When my father told me we were going to have our picture taken, I was filled with joy. From that visit to Marubi’s studio, I remember how delicate he was, his courtesy. We entered through a door on the lower level, climbed the stairs, and as soon as we entered we were greeted by Geg Marubi. I remember how happy he was see my father again; they were old friends, and on that day they had a long conversation. I noticed the fine curtains in the studio, placed behind the photographs, and I remember the camera, covered with a black cloth.
He began to position us: those who were seated had a stool, while the others stood up behind them.
I was again struck by his extreme politeness as he arranged us for the shot, accompanied by phrases like “if you please,” “be careful,” “please be patient,” “we’ll do this right away,” “just a bit longer.”
He said: “Mr. Shurdha, allow me, may I move the lady, just for a second, there, all done.” It was the first time I had seen such thoughtfulness, and I havenever forgotten it.
Besides the value of the object itself, for me this photograph remains as a reminder of his courtesy. In the picture, to the right is my father, Muhamet Shurdha, next to the sister Fatbardha, while my mother, Nezihat Behri Shurdha, is on the left; in the upper row, you see my sister Vahide and me, Ahmet.

A photograph that has always been very important to me shows my father, who had escaped from the concentration camps at Pristina. All people, in their own way, think their father was handsome, but mine was truly gorgeous; he stands out in every photo for this beauty and his way of dressing. At the age of nineteen my father was put into a concentration camp at Pristina, and he was saved by an absolute stroke of luck. He was in a group of people being taken to a place where they would be executed. My grandfather saw this, understood the situation, and ran to the guards, asking them how much it would cost to spare his son. He paid the requested sum and my father was removed from the group and left to wait in an office, where he could hear the sound of the gunshots that killed his friends.
Only later did I understand that this story had tormented him throughout his life. When he had reached the age of ninety, he was living with me in Italy; perhaps he was feeling that he no longer had anything to justify, he would leave our house and go to sit at the bus station, asking passers-by: “Would you like me to tell you a story?”
Or he would go to the park in front of the house, and as soon as he saw someone sitting there, he would begin to tell them about the time when he was nineteen years old and he was rescued from the Nazis, when he heard his friends being shot. I keep this photograph in my part of the house. On the back you can see a note he had written by hand, which says: “I returned from the German concentration camp, where in four months I lost 19 kg.”

This painting is based on a photograph by Shan Pici we found again over twenty years ago. It shows the old family home and the hotel the family owned in the 1920s and 1930s.
During communism, in fact, my family was not in favor with the regime, and its home was expropriated.
About a year and a half ago, when we were blocked by the pandemic, I did a little research at the State Archives, which had digitalized many of their holdings, and I found some rather interesting material. In June 1924 the revolutionaries took power in Shkodër and the entire country. Among their adversaries there was also Musa Juka, my ancestor. The house was seized and the functionaries involved compiled a very detailed inventory of its contents: beds, wardrobes, spoons, knives, paintings on the wall. In the inventory, mention is made of the library owned by Musa Juka, who was considered an intellectual in his time.
The painting based on the photograph thus becomes a living object, capable of providing information and stimulating emotions, for me and for our whole family.

We are entering the archives of the Migjeni theater. As you can see, the room is quite dark. Every time I enter this room and turn on the light, in front of the door to welcome me there is the image of Paulin Lacaj. Lacaj was one of the first eight professional actors of this theater, and the founder of the archive, which conserves its magnificent history.
The photo you see was specially selected by me. In the picture, Lacaj is playing a role, with one finger raised. I put it there for a precise reason, so that every day when I open the door I can almost hear him telling me: “Bring honor to the work I have begun!”
I’ve made a deal with myself: if I manage to do half of what he did, it will mean that I have fulfilled my duty as a citizen. This gives you an idea of his greatness. Every time I look at a document from the archive, I start to shiver; I think you can feel it, too, I can see the goosebumps on your skin.

Of the Marubis we have few photos by Pietro, and many more by Kel. We have done our best to conserve them, though not always in favorable conditions. During communism, for example, my father was persecuted and all his goods of any value were seized, together with the entire collection of photographs.
Among the other items, there was also a self-portrait of Kol Idromeno. All the original photographs were lost. In spite of efforts to recover as much as possible, much information and material was lost, after my father’s trial and his sentencing to seven years in prison for the charge of political activism and propaganda. Over the years, after my father was released, through research we have been able to draw on other sources, and to recover the images I am showing you now.

The photographs I am holding were taken in the period from 1955 to 1959. These pictures remind me of my childhood, but also of what families in Shkodër regarded as the ritual of photography.
My mother took great care to conserve traces of the various moments of our growth, especially the birthdays. What I would define as a form of collaboration between parents and the photographer took form. The parents had the task of making sure their children were dressed as well as possible. I remember my mother’s efforts, so that each year I would have a thematic outfit.

In this photograph you can see a considerable number of instruments, especially violins, but also more modern instruments like a drum set or a saxophone, with a pianoforte at the center. The central position suggests that it was effectively valued as the king of instruments.
The pianoforte that was missing in our home arrived when I was six or seven years old. The piano then passed to my grandfather Gjon Jak Shllaku, who though just a carpenter brought the instrument home because he played the violin and was an emancipated person, who felt it was important to have an instrument in our house.
Thanks to an interview with my father in 1955, before he died, we know that in 1945 Prenk Jakova wrote Juda Makabe, his finest and most famous opera, precisely in our house. I will not explain the reasons for this, instead relying directly on my father’s voice, who said: “Prenka had been sent into exile and couldn’t compose, so he wrote in our house, with this instrument.”

The previous evening, looking at my uncle’s picture, she said, “I don’t know if we will see each other again, I’m afraid we won’t, good night to you, and sweet dreams.” The next morning she woke up and felt sick, and thirty-six hours later she was dead. On the other hand, a pediatrician came to visit my grandfather, who mistook the doctor for his son, because they both wore glasses:
“You came back?” he asked. Then my father intervened, saying: “But no, Papa, he’s not Zija, he’s someone else who has come to visit you.” Grandfather replied: “I thought it was my son, returning home.”
Life spared no one.

The first photo I have chosen is the one of my grandfather’s family. The father Ndreka, the mother Roza, the two aunts, Shaqja and the other whose name I’ve forgotten, the brother Lorenc, and the two sisters.
I wanted to start with this picture because it shows Lorenc and my grandfather Ludovik, two people who potentially would have passed on the family surname. Lorenc, unfortunately, didn’t manage to do so: he was killed in 1945, leaving four children, three girls and one boy, who was also persecuted by the regime, partly due to his connection with his father, partly due to his activity as a poet in open opposition to the system. He spent most of his life in prison, where he died; his body was left in a cell for days before he was found by his neighbor.
Luigj Toni was a nationalist. During the Italian occupation he went back into Italy to fight for the liberation of the country, which nevertheless failed. He did not complete his studies in Italy, and after his return he led a troubled life, including time in prison and problems with the communist regime. He lost an eye in the war, married late in life and thus had no children. I knew him personally, he was a friend of my grandparents. People felt sorry for him and his wife because they had no children, so sometimes I was sent to stay with them for a few days.
I will never forget him; he was particularly talented in scientific matters. He taught me to light a cigarette by using a lens and sunlight, a method he had developed when he wanted to smoke and couldn’t find a match or a lighter. He had problems with his eyesight, so he told me I would have to be his eyes, and when the sun was shining he would send me out to the balcony to light a cigarette with the lens.

Gjush, for work, was a bookbinder, and every evening he gave his children one of the books to read; my aunt still remembers those readings with wonder, they were parents who wanted their children to grow up with a certain level of culture. They weren’t rich, but they were very well educated. The elder son was the famous painter Simon Rrota, the second born was Justin Rrota, the Albanian linguist, and the third was Kol Rrota. Kol had worked as a consul in Vienna. He was an excellent consul, and in particular he helped many students. I remember that an Austrian woman came to visit us at the house and recognized him in the picture; she was so enthusiastic about the fact that I knew him that she gave me a big hug.
In those photos, on the other hand, there is the family of my husband. My husband is the fourth Gjergi of the family. Gjon, Gjergi, Gjon, Gjergi, these are typical names in Shkodër, which we continue to pass down.

Angjelin took about fifteen minutes to shoot the photo. We were telling him “shoot, shoot,” but he was waiting for us all to smile at the same time. In the end we are all nicely posed and smiling, a little bit stiff, perhaps, but that was normal at the time. He said he also wanted to catch the scent of the flowers in the photo. We didn’t understand; even today I don’t know what he was looking for, to take fifteen minutes for one shot. But the photograph has lasted in time, and I think it will continue to stand up for many years.

This very old photograph circulated in the 1920s, also as a postcard, with the indication that this was the plane tree of Zef Zorba. The age-old tree is now inside the Catholic cemetery. It is a piece of the history of Shkodër.
After 1760, the number of Catholic families in Shkodër grew significantly, and the need arose to have Catholic cemeteries in the city. Then one of my great-grandfathers, together with other merchants, decided to donate land to the Catholic church for the purpose of making a cemetery. I know that the plane tree of Zef Zorba was planted on that land. The oldest Catholic tombs in Shkodër are on the left side with respect to the entrance, though the most beautiful ones are to the right. This is because among the older tombs, the original nucleus of the cemetery, many belonged to families without heirs, so they were abandoned (a part of this area is now illegally occupied by new inhabitants of the city).

The matter in question is something else, though, namely the joy photos bring to us, the happiness of the moments they capture and store. Looking through the photographs I took of my friends on our graduation day, I miss my classmates.
It would appear that even us men are sentimental.
This is the photograph of a group of friends who were approaching me. I feel great joy when I think back on those teenage years; not even communism was able to ruin them, when you are an adolescent you overlook it all, and try to enjoy your life.

This photo was taken in 1958 in Shkodër, of Geg Marubi, Luigjina Perdoda and me. It was a very cold, snowy day, we went out for a walk and a friend of our AngjelinNënshati, a renowned photographer, took this shot, after which we went back home. What do I think about Geg Marubi? He was an extremely courteous, kind person, and when he didn’t like something he never got angry, he kept his opinions to himself and offended no one. He was a great worker, very close to us. He always spoke to us about art, genuine art.
“Don’t go for strong contrasts,” he would say, “the photograph has to be soft, gentle, it has to have presence, not contrast.”

This is absolutely one of my favorite photos. My mother was particularly interested in our clothes. Both my parents were very well dressed and groomed, and they wanted their children to look their best.

Those shots on the walls of my home represent a part of my childhood. Thanks to them I know a lot about Shkodër and about photography, though I still had much to discover about Marubi and the history of his studio, since I was familiar only with what he had produced for my family.
An entire community saw itself in the mirror of Albanian society of the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s, and I too did the same thing. As I believe was the case for many other people, in my search I found some surprises: there were some pictures never seen before of my grandfather in the company of other ladies, prior to his marriage to my grandmother. I was intrigued, so I showed the pictures to my mother, asking her if she knew who those woman were, if they were friends, cousins, lovers. The photographs revealed episodes and topics that perhaps had never been discussed. I think this happened in other families too, and in my family’s case the process was quite entertaining. Other images showed relatives I had never previously had a chance to know, so the archival search was a great opportunity for discovery.

The next competition was also held at the cathedral. The only remaining decorations were those on the ceiling, which brought back childhood memories. My gaze remained fixed on those high ceilings, while I thought “Am I making a mistake?”. It felt as if I was insulting God, somehow. I was only a child, I knew nothing of religious precepts to be obeyed, since they were not a part of my upbringing, of my parents’ teachings. But I loved going into churches, and each time they would ask me why.

I think that with this arrangement, Marubi wanted to create a symbolic schema of the Albanian world at the time. In spite of the linguistic differences, expressed in dialects that had development as a result of geographical divisions caused by a mountain chain that runs along the center of the country, the existence of a spiritual, linguistic and cultural community is underlined. It was necessary for someone to make this explicitly clear, given the lack of exchanges on the cultural scene at the time; the south and north moved forward each with their own research, without seeking a shared horizon of writing.

In the photograph the house was closed, the çardak was more limited, marked by rain and dust. In my view, the original was very beautiful, and I cannot understand why the architects who worked here decided to transform it as you see it today. I prefer the house as it is in the photo, cozier and more comfortable.

In this other photographer we see my mother-in-law, with her inimitable elegance; I always tell my daughter she should be proud to have had such a grandmother. The photo dates back to 1916, but for a long time we did not have it in our home. In the countless confiscations and relocations during communism, we left houses behind without even having the time to gather our photographs, documents, furniture.

In this photograph you see me in 1986 or 1987, playing in a concert in Shkodër, organized in the context of the summer outdoor cinema program. I played the flute, and in the photo I am performing a rather difficult solo. As I played, I realized that a man was moving behind my back. I began to wonder when he would go elsewhere, but then I noticed that it was Angjelin Nënshati. Angjelin was famous for taking a long time to make each of his shots, but also for always obtaining marvelous results.
In that situation I wasn’t thinking about looking good in a photograph, so when at a certain point I heard the click of the shutter, I was relieved that I could continue my playing in peace. After he made that picture, I have used it on every possible occasion. His photographs were beautiful, they captured all the dedication and love he put into his work. He never took a shot without a reason. What I am telling you is just a small episode, but I think it is significant, in its own way, above all to describe Angjelin.

The club’s activity went through a short interruption whose dates I cannot indicate precisely, but considering the fact that the photo is from 1911, it was probably taken shortly after the resumption. Here, in particular, we can see the members reading the magazine Bashkimi i Kombit (Unity of the Nation), published at Monastir (Bitola), which is located in the south of the current Republic of North Macedonia.
My grandfather Lazër Gurakuqi worked as a correspondent for the magazine: in the photograph taken by Marubi he can be seen reading an issue to his friends. As you may notice, they always respected the rules of expression of identity inside the Empire, wearing the red fez in public. My grandfather, in honor of an independent Albania, did not wear one. This is a detail pointed out to me by my father, and even earlier by my grandmother, and it has stayed with me ever since then.

Every photo has a story and every story is a tale apart. This one, in particular, is full of impressions, and through my gaze it seems to communicate with you, the observer. As happened on stage, when with the audience in front of me I felt like I could absorb their energy, something that unleashes deep inner joy. Communication in photography is very important, and here I see sincerity, purity, it reminds me of my youth, strolls along the boulevard, the stage, applause, all those emotions, school, flowers, that boundless affection of the people of Shkodër, to whom I am grateful for having offered me their marvelous energy, which I have brought with me in all my subsequent works, in cinema and theater.

Every year from my birth to the age of 6, my father brought me to Marubi to take a photograph. Here I am 5. I remember that Marubi had me climb up on a rather high chair, and asked me how I wanted to pose. I liked to show off, so I crossed my legs, which was nothing I had seen on TV or elsewhere, it was my own idea.

My uncle gave me this photo; it was taken when I was in fourth grade. He had returned for the holidays from the Soviet Union, where he was studying. He brought some gifts with him, including a ball with which my friends and I played.
“The fourth-year student, Terezina Raka, has been excellent in her direction of the study brigade. She has helped her friends greatly, and their grades are now very good. Prior to gathering with her friends for class, Terezina independently prepares very well, and after an extremely beneficial moment of study she also organizes a break for play.”

One particular episode connected with this photo makes it very precious.
At the moment of the shot, perhaps done by Pietro Marubi, one of the workers in the tailor shop tried to hide so as not to be in the picture. His reason was the belief that only God has the right to photograph man, to see man, and no one else.
Back then, people were still rather reluctant to be photographed, in spite of the fact that Shkodër was the first city in Albania for photography, and perhaps one of the first in Europe.

I love the photographs, I like to select them and arrange the most beautiful ones in chronological order. When I look through the album I have the impression of watching a documentary, where only the soundtrack is missing. Putting them into order, I re-experience moments of happiness and sadness. Each photo conserves a unique memory, magical to a certain extent. The children that grow year after year as we age, weddings, parties, vacations, trips, friends, relatives. I leaf through them often, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with tears in my eyes. It matters little how technology has advanced; I will always feel a particular fondness for photo albums. Do I believe that someone else will take the time to continue this work? I cannot be sure, but I would like that very much.