PT029 01 05HirschFpp

The Generation of Postmemory
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Marianne Hirsch
Columbia University
Abstract Postmemory describes the relationship of the second generation to power-

ful, often traumatic, experiences that preceded their births but that were never-
theless transmitted to them so deeply as to seem to constitute memories in their
own right. Focusing on the remembrance of the Holocaust, this essay elucidates the
generation of postmemory and its reliance on photography as a primary medium
of transgenerational transmission of trauma. Identifying tropes that most potently
mobilize the work of postmemory, it examines the role of the family as a space of
transmission and the function of gender as an idiom of remembrance.
The guardianship of the Holocaust is being passed on to us. The second genera-
tion is the hinge generation in which received, transferred knowledge of events is
being transmuted into history, or into myth. It is also the generation in which we
can think about certain questions arising from the Shoah with a sense of living
connection.
Eva Hoffman, After Such Knowledge
The Postgeneration
The “hinge generation,” the “guardianship of the Holocaust,” the ways

in which “received, transferred knowledge of events is being transmuted
into history, or into myth” (Hoffman 2004: xv)—these, indeed, have been
I am grateful to audiences at the Midwest Modern Language Association, Columbia, Leeds,
and Duke Universities, where I delivered earlier versions of this essay. Thanks as well to
Silke Horstkotte, Irene Kacandes, Alice Kessler-Harris, Nancy K. Miller, Nancy Pedri, Leo
Spitzer, Meir Sternberg, and Gary Weissman for invaluable questions and suggestions.
Poetics Today 29:1 (Spring 2008) DOI 10.1215/03335372-2007-019
© 2008 by Porter Institute for Poetics and Semiotics
104 Poetics Today 29:1
my preoccupations for the last decade and a half. I have been involved
in a series of conversations about how that “sense of living connection”
can be, and is being, maintained and perpetuated even as the generation
of survivors leaves our midst and how, at the very same time, it is being
eroded. For me, the conversations that have marked what Eva Hoffman

(ibid.: 203) calls the “era of memory” have had some of the intellectual
excitement and the personal urgency, even some of the sense of commu-
nity and commonality of the feminist conversations of the late 1970s and
the 1980s. And they have been punctured as well by similar kinds of con-
troversies, disagreements, and painful divisions. At stake is precisely the
“guardianship” of a traumatic personal and generational past with which
some of us have a “living connection” and that past’s passing into history.
At stake is not only a personal/familial/generational sense of ownership
and protectiveness but also an evolving theoretical discussion about the
workings of trauma, memory, and intergenerational acts of transfer, a dis-
cussion actively taking place in numerous important contexts outside of
Holocaust studies. More urgently and passionately, those of us working on
memory and transmission have argued over the ethics and the aesthetics of
remembrance in the aftermath of catastrophe. How, in our present, do we
regard and recall what Susan Sontag (2003) has so powerfully described as
the “pain of others?” What do we owe the victims? How can we best carry
their stories forward without appropriating them, without unduly calling
attention to ourselves, and without, in turn, having our own stories dis-
placed by them? How are we implicated in the crimes? Can the memory of
genocide be transformed into action and resistance?
The multiplication of genocides and collective catastrophes at the end
of the twentieth century and the beginning of the twenty-first, and their
cumulative effects, have made these questions ever more urgent. The
bodily, psychic, and affective impact of trauma and its aftermath, the ways
in which one trauma can recall, or reactivate, the effects of another, exceed
the bounds of traditional historical archives and methodologies. Late in
his career, for example, Raul Hilberg (1985), after combing through miles
of documents and writing his massive thirteen hundred–page book The
Destruction of the European Jews—and, indeed, after dismissing oral history
and testimony for its inaccuracies of fact—deferred to storytelling as a
skill historians need to learn if they are to be able to tell the difficult his-
. On the notion of generation, see especially Suleiman 2002 and Weigel 2002. Other con-
texts besides the Holocaust and the Second World War in which intergenerational transmis-
sion has become an important explanatory vehicle and object of study include American
slavery, the Vietnam War, the Dirty War in Argentina, South African apartheid, Soviet and
East European communist terror, and the Armenian and the Cambodian genocides.
Hirsch • The Generation of Postmemory 105
tory of the destruction of the Jews (Lang 1988: 273). Hilberg is recalling
a dichotomy between history and memory (for him, embodied by poetry
and narrative) that has had a shaping effect. But fifty years after Adorno’s
contradictory injunctions about poetry after Auschwitz, poetry is now only
one of many supplemental genres and institutions of transmission. The now

numerous and better-funded testimony projects and oral history archives,
the important role assumed by photography and performance, the ever-
growing culture of memorials, and the new museology—all are testaments
to the need for aesthetic and institutional structures that might be able to
account for what Diana Taylor (2003) calls “the repertoire” of embodied
knowledge absent from the historical archive (or perhaps merely neglected
by traditional historians). For better or worse, these supplemental genres
and institutions have been grouped under the umbrella term “memory.”
But as Andreas Huyssen (2003: 6) has provocatively asked, “What good
is the memory archive? How can it deliver what history alone no longer
seems to be able to offer?”
If “memory” as such a capacious analytic term and “memory studies”
as a field of inquiry have grown exponentially in academic and popular
importance in the last decade and a half, they have, in large part, been
fueled by the limit case of the Holocaust and by the work of (and about)
what has come to be known as “the second generation” or “the genera-
tion after.” “Second generation” writers and artists have been publishing
artworks, films, novels, and memoirs, or hybrid “postmemoirs” (as Leslie
Morris [2002] has dubbed them), with titles like “After Such Knowl-
edge,” “The War After,” “Second-Hand Smoke,” “War Story,” “Les-
sons of Darkness,” “Losing the Dead,” “Dark Lullabies,” “Fifty Years of
Silence,” “After,” “Daddy’s War,” as well as scholarly essays and collec-
tions like “Children of the Holocaust,” “Daughters of the Shoah,” “Shap-
ing Losses,” “Memorial Candles,” “In the Shadow of the Holocaust,” and
so on. The particular relation to a parental past described, evoked, and
analyzed in these works has come to be seen as a “syndrome” of belated-
ness or “post-ness” and has been variously termed “absent memory” (Fine
1988), “inherited memory,” “belated memory,” “prosthetic memory” (Lury
1998, Landsberg 2004), “mémoire trouée” (Raczymow 1994), “mémoire
des cendres” (Fresco 1984), “vicarious witnessing” (Zeitlin 1998), “received
history” (Young 1997), and “postmemory.” These terms reveal a number
of controversial assumptions: that descendants of survivors (of victims as
well as of perpetrators) of massive traumatic events connect so deeply to
. For a critical take on the current surfeit of memory, see especially Huyssen 2003 and
Robin 2003.
the previous generation’s remembrances of the past that they need to call
that connection memory and thus that, in certain extreme circumstances,
memory can be transmitted to those who were not actually there to live
an event. At the same time—so it is assumed—this received memory is
distinct from the recall of contemporary witnesses and participants. Hence

the insistence on “post” or “after” and the many qualifying adjectives that
try to define both a specifically inter- and trans-generational act of transfer
and the resonant aftereffects of trauma. If this sounds like a contradiction,
it is, indeed, one, and I believe it is inherent to this phenomenon.
Postmemory is the term I came to on the basis of my autobiographical
readings of works by second generation writers and visual artists. The
“post” in “postmemory” signals more than a temporal delay and more
than a location in an aftermath. Postmodern, for example, inscribes both
a critical distance and a profound interrelation with the modern; post-
colonial does not mean the end of the colonial but its troubling conti-
nuity, though, in contrast, postfeminist has been used to mark a sequel
to feminism. We certainly are, still, in the era of “posts,” which continue
to proliferate: “post-secular,” “post-human,” “postcolony,” “post-white.”
Postmemory shares the layering of these other “posts” and their belated-
ness, aligning itself with the practice of citation and mediation that charac-
terize them, marking a particular end-of-century/turn-of-century moment
of looking backward rather than ahead and of defining the present in rela-
tion to a troubled past rather than initiating new paradigms. Like them,
it reflects an uneasy oscillation between continuity and rupture. And yet
postmemory is not a movement, method, or idea; I see it, rather, as a
structure of inter- and trans-generational transmission of traumatic knowl-
edge and experience. It is a consequence of traumatic recall but (unlike post-
traumatic stress disorder) at a generational remove.
As Hoffman (2004: 25) writes: “The paradoxes of indirect knowledge
haunt many of us who came after. The formative events of the twentieth
century have crucially informed our biographies, threatening sometimes
to overshadow and overwhelm our own lives. But we did not see them,
suffer through them, experience their impact directly. Our relationship to
them has been defined by our very ‘post-ness’ and by the powerful but
mediated forms of knowledge that have followed from it.” Postmemory
describes the relationship that the generation after those who witnessed
cultural or collective trauma bears to the experiences of those who came
before, experiences that they “remember” only by means of the stories,
images, and behaviors among which they grew up. But these experiences
. On “autobiographical reading” see Suleiman 1993.

were transmitted to them so deeply and affectively as to seem to constitute

memories in their own right. Postmemory’s connection to the past is thus
not actually mediated by recall but by imaginative investment, projection,
and creation. To grow up with such overwhelming inherited memories, to
be dominated by narratives that preceded one’s birth or one’s conscious-

ness, is to risk having one’s own stories and experiences displaced, even
evacuated, by those of a previous generation. It is to be shaped, however
indirectly, by traumatic events that still defy narrative reconstruction and
exceed comprehension. These events happened in the past, but their effects
continue into the present. This is, I believe, the experience of postmemory
and the process of its generation.
I realize that my description of this structure of inter- and trans-
generational transmission of trauma raises as many questions as it answers.
Why insist on the term memory to describe this structure of transmission?
Is postmemory limited to the intimate embodied space of the family, or
can it extend to more distant, adoptive witnesses? Is postmemory lim-
ited to victims, or does it include bystanders and perpetrators, or could
one argue that it complicates the delineations of these positions which,
in Holocaust studies, have come to be taken for granted? What aesthetic
and institutional structures, what tropes, best mediate the psychology of
postmemory, the connections and discontinuities between generations, the
gaps in knowledge that define the aftermath of trauma? And how has pho-
tography in particular come to play such an important role in this process
of mediation?
For me, it was the three photographs intercalated in Art Spiegelman’s
Maus that first elicited the need for a term that would describe the particu-
lar form of belated or inherited memory that I found in Spiegelman’s work
(Hirsch 1992–93). Indeed, the phenomenology of photography is a crucial
element in my conception of postmemory as it relates to the Holocaust
in particular. To be sure, the history of the Holocaust has come down
to us, in subsequent generations, through a vast number of photographic
images meticulously taken by perpetrators eager to record their actions
and also by bystanders and, often clandestinely, by victims. But it is the
technology of photography itself, and the belief in reference it engenders,
that connects the Holocaust generation to the generation after. Photogra-
phy’s promise to offer an access to the event itself, and its easy assumption
of iconic and symbolic power, makes it a uniquely powerful medium for
. See also the work of art historian Andrea Liss (1998: 86), who, around the same time, used
the term “postmemories” in a more circumscribed way to describe the effects that some of
the most difficult Holocaust photographs have had on what she termed the “post-Auschwitz
generation.”
the transmission of events that remain unimaginable. And, of course, the

photographic meaning of generation captures something of the sequencing
and the loss of sharpness and focus inherent in postmemory.
As memory studies have become an interdisciplinary, or post-disciplinary,
formation par excellence, the site where historians, psychoanalysts, soci-

ologists, philosophers, ethicists, scholars of religion, artists and art histo-
rians, writers and literary scholars can think, work, and argue together, it
seems a good moment to scrutinize some basic assumptions. In doing so in
this essay, I propose to use the Holocaust as my historical frame of refer-
ence, but my analysis relies on and, I believe, is relevant to numerous other
contexts of traumatic transfer that can be understood as postmemory.
In what follows, I will look critically, and from a feminist perspec-
tive, at the conjunction of three powerful and prevalent elements of the
trans-generational structure of postmemory in the aftermath of the Sec-
ond World War—memory, family, and photography. I will analyze one
trope in particular: the trope of maternal abandonment and the fantasy
of maternal recognition which is pervasive in Holocaust remembrance. I
use this trope to show how postmemory risks falling back on familiar, and
unexamined, cultural images that facilitate its generation by tapping into
what Aby Warburg saw as a broad cultural “storehouse of pre-established
expressive forms” in what he called the “iconology of the interval,” the
“space between thought and the deepest emotional impulses” (see Fleck-
ner and Sarkis 1998: 252; Pollock 2005: 6; Didi-Huberman 2003b). For
the post-Holocaust generation, these “pre-established” forms in large part
take the shape of photographs—images of murder and atrocity, images
of bare survival, and also images of “before” that signal the deep loss of
safety in the world. As “pre-established” and well-rehearsed forms preva-
lent in postmemorial writing, art, and display, some of these photographic
images illustrate particularly well how gender can become a potent and
troubling idiom of remembrance for the postgeneration and suggest one
way in which we might theorize the relationship between memory and
gender.
Why Memory?
“We who came after do not have memories of the Holocaust,” writes Eva
Hoffman (2004: 6) as she describes this “deeply internalized but strangely
unknown past.” She insists on being precise: “Even from my intimate prox-
imity I could not form ‘memories’ of the Shoah or take my parents’ memo-
ries as my own” (ibid.). In his recent book Fantasies of Witnessing (2004: 17),
Gary Weissman objects specifically to the “memory” in my formulation

of postmemory, arguing that “no degree of power or monumentality can
transform one person’s lived memories into another’s.” Both Weissman
and Ernst van Alphen refer back to Helen Epstein’s Children of the Holocaust
(1979) to locate the beginnings of the current use of the notion of “mem-

ory” in the late 1980s and the 1990s: in contrast, they indicate, Epstein had
described the “children of the Holocaust” as “possessed by a history they
had never lived,” and she did not use the term “second generation,” which,
van Alphen observes, implies too close a continuity between generations
that are, precisely, separated by the trauma of the Holocaust. Epstein spoke
of the “sons and daughters of survivors.” Objecting to the term “memory”
from a semiotic perspective, van Alphen (2006: 485, 486) firmly asserts
that trauma cannot be transmitted between generations: “The normal
trajectory of memory is fundamentally indexical,” he argues. “There is
continuity between the event and its memory. And this continuity has an
unambiguous direction: the event is the beginning, the memory is the
result. . . . In the case of the children of survivors, the indexical relation-
ship that defines memory has never existed. Their relationship to the past
events is based on fundamentally different semiotic principles.”
Nothing could be truer or more accurate: of course we do not have lit-
eral “memories” of others’ experiences, of course different semiotic prin-
ciples are at work, of course no degree of monumentality can transform
one person’s lived memories into another’s. Postmemory is not identical
to memory: it is “post,” but at the same time, it approximates memory in
its affective force. Hoffman (2004: 6, 9) describes what was passed down
to her thus: “Rather, I took in that first information as a sort of fairy tale
deriving not so much from another world as from the center of the cosmos:
an enigmatic but real fairy tale. . . . The memories—not memories but
emanations—of wartime experiences kept erupting in flashes of imagery;
in abrupt but broken refrains.” These “not memories” communicated in
“flashes of imagery” and “broken refrains,” transmitted through “the lan-
guage of the body,” are precisely the stuff of postmemory.
Jan and Aleida Assmann’s work on the transmission of memory clari-
fies precisely what Hoffman refers to as the “living connection” between
proximate generations and thus account for the complex lines of trans-
mission encompassed in the inter- and trans-generational umbrella term
“memory.” Both scholars have devoted themselves to elucidating, system-
atically, Maurice Halbwachs’s (1992) enormously influential notion of col-
lective memory. I turn to their work here to elucidate the lines of transmis-
sion between individual and collective remembrance and to specify how
the break in transmission resulting from traumatic historical events neces-

sitates forms of remembrance that reconnect and reembody an intergen-
erational memorial fabric that has been severed by catastrophe.
In his book Das kulturelle Gedächtnis (1997), Jan Assmann distinguishes
between two kinds of collective remembrance, “communicative” memory

and what he calls “cultural” memory. Communicative memory is “bio-
graphical” and “factual” and is located within a generation of contempo-
raries who witness an event as adults and who can pass on their bodily and
affective connection to that event to their descendants. In the normal suc-
cession of generations (and the family is a crucial unit of transmission for
Jan Assmann), this embodied form of memory is transmitted across three
to four generations—across eighty to one hundred years. At the same time,
as its direct bearers enter old age, they increasingly wish to institutionalize
memory, whether in traditional archives or books or through ritual, com-
memoration, or performance. Jan Assmann terms this institutionalized
archival memory “kulturelles Gedächtnis.”
In her recent elaboration of this typology, Aleida Assmann (2006) extends
this bimodal distinction into four memory “formats”: the first two, indi-
vidual memory and family/group memory, correspond to Jan Assmann’s
“communicative” remembrance, while national/political memory and cul-
tural/archival memory form part of his “cultural” memory. A fundamen-
tal assumption driving this schema is, indeed, that “memories are linked
between individuals.” “Once verbalized,” she insists, “the individual’s
memories are fused with the inter-subjective symbolic system of language
and are, strictly speaking, no longer a purely exclusive and unalienable
property. . . . they can be exchanged, shared, corroborated, confirmed,
corrected, disputed—and, last not least, written down” (ibid.: 3). And even
individual memory “include[s] much more than we, as individuals, have
ourselves experienced” (ibid.: 10). Individuals are part of social groups
with shared belief systems that frame memories and shape them into nar-
ratives and scenarios. For Aleida Assmann, the family is a privileged site
of memorial transmission. The “group memory” in her schema is based
on the familial transfer of embodied experience to the next generation: it
is intergenerational. National/political and cultural/archival memory, in
contrast, are not inter- but trans-generational; they are no longer mediated
through embodied practice but solely through symbolic systems.
. Assmann uses the term “kulturelles Gedächtnis” (“cultural memory”) to refer to
“Kultur”—an institutionalized hegemonic archival memory. In contrast, the Anglo-
American meaning of “cultural memory” refers to the social memory of a specific group
or subculture.
Jan and Aleida Assmann’s typological distinctions do not specifically

account for the ruptures introduced by collective historical trauma, by war,
Holocaust, exile, and refugeehood: these ruptures would certainly inflect
their schemas of transmission. Both embodied communicative memory and
institutionalized cultural/archival memory would be severely impaired by

traumatic experience. Within the space of the family or proximate group,
survivors, as Hoffman (2004: 9) indicates, express not exactly “memories”
but “emanations” in “a chaos of emotion.” These typologies would also
be compromised by the erasures of records, such as those perpetrated by
totalitarian regimes. Under the Nazis, cultural archives were destroyed,
records burned, possessions lost, histories suppressed and eradicated.
The structure of postmemory clarifies how the multiple ruptures
and radical breaks introduced by trauma and catastrophe inflect intra-,
inter- and trans-generational inheritance. It breaks through and com-
plicates the line the Assmanns draw connecting individual to family, to
social group, to institutionalized historical archive. That archive, in the
case of traumatic interruption, exile, and diaspora, has lost its direct link
to the past, has forfeited the embodied connections that forge community
and society. And yet the Assmanns’ typology explains why and how the
postgeneration could and does work to counteract this loss. Postmemorial
work, I want to suggest—and this is the central point of my argument in
this essay—strives to reactivate and reembody more distant social/national
and archival/cultural memorial structures by reinvesting them with reso-
nant individual and familial forms of mediation and aesthetic expression.
Thus less-directly affected participants can become engaged in the genera-
tion of postmemory, which can thus persist even after all participants and
even their familial descendants are gone.
It is this presence of embodied experience in the process of transmission
that is best described by the notion of memory as opposed to history and
best mediated by photographic images. Memory signals an affective link
to the past, a sense precisely of an embodied “living connection.” Through
the indexical link that joins the photograph to its subject—what Roland
Barthes (1981: 80) calls the “umbilical cord” made of light—photography,
as I will show in more detail below, can appear to solidify the tenuous
bonds that are shaped by need, desire, and narrative projection.
The growth of the memory culture may, indeed, be a symptom of a need
for inclusion in a collective membrane forged by a shared inheritance of
multiple traumatic histories and the individual and social responsibility we
feel toward a persistent and traumatic past—what the French have referred
to as “le devoir de mémoire.”
Why the Family?
“But they also spoke,” Eva Hoffmann (2004: 9, 10) writes, denying that
survivors were “wrapped in silence”—“how could they help it?—to their
immediate intimates, to spouses and siblings, and, yes, to their children.

There they spoke in the language of family—a form of expression that
is both more direct and more ruthless than social and public speech. . . .
In my home, as in so many others, the past broke through in the sounds
of nightmares, the idioms of sighs and illness, of tears and acute aches
that were the legacy of the damp attic and of the conditions my parents
endured during their hiding.”
The language of family, the language of the body: nonverbal and non-
cognitive acts of transfer occur most clearly within a familial space, often
in the form of symptoms. It is perhaps the descriptions of this symptoma-
tology that have made it appear as though the postgeneration wanted to
assert its own victimhood alongside that of the parents.
To be sure, children of those directly affected by collective trauma
inherit a horrific, unknown, and unknowable past that their parents were
not meant to survive. Second generation fiction, art, memoir, and testi-
mony are shaped by the attempt to represent the long-term effects of living
in close proximity to the pain, depression, and dissociation of persons who
have witnessed and survived massive historical trauma. They are shaped
by the child’s confusion and responsibility, by the desire to repair, and by
the consciousness that the child’s own existence may well be a form of
compensation for unspeakable loss. Loss of family, of home, of a feeling
of belonging and safety in the world “bleed” from one generation to the
next, as Art Spiegelman so aptly put it in his subtitle to Maus I, “My father
bleeds history.”
And yet the scholarly and artistic work of these descendants also makes
clear that even the most intimate familial knowledge of the past is mediated
by broadly available public images and narratives. In the image in figure 1,
for example, from the 1972 three-page “The First Maus,” the son can imag-
ine his father’s experience in Auschwitz only by way of a widely available
photograph by Margaret Bourke-White of liberated prisoners in Buchen-
wald. The photo corners at the edges of Spiegelman’s drawing show how
this public image has been adopted into the family album, and the arrow
pointing to “Poppa” shows how the language of family can literally reacti-
vate and reembody a “cultural/archival” image whose subjects are, to most
viewers, anonymous. This “adoption” of public, anonymous images into
the family photo album finds its counterpart in the pervasive use of private,
familial images and objects in institutions of public display—museums

Figure 1 This image, from “The First Maus” (1972), in which Spiegelman can
imagine his father’s experience in Auschwitz only by reference to the widely circu-
lated photograph by Margaret Bourke-White of liberated prisoners in Buchenwald,
shows how this public image was adopted into the family album. From Spiegelman
2006 [1972]: 41.
and memorials like the Tower of Faces in the U.S. Holocaust Memorial
Museum or certain exhibits in the Museum of Jewish Heritage in New
York—which thus construct every visitor as a familial subject. This fluidity
(some might call it obfuscation) is made possible by the power of the idea
of family, by the pervasiveness of the familial gaze, and by the forms of
mutual recognition that define family images and narratives.
Even though, for those of us in the literal second generation, “our own
internal imagery is powerful,” as Hoffman (2004: 193) writes, and linked
to the particular experiences communicated by our parents, other images
. On the familial gaze, see Hirsch 1997 and 1998.

and stories, especially those public images related to the concentration

and extermination camps, “become part of [our] inner storehouse” (ibid.).
When I referred to myself as a “child of survivors” in my writings on mem-
ory and postmemory, for example, it never occurred to me that my readers
would assume, as Weissman (2004: 16, 17) has done in his book, that they

were Auschwitz survivors. I would argue that, as public and private images
and stories blend, distinctions and specificities between them are more dif-
ficult to maintain, and the more difficult they are to maintain, the more
some of us might wish to reassert them so as to insist on the distinctiveness
of a specifically familial second-generation identity.
In my own writing, however, I have argued that postmemory is not an
identity position but a generational structure of transmission deeply embedded
in such forms of mediation. Family life, even in its most intimate moments,
is entrenched in a collective imaginary shaped by public, generational
structures of fantasy and projection and by a shared archive of stories and
images that inflect the transmission of individual and familial remem-
brance. Geoffrey Hartman’s (1996: 9) notion of “witnesses by adoption”
and Ross Chambers’s (2004: 199ff.) term “foster writing” acknowledge a
break in biological transmission even as they preserve the familial frame.
If we thus adopt the traumatic experiences of others as experiences that
we might ourselves have lived through, if we inscribe them into our own
life story, can we do so without imitating or unduly appropriating them?
And is this process of identification, imagination, and projection radically
different for those who grew up in survivor families and for those less
proximate members of their generation or relational network who share
a legacy of trauma and thus the curiosity, the urgency, the frustrated need
to know about a traumatic past? Hoffman (2004: 187) draws a line, how-
ever tenuous and permeable, between “the postgeneration as a whole and
the literal second generation in particular” (emphasis added). To delineate
the border between these respective structures of transmission—between
what I would like to refer to as familial and as “affiliative” postmemory—
we would have to account for the difference between an intergenerational
vertical identification of child and parent occurring within the family and
the intra-generational horizontal identification that makes that child’s
. See Bos 2003 for a series of distinctions between familial and nonfamilial aspects of post-
memory and Bukiet 2002 for a strictly literal interpretation of the second generation.
. See Hirsch 1998 for a theorization of non-appropriative identification based on Kaja
Silverman’s (1996) distinction between idiopathic and heteropathic identification.
. It is useful, in this regard, to recall Edward Said’s (1983) distinction between vertical filia-
tion and horizontal affiliation, a term that acknowledges the breaks in authorial transmission
that challenge authority and direct transfer.
position more broadly available to other contemporaries. Affiliative post-

memory would thus be the result of contemporaneity and generational
connection with the literal second generation combined with structures
of mediation that would be broadly appropriable, available, and indeed,
compelling enough to encompass a larger collective in an organic web of

transmission.
Familial structures of mediation and representation facilitate the affiliative
acts of the postgeneration. The idiom of family can become an accessible
lingua franca easing identification and projection across distance and dif-
ference. This explains the pervasiveness of family pictures and family nar-
ratives as artistic media in the aftermath of trauma. Still, the very accessi-
bility of familial idioms needs also to engender suspicion on our part: does
not locating trauma in the space of family personalize and individualize
it too much? Does it not risk occluding a public historical context and
responsibility, blurring significant differences—national difference, for
example, or differences among the descendants of victims, perpetrators,
and bystanders? (see McGlothlin 2006). Constructing the processes of
transmission, and the postgeneration itself, in familial terms is as engaging
as it is troubling. My aim in this essay is precisely to expose the attractions
and the pitfalls of familial transmission.
Why Photographs?
For me, the key role of the photographic image—and of family photo-
graphs in particular—as a medium of postmemory clarifies the connection
between familial and affiliative postmemory and the mechanisms by which
public archives and institutions have been able both to reembody and to
reindividualize “cultural/archival” memory. More than oral or written nar-
ratives, photographic images that survive massive devastation and outlive
their subjects and owners function as ghostly revenants from an irretriev-
ably lost past world. They enable us, in the present, not only to see and to
touch that past but also to try to reanimate it by undoing the finality of the
photographic “take.”10 The retrospective irony of every photograph, made
more poignant if violent death separates its two presents, consists precisely
in the simultaneity of this effort and the consciousness of its impossibility.
In C. S. Peirce’s tripartite definition of the sign, photographic images
are more than purely indexical or contiguous to the object in front of the
lens: they are also iconic, exhibiting a mimetic similarity to that object.
10. See especially Sontag 1989 and Barthes 1981 on the relationship of photography and
death.
Combining these two semiotic principles also enables them, quickly, and
perhaps too easily, to assume symbolic status, and thus, in spite of the
vast archive of images that the second generation has inherited, a small
number of specific images, or kinds of images, have shaped our conception
of the event and its transmission.11 The power of the intercalated photos

in Maus can serve as illustration: the images of Anja and Richieu func-
tion as specters reanimating their dead subjects with indexical and iconic
force. The photograph of Vladek in his concentration camp uniform, of
Anja with her son, of Richieu as a young boy together reassemble a family
destroyed by the Holocaust and consequently fractured in the artist’s styl-
ized drawings of mice and cats. They not only refer to their subjects and
bring them back in their full appearance, but they also symbolize the sense
of family, safety, and continuity that has been hopelessly severed.
Whether family pictures of a destroyed world or records of the process
of its destruction, Holocaust photographs are the fragmentary remnants
that shape the cultural work of postmemory. The work that they have been
mobilized to do for the second generation, in particular, ranges from the
indexical to the symbolic, and it is precisely their slippage within this range
that needs to be scrutinized. In his controversial recent book Images malgré
tout (2003a), the French art historian Georges Didi-Huberman describes
the double regime of the photographic image. In it, he argues, we simul-
taneously find truth and obscurity, exactitude and simulacrum. Historical
photographs from a traumatic past authenticate the past’s existence, what
Roland Barthes calls its “ça a été” or “having-been-there,” and, in their flat
two-dimensionality, they also signal its insurmountable distance and “de-
realization” (ibid.: 111). Unlike public images or images of atrocity, how-
ever, family photos, and the familial aspects of postmemory, would tend
to diminish distance, bridge separation, and facilitate identification and
affiliation. When we look at photographic images from a lost past world,
especially one that has been annihilated by force, we look not only for
information or confirmation, but also for an intimate material and affec-
tive connection. We look to be shocked (Benjamin), touched, wounded,
and pricked (Barthes’s punctum), torn apart (Didi-Huberman), and photo-
graphs thus become screens—spaces of projection and approximation and
11. Certainly witness testimony is an equally pervasive genre transmitting the memory of
the Holocaust. But, I would argue, the technology of photography, with its semiotic prin-
ciples, makes it a more powerful and also a more problematic vehicle for the generations
after. The technologies recording witness testimony, the tape recorder and the video camera,
share the promises and the frustrations embodied by the still camera and the photographic
images that are its products.
of protection.12 Small, two-dimensional, delimited by their frames, photo-

graphs minimize the disaster they depict and screen their viewers from it.
But in seeming to open a window to the past and materializing the viewer’s
relationship to it, they also give a glimpse of its enormity and its power.
They can tell us as much about our own needs and desires (as readers and

spectators) as they can about the past world they presumably depict. While
authentication and projection can work against each other, the powerful
tropes of familiality can also, and sometimes problematically, obscure their
distinction. The fragmentariness and the two-dimensional flatness of the
photographic image, moreover, make it especially open to narrative elabo-
ration and embroidery and to symbolization.13
What is more, we could argue that, in Paul Connerton’s (1989) useful
terms, photography is an “inscriptive” (archival) memorial practice that
retains an “incorporative” (embodied) dimension: as archival documents
that inscribe aspects of the past, photographs give rise to certain bodily
acts of looking and certain conventions of seeing and understanding that
we have come to take for granted but that shape and seemingly reembody,
render material the past that we are seeking to understand and receive.
And sight, Jill Bennett (2005: 36) has argued, is deeply connected to “affec-
tive memory”: “images have the capacity to address the spectator’s own
bodily memory; to touch the viewer who feels rather than simply sees the
event, drawn into the image through a process of affective contagion. . . .
Bodily response thus precedes the inscription of narrative, or moral emo-
tion of empathy.”
Two images (figure 2), drawn from Spiegelman’s Maus (1987) and W. G.
Sebald’s Austerlitz (2001) will serve to illustrate this performative regime of
the photograph and the gazes of familial and affiliative postmemory.
Why Sebald?
The cultural postmemory work that Art Spiegelman and Maus did in the
late 1980s/early 1990s is what the recently deceased German writer W. G.
Sebald, and particularly his novel Austerlitz, is doing now, in the first decade
of the new millennium. Both works have spawned a veritable industry of
critical and theoretical work on memory, photography, and transmission,
and thus the differences between Maus and Austerlitz are a measure of the
evolving conversations of and about the postgeneration. My comparative
12. For the relationship of visuality to trauma, see especially Hüppauf 1997; Zelizer 1998;
Baer 2002; Hornstein and Jacobowitz 2002; Bennett 2005; and van Alphen 2005.
13. See Horstkotte 2003 for a discussion of this aspect of photography and postmemory.
Figure 2 These two images, from Spiegelman’s Maus (1987: 100) (above) and
Sebald’s Austerlitz (2001: 251), illustrate the performative regime of the photograph
and the gazes of familial and affiliative postmemory.
discussion here aims to bring out some of the elements implicit in these
conversations—the continuing power of the familial and the indexical and,
at the same time, a less literal, much more fluid conception of both that
characterizes our turn-of-the-century remembrance and is illustrated by
Sebald.

Maus and Austerlitz share a great deal: a self-conscious, innovative, and
critical aesthetic that palpably conveys absence and loss; the determina-
tion to know about the past and the acknowledgment of its elusiveness;
the testimonial structure of listener and witness separated by relative prox-
imity and distance to the events of the war (two men in both works); the
reliance on looking and reading, on visual media in addition to verbal
ones; and the consciousness that the memory of the past is an act firmly
located in the present. Still, the two authors could not be more different:
one the son of two Auschwitz survivors, a cartoonist who grew up in the
United States; the other a son of Germans, a literary scholar and novelist
writing in England.
The narrators of Maus are father and son, first and second generations,
and their conversations illustrate how familial postmemory works through
the transformations and mediations from the father’s memory to the son’s
postmemory. The generational structure of Austerlitz and its particular kind
of postmemory is more complicated. Sebald himself, born in 1944, belongs
to the second generation, but through his character Austerlitz, born in 1934
and a member of what Susan Suleiman (2002) terms the “1.5 generation,”
he blurs generational boundaries and highlights the current interest in
the persona of the child survivor. Austerlitz himself has no memory of his
childhood in Prague, which was erased and superseded by the new iden-
tity he was given when he arrived in Wales and was raised by Welsh adop-
tive parents. The conversations in the novel are intragenerational, between
the narrator and the protagonist, both of whom (we assume) were young
children during the war, one a non-Jewish German living in England, the
other a Czech Jew. For them, the past is located in objects, images, and
documents, in fragments and traces barely noticeable in the layered train
stations, streets, and official and private buildings of the European cities
in which they meet and talk. Standing outside the family, the narrator
receives the story from Austerlitz and affiliates with it, thus illustrating the
relationship between familial and affiliative postmemory. And as a Ger-
man, he also shows how the lines of affiliation can cross the divide between
victim and perpetrator postmemory.
Maus, while trenchantly critical of representation and eager to fore-
ground its artifice, remains, at the same time, anxious about the truth and
accuracy of the son’s graphic account of the father’s prewar and wartime
experiences in Poland. Indeed, in spite of its myriad distancing devices,
the work achieves what Huyssen (2003: 135) has called a “powerful effect of
authentication.” That authentication, and even any concern about it, has
disappeared in Austerlitz. The loss and confusion of Sebald’s character, his

helpless meanderings and pointless searches, and the beautiful prose that
conveys absence and an objectless and thus endless melancholia, all this,
combined with blurry, hard-to-make-out photographic images, speaks
somehow to a generation marked by a history to which they have lost even
the distant and now barely “living connection” to which Maus uncompro-
misingly clings.
While Maus begins as a familial story, Austerlitz only becomes so half-
way through: familiality anchors, individualizes, and reembodies the
free-floating disconnected and disorganized feelings of loss and nostalgia
that thereby come to attach themselves to more concrete and seemingly
authentic images and objects. Still, the world around Sebald’s character
does not actually become more readable, nor does his connection to the
past become more firm, when he finds his way back to a personal and
familial history, to Prague, where he was born and where he spent a very
few years before being sent to England on the Kindertransport, and to the
nurse who raised him and knew his parents.
The images Austerlitz finds, I want to argue, are what Warburg calls
“pre-established forms,” which amount to no more than impersonal build-
ing blocks of affiliative postmemory. “Our concern with history,” Austerlitz
(2001: 72) says, quoting his boarding school history master André Hilary,
“is a concern with preformed images already imprinted on our brains,
images at which we keep staring while the truth lies elsewhere, away from
it all, somewhere as yet undiscovered.” This passage perfectly encapsulates
the perils of postmemory and the central point I want to make in this essay.
The images already imprinted on our brains, the tropes and structures we
bring from the present to the past, hoping to find them there and to have
our questions answered, may be screen memories—screens on which we
project present or timeless needs and desires and which thus mask other
images and other concerns. The familial aspects of postmemory that make
it so powerful and problematically open to affiliation contain many of these
preformed screen images. What more potent such image than the image of
the lost mother and the fantasy of her recovery?
In Maus, the photograph of mother and son, a postwar image embedded
in the inserted “Prisoner on the Hell Planet: A Case History,” anchors
and authenticates the work. As the only photograph in the first volume,
it solidifies the mother’s material presence even as it records her loss and
suicide. Maternal recognition and the maternal look are anything but
reassuring: in fact, when the artist draws himself wearing a concentration
camp uniform, he signals his complete transposition into his parents’ his-
tory and his incorporation of their trauma in Auschwitz activated by the
trauma of his mother’s suicide.14 Still, there is no doubt in the work that

this is a photo of Anja and Art Spiegelman. Taken in 1958, it shows not the
war but its aftermath. Through the angle at which it is drawn, it breaks out
of the page, acting as a link between the comics medium and the viewer,
drawing the viewer into the page and counterbalancing its many distanc-
ing devices (the multiple hands holding the page and the photo, the expres-
sionist drawing style that yanks the reader out of the commix style of the
rest of the book, and the human forms that challenge the animal fable to
which we have become habituated in our reading, to name but a few). The
maternal image and the “Prisoner” insert solidify the familiality of Maus’s
postmemorial transmission and individualize the story. At the same time,
Anja’s suicide in the late 1960s can also be seen as a product of her post-
Auschwitz historical moment—a moment at which other Holocaust sur-
vivors like Paul Celan and, a few years later, Jean Améry also committed
suicide.
The two “maternal” images in Austerlitz function quite differently: rather
than authenticating, they blur and relativize truth and reference. After fol-
lowing his mother’s deportation to Terezín, Austerlitz is desperate to find
more concrete traces of her presence there. He visits the town, walks its
streets, searches the museum for traces, and finally settles on the Nazi pro-
paganda film The Führer Gives a City to the Jews as the last possible source
in which he might find a visual image of his mother. His fantasies revolve
around the extraordinary events of the Red Cross inspection of Terezín, in
which inmates were forced to participate in performances of normalcy and
well-being that were then filmed for propaganda purposes:
I imagined seeing her walking down the street in a summer dress and light-
weight gabardine coat, said Austerlitz: among a group of ghetto residents out
for a stroll, she alone seemed to make straight for me, coming closer with every
step, until at last I thought I could sense her stepping out of the frame and pass-
ing over into me. (Ibid.: 245)
The fantasy is so strong that, against all odds, Austerlitz does succeed in
finding in the film an image of a woman who, he believes (or hopes), might
be his mother. The film to which he finds access in a Berlin archive is only
a fourteen–minute version of the Nazi documentary, and after watching it
14. On transposition, see Kestenberg 1982.

repeatedly, he concludes that his mother does not appear in it. But he does
not give up: he has a slow-motion hour-long copy made of the excerpt, and
he watches it over and over, discovering new things in it but marveling also
at the distortions of sound and image that now mark it. In the very back-
ground of one of the sequences contained in these distorted slow-motion

fragments of a propaganda film of fake performances of normalcy, Auster-
litz does eventually glimpse a woman who reminds him of his image of his
mother. In the audience at a concert,
set a little way back and close to the upper edge of the frame, the face of a young
woman appears, barely emerging from the back shadows around it. . . . She
looks, so I tell myself as I watch, just as I imagined the singer Agáta from my
faint memories and the few other clues to her appearance that I now have, and
I gaze and gaze again at that face which seems to me both strange and familiar,
said Austerlitz. (Ibid.: 251)
Far from the fantasy of recognition and embrace that Austerlitz spun out
for the novel’s narrator—“she alone seemed to make straight for me,
coming closer with every step, until at last I could sense her stepping out
of the frame”—the woman’s face is partially covered by the time indicator
showing only 4/100 of a second during which it appears on screen. In the
foreground of the image, the face of a gray-haired man takes up most of
the space, blocking the backgrounded woman from view.
In the novel, this picture can at best become a measure of the character’s
desire for his mother’s face. It tells us as little about her and how she might
have looked, what she lived through, as the photo of an anonymous actress
Austerlitz finds in the theater archives in Prague. His impression that this
found image also looks like Agáta is corroborated by Vera, who nods, but
the link to truth or authentication remains equally tentative and tenuous.
Austerlitz hands both images over to the narrator along with his story, as
though for protection and dissemination. What, with this precious image,
is the narrator actually receiving? Even for the familial second (or 1.5) gen-
eration, pictures are no more than spaces of projection, approximation,
and affiliation; they have retained no more than an aura of indexicality. For
more distant affiliative descendants, their referential link to a sought-after
past is ever more questionable. The images Austerlitz finds, moreover,
are, in themselves, products of performances—his mother was an actress
before the war, and what is more, in the propaganda film in Terezín, all
inmates were forced to play a part that would further the workings of the
Nazi death machine. Unlike the picture of mother and son in Maus, which
was probably taken by the father, the presumed image of Agáta in the film
inscribes the gaze of the perpetrator and thus also the genocidal intentions
of the Nazi death machine and the lies on which it was based (see Hirsch
2001). The numbers in the corner, of course, recall the Auschwitz numbers
and thus anticipate the fate of the Terezín prisoners. They overpower the
figures who shrink beneath the fate that awaits them. But who are these
figures? Has Austerlitz, has the narrator found what they were seeking?

Austerlitz’s description of the film still throws ever more doubt on the
process of postmemorial looking. He (2001: 251) focuses on one telling
detail: “Around her neck, said Austerlitz, she is wearing a three-stringed
and delicately draped necklace which scarcely stands out from her dark,
high necked dress, and there is, I think, a white flower in her hair.” The
necklace, I believe, connects this image—whether deliberately or not—to
another important maternal photograph, that of Barthes’s mother in Cam-
era Lucida, perhaps the image exemplifying the trope of maternal loss and
longing and the son’s affiliative look that attempt to suture an unbridge-
able distance.
The necklace appears in Barthes’s discussion of a picture by James van
der Zee not so much as a prime example of Barthes’s notion of the punctum
as detail, and of the affective link between the viewer and the image, but
of how the punctum can travel and be displaced from image to image.
Barthes (1981: 53) first finds the picture’s punctum in the strapped pumps
worn by one of the women; a few pages later, when the photograph is no
longer in front of him or of us, he realizes that “the real punctum was the
necklace she was wearing; for (no doubt) it was this same necklace (a slen-
der ribbon of braided gold) which I had seen worn by someone in my own
family.” In a brilliant reading of Barthes’s notion of the punctum, Margaret
Olin (2002) takes us back to the initial image to expose Barthes’s glaring
mistake: the women in van der Zee’s image wear strings of pearls and not
“slender ribbons of braided gold.” The slender ribbon of braided gold, she
argues, was transposed from one of his own family pictures, which Barthes
had reproduced in his Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes (1977) and entitled
“the two grandmothers.”15
Olin uses this example to call into question the very existence of the
famous winter garden photo of Barthes’s mother in Camera Lucida, showing
how some of the details in his description might have been drawn from
another text, Walter Benjamin’s (1980: 206) description of a photograph
of the six-year-old Kafka in a “winter garden landscape.” The mother’s
15. But Olin is also mistaken, as Nancy K. Miller (2006) pointed out to me in conversa-
tion: the English translation of Camera Lucida leaves out the more specific description in
the French, where the necklace is described as being “au ras du cou” rather than long and
hanging down as in the image of the “two grandmothers.”
picture may instead be one that is indeed reproduced in Camera Lucida,

La souche (The Stock) (Barthes 1981: 104). These displacements and inter-
textualities, which Olin (2002: 112) delineates in fascinating detail, lead
her usefully and yet dangerously to redefine the photograph’s indexicality:
“The fact that something was in front of the camera matters; what that

something was does not. . . . What matters is displaced,” she provocatively
states. In her conclusion (ibid.: 115), she proposes that the relationship
between the photograph and its beholder be described as a “performative
index” or an “index of identification,” shaped by the reality of the viewer’s
needs and desires rather than by the subject’s actual “having-been-there” (see
also Hirsch and Spitzer 2006 and Doane 2007).
I believe that the maternal image in Austerlitz can be inserted into the
intertextual chain Olin identifies, especially since, amazingly, Austerlitz
also makes a mistake about the necklace which, in the photo, only has two
strings and not three as he claims. To call reference into question in the
context not just of death, as with Barthes’s mother, but of extermination,
as with Austerlitz, may be more provocative still, but this is, indeed, how
photographs function in this novel. As Austerlitz shows, the index of post-
memory (as opposed to memory) is the performative index, shaped more
and more by affect, need, and desire as time and distance attenuate the
links to authenticity and “truth.” Familial and, indeed, feminine tropes
rebuild and reembody a connection that is disappearing, and thus gender
becomes a powerful idiom of remembrance in the face of detachment and
forgetting.
In her feminist reflections on the transmission of Holocaust memory,
Claire Kahane (2000: 163) writes: “Literary representation of the Holo-
caust attempts a textual mimesis of trauma through tropes that most
potently capture, and elicit in the reader . . . primal affects contiguous with
the traumatic event.” Kahane illustrates her point through a critical analy-
sis of the trope of maternal loss and mother-child separation, arguing that
trauma at its most fundamental has been defined as a break in the maternal
object relation (ibid.). Kahane disagrees that the trauma of the Holocaust
can be reduced to one particular psychic structure, and thus she urges us to
remain skeptical of the ubiquity of the figure of maternal loss in Holocaust
representation. She asks: “Doesn’t the focus on that relation in traumatic
narratives itself become a kind of screen, a cover-up for the terror of con-
fronting the nihilistic implications of the Holocaust?” (ibid.: 164).
As the foregoing discussion shows, I want to join Kahane’s call that
we scrutinize carefully the dominant tropes of Holocaust representation,
such as the figure of maternal loss. At the same time, I have argued that
the generation of affiliative postmemory needs precisely such familiar and
familial tropes to rely on. For feminist critics, it is particularly important

to perceive and expose the functions of gender as a “pre-formed image”
in the act of transmission. The photograph of the mother’s face is a “pre-
formed image” at which we stare, while, as Austerlitz (2001: 245) says, “the
truth lies elsewhere, somewhere as yet undiscovered.” At our generational

remove, that elsewhere may never be discovered. Thus the maternal image
in Austerlitz provokes us to scrutinize the unraveling link between present
and past that defines indexicality as no more than performative.
And yet, for better or worse, one could say that, for the postgeneration,
the screens of gender and of familiality and the images that mediate them
function analogously to the protective shield of trauma itself: they function
as screens that absorb the shock, filter and diffuse the impact of trauma,
diminish harm. In forging a protective shield particular to the postgenera-
tion, one could say that, paradoxically, they actually reinforce the living
connection between past and present, between the generation of witnesses
and survivors and the generation after.
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The Generation of Postmemory

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Abstract Postmemory describes the relationship of the second generation to power-

The “hinge generation,” the “guardianship of the Holocaust,” the ways

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. On “autobiographical reading” see Suleiman 1993.

were transmitted to them so deeply and affectively as to seem to constitute

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the transmission of events that remain unimaginable. And, of course, the

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Gary Weissman objects specifically to the “memory” in my formulation

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the break in transmission resulting from traumatic historical events neces-

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Jan and Aleida Assmann’s typological distinctions do not specifically

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Why the Family?

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. On the familial gaze, see Hirsch 1997 and 1998.

and stories, especially those public images related to the concentration

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position more broadly available to other contemporaries. Affiliative post-

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of protection.12 Small, two-dimensional, delimited by their frames, photo-

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14. On transposition, see Kestenberg 1982.

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picture may instead be one that is indeed reproduced in Camera Lucida,

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familial tropes to rely on. For feminist critics, it is particularly important

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