far different than your typical studio film. And for the audience I think they make For Memories' Sake a very different kind of documentary film experience.

I have a female friend who grew up very near to where you grew up and who is now living in a major metropolitan area. When she comes back here, she always has to navigate this weirdness from her family in which they're incredibly proud of her but they also act a little like she's betrayed them, since she's not living near them and raising their grandchildren and living the kind of life they expected from her. Her passions, instead of being channeled into an acceptable hobby, took her far away. I wonder if you have encountered anything similar from your family? I wonder if there's any tension, especially now that it's not just you or the fairground judges who are saying that your grandmother is an artist, but someone from the Frist. Have you felt like any of your family is worried that, not only have you kind of moved into the wider world, that you may be trying to take your grandmother with you?

Ha! Angela's not going anywhere! As much I try to drag her onto the film festival circuit, she still doesn't like to travel more than 20 minutes from her house ...

But more seriously, I don't believe my efforts to shine a light on my grandmother have caused any real rift between Angie and our family. If anything, I believe it has brought my mother, aunts, and uncles to a closer appreciation of Angela's photography and her struggles. As Angela put it, the night after they saw the film for the first time they all "hugged her a little tighter."

Their relationship with my grandmother is necessarily more complicated than mine and they don't all see her picture-taking as a net-positive habit, which I have tried to indicate in the film. I can only imagine what it must have felt like to have so much of your growing up documented. (And I imagine it's only worse for those kids who have mommy-bloggers who share those photos and moments with the world!) Adolescence can be, as we all know, full of awkward and painful moments we don't necessarily want to remember...and, as a child, we don't have the ability to refuse our consent.

As for myself, though, I can certainly relate to your friend's story. I do feel a sense of being an insider-outsider in my family. Because I don't live very close to home, and because of the socio-economic circles I run in are a little different from theirs, there is some awkwardness between my relatives and me. But I think, more than anything, the film has shown them how much love and appreciation I have for my family, despite how different my life may be from theirs. And I hope that is has shown them that I'll always remember where I came from and that I don't look upon them with any sense of superiority or arrogance. If anything, I see my own ability to advance as a gift made possible by the sacrifice of the strong women who brought me up. In this way, I believe the film bridges more than widens the gap between us.

Whew, that's deeply personal and probably none of my business, but I'd like to move from there to a broader issue. Right now, part of being recognized as being an artist is one's ability to promote oneself as an artist. And, while I think, in one sense, your grandmother is very unique, in another sense, I think it's probably very common that women of her generation and older were/are making art and just not thinking of it as being anything special. Do you think it's important for artistic granddaughters, who are, for lack of a better term, working the system, to collaborate with their grandmothers (real and figuratively) in ways that bring these women's art out of hiding?

I really can't say if it's common or not for women of my grandmother's generation to be making art. I suppose that largely depends on how we define "art" ... and even so, I don't know if I could answer!

I do know that many women from just about every generation have had some sort of creative outlet — be it cooking, quilting, or sewing — and I think whatever a granddaughter can do to glean skills or knowledge from her grandmother or mother and to show appreciation for it is time well spent.

I don't think, however, that you have to make a film about your grandmother, or, as you put it, to "work the system" to show your appreciation. I decided to make a movie about Angela because I believe her form of expression is unique and her art is non-functional in the traditional sense of women's art. What good are her photos of checks she receives in the mail or photos she snaps of pictures she's already taken? She certainly isn't taking these photos as keepsakes for her family. She isn't just taking snapshots, she's also taking large quantities of photos that don't serve a function, and to me, that distinguishes what she's doing from the typical family photographer or from traditional arts and crafts.

I also think the quantity of Angela's creative activity also makes her an interesting case. Her archive, now totaling more than 200,000 images, is extraordinary in number alone.

If anything, I was nervous about making a movie about a family member because of the risks of it being too insular or narcissistic. I think this genre of personal documentaries is really full of landmines — it's easy to fall into traps of navel-gazing or self-therapy kinds of filmmaking.

Beyond my amazing grandmother, I think the real mission of my film is to call attention to the value of family archives and the need to preserve them. Home movies, letters, oral histories, and photographs — of grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts, uncles, etc. — are not just valuable to our own families but also to historians, anthropologists, and archivists alike. I provide a number of resources on the film's website (www.formemoriessakethemovie.com) for those who want to learn how to do more to save their families' memories and history for future generations.

And last, if people want to see this documentary, what can they do to make that happen?

DVDs of the film will go on sale later this year at www.selfreliantfilm.com/dvd.

Right now, we're selling institutional copies for public libraries, universities, and other organizations. So, if you can't wait, ask your local public library or university to purchase a copy you can check out!

We hope that home-use/personal use copies will go on sale in late 2010. Email ashley@preservationprojectfilms.com to be added to the mailing list and we'll let you know when they're on sale.