In this strange blur of a photo (my only tintype), the older man is so distinct, his expression so direct and penetrating, the placement of his right hand on his hidden watch so deliberate, he seems to want to convey a message. All these old images bear their fragments of story, but he pantomimes something very particular across the years at us.
Tick-tock, he says.
That Hope Roberts, she could put together an outfit. Stripes with plaid, different-colored socks. And she could sell it too, from the half-smile under her flowered beret to the cocked hip above her mismatched shoes. Possibly she was heading to a 4th of July picnic with her little flag. Possibly she was heading nowhere good. But she seems like the kind of girl who would have fun once she got there.
What? I disappear for three months and then show up with this thing? I know. But look at it.
I notice I always get these sorts of pictures for a quarter, if not free, as if the dealer is embarrassed to have it or even to acknowledge it exists. On the contrary, I think if this woman isn’t dead she is displaying a great deal of healthy confidence by permitting that camera angle. But probably she’s dead.
Reminds me of a favorite new (to me) blog, Black and WTF.
Have you seen it? I am torn between a physical pang of jealousy and wanting this person to drive to Indiana and go junking with me. Although he/she will probably want to arm wrestle me for the weird photos. Nevermind.
Dear friend Stephanie in New York sent me a packet of lovely dog photos full of barns and leafy bowers for backgrounds. I love the thought of someone venturing to the big city with her precious farm fields in her pocket. (Thanks, Steph!!)
Sometimes it’s said people resemble their pets. I don’t usually get that. Not usually …
Christmas makes me think of dead people. There’s really no other way to say it. Christmas makes me think of people who are gone whom I would prefer to be here, and winter – man, it seems like we’ve had a whole lot of winter this year, doesn’t it? — winter makes me think of the alarming possibility of falling on ice and irreparably breaking myself, which I seem to do occasionally. So I love this photo, this “American Gothic” of Midwestern Christmastime disappointment and ennui. Even the dog seems over it.
I don’t know if you are aware of this, but Hoosiers are the nicest people in the world. I can say this without bragging, not being a native Hoosier myself, just a sojourner in their strange land. They are nice, y’all. (That’s actually more Kentucky, where I’m from, but you understand.)
I defy you to order a cup of coffee within 100 miles of the Circle and not have a 10-minute conversation about the weather or the traffic or how a piece of pie would be delicious. Mention you have a headache and three people will reach for their purses for aspirin. Once I mentioned I had a headache and a passing masseuse insisted on giving me a head massage on a street corner. That sounds kind of overly friendly, come to think of it, almost creepy, but it wasn’t. It was nice.
In the last year I have been in two separate small Indiana towns only to witness completely unexpected parades during which smiling children threw candy to me from passing fire trucks. I kid not.
Indiana is so friendly that sometimes one has only to pass through to have it rub off. And maybe here I could be seen as bragging, but I’m talking about a lovely woman named Kim who for reasons known only to herself sees fit to read this blog and recently mailed me an entire box of antique dog photos. People, how nice is that? They were framed, the box was heavy and she ripped up the check I mailed her. She lives in Texas by way of New York, but she spent some time in Indiana, and that little connection made her think of me when she ran across some old dog photos at a garage sale. She just wanted them to have a good home, she said.
Well, they do.
Their little metal frames add to my storage issues (enough said) but of course I can’t think of removing them. All that tape! It shows the love. I picture them all grouped together on someone’s wood-paneled wall, and I’m tantalized by the indecipherable writing on the backs, the glimpse of glowing white laundry through the doorway of this little photo, my favorite. I don’t think it’s too much to say this dog looks almost proud in front of his clapboard house, nose in the air, one foot on his chain. A very nice dog.
Nope, I didn’t forget about you, Smudge, old friend. I went to England for two months! And I would like to report I traveled like this lady, whom I picked up in Portsmouth, at a little shop within sight of the H.M.S. Victory, but unfortunately … no. I did not arrive with hat and scarf and basket of victuals and well-behaved companions and serene expression. I tore through most of the UK in sweaty T-shirts dragging a (human) toddler who got a time-out in Jane Austen’s garden and kicked out of the Anne Hathaway Cottage and generally could not have given a crap about, for instance, the H.M.S. Victory (though she did enjoy the swans).
But what a time we had!
Now back to work. To quote the back of this 1911 postcard: “Arrived quite safe. Will write soon.”
This family photo comes from my dear friend Susie who, appropriately enough, was my photography professor in college and tried her best (though she ultimately failed) to make me understand what an aperture does. This thing is awesome for several reasons:
1. The gun. What?
2. The flag. There’s a whole group of collectors of photos with American flags in them. They’re rare. The flags, not the people. Well, probably the people too.
3. The placement of that vase makes it look like the guy in the chair is wearing a crazy hat.
4. Love the piano. I collect old photos with musical instruments in them for my brother. If you do not have a hobby, one will be assigned to you. (I also collect dead-people photos for him. I know, weird. He loves them.)
5. Oh yeah, and the dog! He looks like a rug!
That was my initial response — that and shameless hinting that she should give me the photo so I don’t have to steal it from her house next time I visit. Then, as she often did in class, Susie gently pointed out that I was missing something major, and actually the man in the chair was too — his arm.
Just wow.
The man hovers, he thinks, just of frame, the hand on knee ready to grab and stay. But the dog has spotted something offstage and if he’s still it’s just for that muscle-tightening split-second before the leap. I love how this tattered cardboard frame barely contains the action of this little scene, a not-quite-perfectly-captured moment.
