Dorothea Lange

Last night I watched an American Masters documentary on PBS.  It was about Dorothea.  I have always been awed by her photography.  The documentary explained how she worked; gave details of her life; and showed many of her photos.

I was in heaven.  More than once I gasped at one of her photos.  Her ideas and her writings were inspiration to my mind.  I felt lifted somehow.  What I wouldn't have given to meet her.  

One of the reasons her photos come home for me is the characters she portrayed.  I have seen many of my own family in the faces of those people.  I know the stories of their lives during the depression.  How they had to keep moving to find a place they could farm.  Finally they gave up and went on to other pursuits.  I've actually seen the shacks of the poor blacks and their children standing their like little waifs.  My male ancestors were farmers.  They were more comfortable in overalls and brogans than anything else.  Although they did have a nice pair of pants and a starched shirt for Sunday.  Or Saturday nights for the juke joints.  I cannot explain why I had a kinship to those photographs but I did.  And I felt a kinship to her.  Such a free spirit.  In my heart I am that free spirit if I've had less than enough courage to be the kind that Dorothea was.  

Below are some of the photos that I found interesting; beginning with her most famous one:

Dorothea as a young woman--I love her enigmatic smile

During WW II she documented thee internment of the Japanese

She documented the arrival of the Mexicans to do farm labor

Dorothea documented the terrible food lines and skid row of the depression

Her best work in my eyes was the documentation of the dust bowl farmers walking or driving heavily loaded vehicles west to find work.

Dorothea towards the end of her life

She also came to the south to document the plight of the Negroes as sharecroppers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some of her quotes:

“Photography takes an instant out of time, altering life by holding it still.”

 

“The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera.”  

“A documentary photograph is not a factual photograph.”

 

 “Seeing is more than a physiological phenomenon… We see not only with our eyes but with all that we are and all that our culture is. The artist is a professional see-er.”

 

Every image he sees, every photograph he takes, becomes in a sense a self-portrait. The portrait is made more meaningful by intimacy - an intimacy shared not only by the photographer with his subject but by the audience.

One should really use the camera as though tomorrow you’d be stricken blind. To live a visual life is an enormous undertaking, practically unattainable. I have only touched it, just touched it.

...Art is a by-product of an act of total attention.

You can Google her photos.  You will get a sense of a time forgotten but best remembered.

 

ONE BOWL

She walked to the living room and carefully lifted the lid off the green antique bowl.  Inside was a potpourri of sandalwood, patchouli, and other exotic aromas.  As she opened the blinds on each window the smell began to permeate the room as it did each morning.  She stood and looked at the bowl for a few minutes remembering when she received it and from whom.  She was 92 now and it had been a very long time ago.

Going back to 1941 and the day Hank walked into the 5 and 10 cent store where she worked.  He had been in several times, never buying, but watching her out of the corner of his eyes.  Finally one indian summer afternoon he got up the courage to talk to her.  She responded gracefully.  She had wondered how long it would take him.  He asked her if she'd like to go for a coke after work.  She said yes that would be nice.

Later that afternoon they walked to the drug store and sitting on stools at the fountain enjoyed a coke; getting to know one another.  In the weeks that followed they often had a coke and sometimes a sandwich at the fountain.  They met in front of the movie theater and watched the current popular movies like "The Maltese Falcon" or "Shadow of the Thin Man".  Hank would walk her to the bus stop and say good night.  Eventually he got on the bus and rode with her to her home.  A brief good night kiss on the cheek was all there was in the beginning.  

She invited Hank to supper and to meet her parents. The night came and he appeared with a gift.  Afraid that her parents would not approve, he gave it to her mother.  Laughing her mother handed it over to her letting Hank know she knew it was for her daughter and did not mind.  She opened the gift and lifted out the lovely bowl and it's matching lid.  She was awed by the beauty and couldn't thank him enough.

As time passed, they saw a lot of each other.  And during the Thanksgiving holidays, Hank took her to meet his family.  He had borrowed a friend's old Ford coupe and they drove for miles.  Hank had never told her that his family were farmers and lived miles out of town.  She was struck by the beautiful fields of corn lining the road and he told her those were his family's fields.  The house was a typical farmhouse; well kept and obviously loved.  Hank's parents were warm and welcoming.  They were very glad to meet the girl Hank talked about every time he came to visit.

Life seemed to be going so well.  Sunday, December 7th, she and Hank were going to church together.  But her Dad called them back in and told them to sit down and listen to the radio.  Everyone was in a state of shock.  Later in church, the congregation prayed for the hundreds of military men who had died or were fighting to stay alive.  Dinner that Sunday was somber.  Hank left her early to see how his parents were.

The next afternoon Hank ran into the store.  He grabbed her hands and breathlessly told her he had enlisted.  He would be going to boot camp within weeks.  She was proud but devastated.  There life together would be put on hold.  Hank left as she and her family and his family waved goodbye and cried.  He wrote as often as he good and she wrote every day.  Sometimes she didn't even have an address to send his letters.  Eventually he shipped out to the Pacific where he fought on Guadacanal and Iwo Jima.  

One evening, after Hank had been gone about 6 months, his parents came to her house.  Hank's mother was in tears and she knew immediately that Hank was gone.  They held each other and cried.  Later she went to her room and picked up the bowl.  She cried as she held his beautiful gift and her tears fell into the bowl. 

Eventually she met a man who was not Hank but close enough that she fell in love.  They married and had children.  The bowl always had a place of honor in any house they occupied. 

That was what she remembered as she stood there.  The bowl was still as beautiful as ever.