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Daring to Look: Dorothea Lange's Photographs and Reports from the Field

por Anne Whiston Spirn

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"Daring to Look" presents never-before-published photos and captions from Dorothea Lange s fieldwork in California, the Pacific Northwest, and North Carolina during 1939. Lange s images of squatter camps, benighted farmers, and stark landscapes are stunning, and her captions which range from simple explanations of settings to historical notes and biographical sketches add unexpected depth, bringing her subjects and their struggles unforgettably to life, often in their own words.When Lange was dismissed from the Farm Security Administration at the end of 1939, these photos and field notes were consigned to archives, where they languished, rarely seen. With "Daring to Look," Anne Whiston Spirn not only returns them to the public eye, but sets them in the context of Lange s pioneering life, work, and struggle for critical recognition firmly placing Lange in her rightful position at the forefront of American photography. A] thoughtful and meticulously researched account of Lange s career. . . . Spirn, a photographer herself, traces Lange s path, visiting her locations and subjects in a fascinating series of then and now shots. "Publishers Weekly" Dorothea Lange has long been regarded as one of the most brilliant photographic witnesses we have ever had to the peoples and landscapes of America, but until now no one has fully appreciated the richness with which she wove images together with words to convey her insights about this nation.We are lucky indeed that Anne Whiston Spirn, herself a gifted photographer and writer, has now recovered Lange s field notes and woven them into a rich tapestry of texts and images to help us reflect anew on Lange s extraordinary body of work. William Cronon, author of "Nature s Metropolis""… (más)
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When I first stared to read art books I divided them by medium—so painting/drawing was divided from photography, you know. Now I think that’s a false division, and this is what I do: for academic art, there are three divisions: ancient medieval folk and indigenous (pre-realism, basically: and yes, “folk art” write-ups are ~~very~~ academic, lol; (Mr. Collins) “That’s how you know I respect you, although if I have given any offense, I sincerely apologize.”); realism and semi-realism (this includes Impressionism, which I guess under different names is all of the post-photography realistic paintings, basically); and abstract (post-realism: almost back to symbolic art, like, an open rather than a ritual symbolism, but it’s like, “Yes, the red makes me feel…. The red is….” It’s not that some literal red thing was somewhere, right). And as you can see it’s a cycle, like everything else. Which is why (apart from the sheer arch-conservative nature of the thing, but there’s always another reason too), I don’t like the “no more realism in painting—waaah! Mommy prepare my battle tank! I’m going in!”, thing, you know. First of all, (a) there are some, and (b) most of the people interested in realism in contemporary times go in for photography, including sometimes art photography. A medium’s just a tool.

Which is why I think Dorothea is actually a lot like Edward Hopper, 20th century realism, and also from a rather earlier time Van Gogh. I went through a time when I got rid of all my art photo books because I thought they were, or the ones I had, at least, were dreadfully snobbish, but looking back I liked Dorothea and I’ll borrow her stuff from the library. It’s actually rather less snobbish than Vincent. For an artist she is actually a pretty nice blend; a nice slice of the sad/different/underrepresented forgotten people, and also some attractive/cute work, often done in innovative ways.

“Can’t say fairer than that.” “SPEAK AMERICAN!!”

…. It ironic, because when I read the Dorothea book I deleted, (at one point, I deleted those photographers, like, Bam!), I was kinda neutral towards the padonnas, the feminine fathers; I was a little Buddhist about it. (shrugs) Some fathers are masculine; other fathers are feminine, but all fathers return to the great void, the great nothing, from which all came, to which all return…. But now I kinda wanted the padonnas, but I didn’t think there are any padonnas in either this book or in any library Dorothea Lange book, you know; I guess that the library doesn’t believe in padonnas, you know. It believes in suffering. ~Suffering is the highest civic virtue in post-Christian America; the surest bulwark against terrible, terrible happiness, that great scourge. If you don’t want to cultivate the art of suffering, go out in the mud and play. EYE, along with the scholars, the good people, want to cultivate civic-minded suffering, responsibility, and virtue.~ And if you buy art books, then you’re REALLY feeding the beast, right.

(shrugs) But I wanted a female artist, Dorothea was a good person, and it’ll give me practice learning to relate to the little baby salty crackers, no matter how carefully they cultivate their unhappiness, right. Maybe they’ll even sneak in a little honey cracker, right, when nobody’s looking. (little boy from ye olde cartoon days pops cracker in his mouth) (his eyes comically widen) Honey! 🍯

(looks at the girl on the cover) But maybe not often. Goblins and Goebbels, it’s like she’s a great lady above being pleased, right. “The noble colonizeress, fallen on hard times”.

…. “Seeing for me is a way of knowing, photography a way of thinking. A photograph can embody a complete thought or an entire story; a series of photographs can shape a narrative or make an argument.”

Any tarot reader would agree with that; most (or at least many) would probably say that the cards are like a narrative or message that the gods send to us, right.

(half-smile) Gosh, that was a couple of competent English sentences from a fucking University Press art writer, you know; how delightfully surprising. This might actually be somewhat ok, maybe.

…. (preface) Anne writes clearly, but she doesn’t seem to have much to say. It’s all writing for curiosity’s sake, knowledge for curiosity’s sake, you know. I suppose there’s a sort of half-formed feminism, you know, not made explicit. “(Coughwomencough) can be chasers after the curious, knowers of the unknown philosophy….” And certainly, Walker Evans strikes me as a giant, arrogant dick, you know. “Art isn’t…. And art isn’t…. Basically, art ISN’T what YOU like: ~art~ is what EYE do!” (points to suspenders-wearing self) (jackass critics) Brilliant! Wonderful! A triumph! He restores my lack of faith in the process of life!….

But what is she really writing about? 1939 in the sticks in America? A year in the life? How many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall? No no, not that…. Too poetic; this isn’t poetry…. It’s ART…. 🥱….

(looks up the lyrics) “And though the holes were rather small, they had to count them all.” Boy, those two could write. I hate to forget that they were a pair of paleface lads from England, but that really is what people are like, you know. And though the holes were rather small, they had to count them all. And what, in all of the many years in which so much has come and gone and so many new things have become obsolete, has really changed, right?

…. “Congratulations, sir, you are poor. You have reached a very useful condition, a peak condition. Like Jane Austen, Langston Hughes, and William Shakespeare, you have arrived. Don’t change; don’t compromise. You have arrived. Don’t even replace that—well, ok, replace it now. Now it’s broken. But really, you inspire all us half-monastic eggheads who cultivate suffering and responsibility and—“

~no one ever knocked on my door and told me this, no matter how little money I had. If they had, I would have told them about the psych unit, and what it was able to do for me, you know

Not trying to step on the penis of the little baby salty cracker, you know, but…. It’s like bro. There’s nothing to fucking congratulate them on, right; they’re not happy…. And you cracking your egghead open with the grandness, what does that accomplish? “I think we would all be happy if we just took some time every day to wash our eyes out with bleach, get them nice and clean.” Then you’d be blind. “Right…. Well, fucking don’t listen to me, then; I’m an egghead….”

…. And you all know that Richard Nixon was an egghead, right; but that doesn’t bother people. If Richard Nixon had said “I never slept with that woman”, there would have been a few snickers of agreement: and that, would have been that. (Especially if it had been ~another~ egghead, right! Surely the Only way for a woman to be, unless ~stream of epithets~.)

I mean, it’s just too long and too boring. Too goddamn wordy for an art book, you know; it’s like, bitch, this is a PHOTOGRAPHY book: there’s such a thing as Proportion!…. And it’s all for the sake of some photos of ugly, abused people, that it would be an understatement to say is a disservice to them to publish, you know: it’s like, if some enemy burns your house down, you don’t gather and collect and save all the burnt ashes and ruined crap, you know…. And again, all so some nervous-she’s-not-in-the-elite-club girl can go, There’s knowledge out there! I’ve gotta collect all the knowledges, mommy, and really promote and distribute them: so that the little people can really serve the knowledges as they know that they ought to…. ~while nervously looking over her shoulder at fucking Nestor or somebody; bloody Homer. You know: if there had been one poor, ugly old white lady reading Homer or whatever in the burnt rubble of her house, oblivious of her surroundings, we could have just made it a fucking poster and been done with it.

Art: so ~beautiful~, so ~deep~…. Or, by the law of opposites: so ~ugly~, and so ~bullshit-y~, right…. (shakes head) After this, I think I’ll take a break from art books. Every time I think I’m getting close to the art of beautiful living, the art of being alive; there’s more lies and bullshit, you know; squirreling away in isolation like some kind of fucking hairy rodent, you know…. Just garbage. Dross. Like metal you can’t make anything out of, right. “Oh, but surely the metal you CANNOT make a sword out of is the BEST….” Ok, sure: I’ll give you a good price on that, Best, kind of metal, you delusional little freak, absolutely 🏂

…. I mean, we do not all reach the place we are going to in life, all in one go, or even in a year or two, but if somebody really liked you and was a healthy member of a healthy culture, and they photographed you, an essentially healthy person, while you were still in the ring, in the fight, with dragon’s claw-marks still on you, wouldn’t they show, yes, the dark, and not deny it, but also the sense of what the Christians I guess reluctantly call grace—ah, there are good things in religion 😔—or just a sense of the knowledge of your own worth, you know; your own mettle….

Or would they photograph you in the moment when your grimace, your probably habitual grimace, set a little harder, and you thought, Fuck this life, fuck my fucketty life, and fuck this one and that one…. ~Right?

Because that’s what it looks like. It’s like a great conspiracy of ugliness, you know: subject and artist and critic and public…. People just not well, bitches, and ironically, ‘daring to look’, at everything but at their denial of how much they hated being stuck in America in the 20th century, and on planet Earth in a human body, right.

…. It’s just so smug. What does the opposite of denial mean to me. Well first we have to display our smug knowledge of 1930s economics, then take some photos of neutral-to-miserable parents without talking about either the general human condition or their own kinda…. I mean, it’s nice if she took a photo and they decided to build a few houses, but there’s a lot more to a broken reed than the environment, right: it’s also a stance, you know, and then also the environment reinforces it back, like, I don’t care if you people’s brains are exploding: fuck you…. And it’s just random, no story at all: suicidal-y parent; random car; big field, semi-happy kid; gruff man; random house; morose workers—it’s funny how the only people who looked like they were enduring without being one foot in the grave were the kids. I know people get ageist and weird about kids, although this was the 30s, right: and for me it kinda implies that that studied “one foot in the grave” look was kinda something you had to be socialized into…. The kids don’t look like wild and crazy kids, but they’re don’t look like they have one foot in the grave, right…. Meanwhile the improbable colonialist (improbable that a woman could get put in charge of a colonial project) with her book just jazzes on and on about nothing in particular, except that they aren’t enough books in the world, and especially not books about nothing at all, right….

…. And I mean: you take this white lady taking photos of white people and the white girl scholar comes along and whines about her reputation, and compares her to one of the great white ethnocentric writers of the pre-civil rights decades, right. And without any sort of consciousness of any of those patterns. Just smug, and without a goddamn clue. And that, my friends, is what Black girls mean by “white feminism”. Palefaces can be honest feminists, of course. But sometimes, children: it’s about dividing up the loot—and dividing up the loot fairly. Based on the inspiring true story, right. (rolls eyes)

…. I think it’s funny when you have the intellectual who’s (a) the champion of the commons, and (b) who figures out what the commons thinks, so they can argue the opposite to scold them, right. That’s the feel I get from this book…. There were a lot of intellectuals like that in those times; it’s the commonest thing, being the way you gain prestige, as is imagined.

…. But yeah: I think my next art book—not right away—will be about the ancient world. Fuck these moderns, sometimes; took me long enough to figure that out. It’s like Grey Valley Sunday, you know; you can’t make this stuff up—nor would you want to, basically.

…. (female Downton Abbey character) Thank you, (introducer). Well, as you probably already know, the title for my talk tonight is, ‘Daring to Bore’. Some people might be a little afraid, I’m sure, to stand up in front of a room and bore so many people; perhaps my mother was right and I’m a little ‘foolhardy’, as they say, but whatever the reason, I shall have a go at it. First slide. Thank you. Boredom began a long time ago, but tonight we will fast forward to modern boredom in the age of jazz music and black and white photography….

…. I can remember when I thought that the eggheads were both ~great~ and ~kind~; their enemies the little baby salty cracker punishment conservatives the only problem….

Such an odd thought. To think there’s ~life~ in that grayscale way, you know…. People think they so damn Good, just to crack their brains open being Loyal to it….

…. Those people created a greyscale world; they really did. Not even black and white—they wanted an inedible grey soup of it, all mucked and mixed together; nothing solid or worth eating…. They certainly give no sign that they were happy, you know…. Even suicides are briefly happy before it all comes down on them; but not these people.

…. Photography is funny. People view realism in art as popular, whereas in the sense of ‘popular’ sense apart from, I don’t know, sales or the current opinion of the mob—the sense in which “Twilight” is popular even if it is emphatically rejected by some emphatically vulgar people, right; forgotten bands from the 80s are popular even if they never got rich and have since been laughed out of youth culture—in my opinion, abstract art is merely different, and in itself is not more or less elitist. Sometimes the average person is just afraid to change—the mob can be very conservative—and prefers the elites of yesterday to the pop work of today…. But yeah, people forget to call photography “art”, although if they did, I suppose they’d call it popular art…. Although this is not the conception the photographers have of themselves. They are technicians, and just as worthy of elite status as anybody of their kind. If they do “easy to understand” realism, if they photograph people who had trouble making rent last month—it makes no difference. They are elite technicians, and you’ll not forget it.

…. Which isn’t to say that photographers MUST consider themselves in that way; that would be absurd. But it is the consensus view of self and artist among “the best” photographers and their editors or whoever, and a very, very popular view among the masses of their middle-rung professional comrades generally, no matter how humble and unworthy they’d be viewed by “the best”, you know.

…. “An artist shouldn’t be snubbed because of her gender….”
(thumbs up)

“…. Especially considering that an artist works basically in order to gain status.”
(hand opens)

(stereotypical rapper) “Status not money, bitches; status not money, bitches— (thumps chest) Ugh! Ugh!” (instrumental)

😜

…. Holy shit, after almost a third of a short book has gone by, well over sixty pages, were finally into a proper photography book with photos and proper-sized captions, instead of a basically text-based books with a modestly-large number of photographs. I didn’t realize that change was coming.

However, it’s nothing to write home about, so to speak. To call it prosaic doesn’t even begin to cover it, you know…. Didn’t John and Paul say that they wrote some stupid number of songs like “One after 909” in the days of the dinosaurs—before the Beatles, even? A hundred, a thousand—some stupid number. Though of course, “One after 909” is kinda a shit song, so….

I mean, I hate to alienate the little baby salty crackers, but it’s like, the phrase that comes to mind is, “unappealingly American”, you know. “I went to Japan and studied reiki.” “I went to Paris and ate at a fine restaurant.” “I went to Boston College to do some research in their library.” “What did you do, Ed?” “I went to visit my Uncle Murray, and we went crab fishing, listened to some country music, talked to some pretty ladies, peed in public, and almost got arrested.”

California having basically no history—or no Anglo history, the Indigenous folks made the place work for them, and there was a little Spanish colonial stuff, kinda primitive by our standards—makes it attractive NOW, everything is new there: that is the ad-idea for California; but in the 30s, it wasn’t new, it was just…. Primitive white men, pissing behind trees, you know—a long, long way from Boston.

I mean, aside from intentionally-offensive stuff, like military dictatorship gun-toys, and mass murderer faces, and so on, I just can’t think of anything less appealing, anything that I’d want to have represent me, less than this shit, really.

…. It’s like: (reminds me of how much I hated the Grapes of Wrath) or (tiramisu).
—Oh: do you like tiramisu?
—Well, it tastes like poop…. It’s healthy though, right?
—Ah, it’s a dessert.
—Oh, ok…. But! It’s not “The Grapes of Wrath”, so….

…. These images are wild.

—I feel like these people just need to experience a different culture. Maybe I could share my tiramisu with them; tiramisu is Japanese.
—Hermes tiramisu is Italian.
—Oh. (beat) Well, at least it’s healthy—REALLY healthy, I mean, it tastes like poop…. And come to think of it, they might perceive difference in Italians. They only are comfy with people from—
(psycho Christian harpy bitch) Hermes you’re the devil!
—(faces becomes expressive, then) That’s not what my mother told me this morning!
—Your mother can go to the devil! She IS the devil!

I get so nostalgic about those times, bro. It was a good time for the chess club. It was a good time for white men. 🥸👨🏻‍🚒

…. To call the captions materialist doesn’t even begin to cover it, you know. “…. So now you know how to own and operate your very own tobacco farm.” ~ Caption for something I probably would have called, “Toothless Steve and Little Mike”, you know…. It’s like, god, how did she survive out in the sticks? Did she intentionally present as a visiting god of cerebral processes, come to investigate a primitive planet to make sure the Klingons weren’t interfering with its development? It’s like, holy shit….

…. God, and they had one nice thing, a fancy bed, and she showed like 2% of it in her view of the room, to be “objective” or whatever. (If it’s negative, it’s objective!) That’s why I can’t show really pictures of these little baby salty crackers, even if I wanted to, right—even if I wanted to try to reassure the poor white farmer type or whatever, I can’t, not with this. She just makes them look bad, you know. I guess she doesn’t realize she’s doing it, or whatever—although the effect is very real…. Part of me still can’t get over the image on page ten: anti-ageism is one thing, but this is like the pre-ageist period, and that’s not always a fucking…. A young bride? No no: I want to photograph granny; granny, really try to look like you did the day you came over from rural Sweden; try to look like you can’t speak English; give me the confused frigid rural Scandinavian look…. god, I can’t wait to get back to New York, people will feel so much better to think that somebody’s more tribal and weird than their own grandparents…. No, I told you: my instructions clearly state I can’t photograph any female between the ages of 18 and 35: listen mister, did you think we came from the city to make you folks look good?….

…. There is one good image—the Black padonna on page 116. (116 pages before the first good shot!) Although unless this editor is even worse than I’m giving her credit for, Dorothea’s work in a more “representative” way was much, much worse than that very, very short book I deleted or whatever gave the impression of…. And part of it is just, Blacks are treated so bad in media, even a relatively artless treatment makes them seem better than the passive-agggressive norm, right…. It is a good shot, too, unusually good for her. Although some of the images of Black folk in this book are terrible. WTF did she do to the family on 113? It’s like she said, “3 2 1…. ‘The KKK is visiting later!’” (snaps shot). And their expression is like, Epithets said they ain’t coming again till next Friday, now they coming again today? Shite…. ~I mean, you do a shot like that, you gotta at least put a caption that says, “The children of the noble black earth live short lives of unending pain because of whitey”, right, but I doubt that’s what she did. The way she did it, her friends back in segregated Manhattan will just look at it and say, Sometimes Negroes right ugly looking…. What an unhappy people! (turns nose in air like Edwardian aristocrat)

…. But yeah: images are quite normative, I don’t think that the modernists/technicians got that. They’re not words. Stories are about bad things; images are about good things…. And when your client or whoever when you ask him about himself, says, “I think I’m doing alright; I got so many acres and so much tobacca; I like to think of mysel’ as lookin’ up”, and your photo of him shows, you know: a poor morose ugly epithet, basically—then you’re not serving your client, basically. Either that, or you’re basically unconsciously saying, ‘You think you know your life; but EYE am a technician, and EYE am the one here who REALLY knows….”

(shrugs) That, and just: objectivity is merely bias in favor of the negative, basically.

…. Either that, or the “client” was not the person in the photograph, with an interest in happiness and looking the part, so to speak, but the segregation-era government, that had an interest in knowing what an ugly epithet from North Carolina looks like, so that they could file away that ownership, you know: that objectivity….

…. Yeah, there were certainly Issues with society at the time—as well as plenty of blind rage: I’m not sure its comforting that a huge percentage of the dispossessed wanted to end the system point blank, and only a small percent were “socialist” or knew anything about socialism, or, one can’t help but assume, much of anything else…. Very, very explicable, but not comforting, and the “wise rulers” just reacting by stigmatizing the few socialist thinkers and hiring muscle to bully the masses—what gentle, persuasive lords of wealth! What believers in the principle of free exchange between willing partners!

Yeah, there was a lot in the system of the market that wasn’t free in any meaningful sense, and didn’t lead to or promote freedom in any meaningful sense. “After all: we’re men”, you can hear the owners say….

But the pictures are very ineffective, really—they’re remarkably unemotional; they don’t move you to change society or change yourself; they hardly motivate you to turn the page…. And of course, much of the society of the time would have been a very callous audience, right…. The more excuse for making callous, almost, unemotional pictures, right, according to science, right…. It does little but reinforce the scientific bias of the age: poorly dressed people almost literally counting beans….

Obviously the Great Artist did not believe in ‘Fact & Fancy’, only Fact, right: but even so normal an artist as Dickens could have done better than this: the prince and the pauper, right: photograph the Agricultural Worker in his work-trash, and then do another one, of him in a suit…. [Twain, sorry. ‘Fact and Fancy’ is from “Hard Times”, though, Dickens.]

I don’t know why she imagined herself as an artist without any imagination at all, or got hailed as the lord of bean counters ‘artist’, right…. Except that that’s how the whole crazy world was, basically….

…. Ricky here says he’s a Wobbly: him and the other single men are gonna burn down the government. The other one, Tony, stands by himself, says he don’t need to eat too much if it means it’s gubbermint bread. (shrugs) So I bought me a rifle. For my business—it’s an investment.

They were certainly men in those times, you know….

…. So we spent about a day, day and a half, looking for a farm to buy with our life’s savings. Turns out we bought the wrong one, though.
—You only spent a day or two spending your whole life’s savings on real estate? Didn’t you know anything about money?
—Money…. Where do people learn about it? I suppose schools teach people things, although all I learned about money in school is that money is a wicked thing that Homer the poet didn’t know about in the fine olden times…. Although I left school when I was fourteen, fifteen…. Why, what did you learn about money in school?
—Only that it’s the worst thing in the world!…. Although if you want to make any, school’s the place you have to go, although you have to have money to go there….
—And they go there, they come out, they make money?
—Well, they Should, anyway, they’re Entitled…. Although it’s wicked stuff, that money—makes you sick! Or it Should, anyway….
—Hmm. Should is a lot airier than wood…. Wish I had me some money….

…. Sometimes academic art is all academics and no art…. Isn’t art beauty; isn’t it wonder and delight? Or else….

(robot) Fellow devices, I have completed my report on the foreigners. They call themselves, “hoomies”. This is what they look like.
(robots) Oh….! “But where’s its face?”
(robots) Huh?…. Oh! That’s a toilet. THIS is its face.
(robots) Oh….! “Ugly, isn’t it?” “No wonder they hate themselves.” “When do we begin the attack?”

Right?

…. I can deal with the picture of the little girls having their reading lesson on page 255. They’re not Hollywood, by any stretch of the imagination, but that’s not necessarily a good or a bad thing, and at least they don’t make one feel embarrassed for one’s culture to look at, you know. (French guy) “Americans—hon! They are proud that they fought off the red men: but they look like Gypsies! They are like red men with white skin! If they didn’t burn and murder the red man wherever they find them, you wouldn’t know which is which!” Although that’s not to say I want to be able to speak correct French, you know. Dabble in Danish, or Navajo: screw the countries that shame you for sounding like a foreigner, right. “God damn it; I’m, not, French: here, I AM a foreigner, you fucking imbecile! That’s why I sound like one!”

But yeah, I wanted to see if I could find a decent image of an Anglo man, but I’m not sure I will; which is unfortunate, and not only because of the seething Anglo masses and their opinion, right. It is kinda unfortunate to put it all on eight year old girls—even eight year olds that look like perfectly normal eight year olds, right—to hold up the photo shoot by themselves, right…. But these males are disasters, you know. Giving gladness to females is not an entry on their list of priorities, you know. Just to suggest it—I can imagine the response, you know. Blanket hostility: “And I’m glad I don’t give gladness to females!—(sputters) I should think not, eh? Eh?” 😠

…. Understand when I say this that I love books, but you know, there’s things and there’s books about things and there’s books about books that weren’t good, about things better forgotten, right? And it’s like, sometimes I just get down and pray and beg GOD to take from me this evil, the people writing these fucking “books”, you know….

No heart, no body, just a brain cut out of the body and tossed in the road, speckled with mud and grinning evilly, you know.

I like that word, evilly. I think every so often you should write a sentence that contains a word that doesn’t sound like a proper word, so that no pedant will attach to the bottom of your ship like a barnacle, and so that when the evil comes to port, it won’t be on your ship, right?

…. Nothing warms the heart like a nostalgic radical, right. Where does one even begin…. I feel like an apology to all the people she tried to support is in order, and not only for the “no iceberg ahead: full steam ahead, cowboy!” advice, you know….

…. (end) But, yeah: the salvage from the wreckage:

—Black padonna (feminine father): p. 116

—Schoolgirls’ having reading lesson: p. 255
  goosecap | Feb 17, 2024 |
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"Daring to Look" presents never-before-published photos and captions from Dorothea Lange s fieldwork in California, the Pacific Northwest, and North Carolina during 1939. Lange s images of squatter camps, benighted farmers, and stark landscapes are stunning, and her captions which range from simple explanations of settings to historical notes and biographical sketches add unexpected depth, bringing her subjects and their struggles unforgettably to life, often in their own words.When Lange was dismissed from the Farm Security Administration at the end of 1939, these photos and field notes were consigned to archives, where they languished, rarely seen. With "Daring to Look," Anne Whiston Spirn not only returns them to the public eye, but sets them in the context of Lange s pioneering life, work, and struggle for critical recognition firmly placing Lange in her rightful position at the forefront of American photography. A] thoughtful and meticulously researched account of Lange s career. . . . Spirn, a photographer herself, traces Lange s path, visiting her locations and subjects in a fascinating series of then and now shots. "Publishers Weekly" Dorothea Lange has long been regarded as one of the most brilliant photographic witnesses we have ever had to the peoples and landscapes of America, but until now no one has fully appreciated the richness with which she wove images together with words to convey her insights about this nation.We are lucky indeed that Anne Whiston Spirn, herself a gifted photographer and writer, has now recovered Lange s field notes and woven them into a rich tapestry of texts and images to help us reflect anew on Lange s extraordinary body of work. William Cronon, author of "Nature s Metropolis""

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