It’s been three years since my mom stopped using her camera. “It’s just easier,” she said, announcing our first smartphone-documented Christmas. “I can email the pictures to your uncle in Spain.” Then, with the patience of someone reasoning with a Luddite, “You know, I can always print them off later.” Of course, I understood, having myself lost patience with everything not instantly shareable a long time before my parents capitulated to the cheap thrills of click and send. But, selfishly, it felt like a loss. The role of family photographer is a bit like that of designated driver—I don’t want to do it, but I certainly want someone to be behind the wheel.

Photo albums are a historic ledger of sorts: They celebrate the living, memorialize the dead, and knit your lif...