first efforts

Recognizing Civil War photographs

Today at his blog Zoom, Errol Morris launched the first of a five-part series on what the NYT calls a "Civil War Mystery." At the same time, he's doing me a huge favor.

In part one of "Whose Father Was He?" Morris begins the story in a tantalizing fashion:

The soldier’s body was found near the center of Gettysburg with no identification — no regimental numbers on his cap, no corps badge on his jacket, no letters, no diary. Nothing save for an ambrotype (an early type of photograph popular in the late 1850’s and 1860’s) of three small children clutched in his hand. Within a few days the ambrotype came into the possession of Benjamin Schriver, a tavern keeper in the small town of Graeffenburg, about 13 miles west of Gettysburg. The details of how Schriver came into possession of the ambrotype have been lost to history. But the rest of the story survives, a story in which this photograph of three small children was used for both good and wicked purposes.

Intrigued? I am. And also grateful, because it looks as though Morris is offering me a little bit of help with my book. In the first chapter I look at public narratives about "recognition" in the context of spirit photography after the Civil War. One of the short sections of the chapter mentions the practice of publishing images of the corpses of unknown soldiers in the hopes that readers would be able to identify them. Despite that the photographs could only be reproduced as engravings, people frequently replied that they "recognized" this man as their husband, brother, father, etc. In her marvelous book This Republic of Suffering: Death and the American Civil War, Drew Gilpin Faust writes about one image which, when reproduced in Harper's Weekly four years after the soldier's death, produced several letters from women claiming this was their husband. Grief, trauma, and loss were likely what produced this recognition, not an actual identification; this same set of emotions, I contend, is what framed people's claims about recognition in the context of spirit photography after the war.

To give you an idea of what this language of recognition looks like, here's Morris citing an 1863 story in the Philadelphia Inquirer announcing the plan to use the picture of the children to identify the dead soldier:

The ambrotype was taken from his embrace, and since been sent to this city for recognition. Nothing else was found upon his person by which he might be identified. His grave has been marked, however, so that if by any means this ambrotype will lead to his recognition he can be disinterred.

Note the difference between the terms recognition and identification here. Because nothing was found on the soldier that might produce a firm "identification" of him, the editors seek instead "recognition" of the children in the ambrotype. As Morris points out, recognition will, hopefully, lead to identification, though certainly not in the usual way. Despite the fact that the newspaper only described the photograph in words, Morris tells us that the effort was successful: shortly thereafter, a woman came forward, identified the ambrotype as her children, and knew her husband was dead.

I'm looking forward to parts two through five, which will appear on Morris's blog every day the rest of this week.

Seasonal confusion

If it looks like a budget...

I know you can't necessarily judge a book by its cover. But with the release of yesterday's Republican budget-without-numbers (what Olbermann's calling the "fudge-it"), I thought a little comparison might be in order. The cover of the administration's budget is on the left, the Repubs' is on the right.

 

A. Obama color: deep blue = executive power. Repub color: washed-out blue that looks like it came from carbon paper or a ditto machine = cheap knock-off.

B. Obama typeface: Clean, crisp, sans-serif, defined border = modern, decisive, we mean business. Repub typeface: serif that looks like it was used for John Adams's budget, oddly placed italics = old-fashioned, out-of-touch, ideas are literally dated.

C. Obama iconographic embellishments: C1 = matching swirly-curly cues = balance and positive ties to the past; C2 = presidential seal = take that, party out of power! Repub iconographic embellishments:  bad knock-off of presidential seal taken out of context looks vaguely like Nazi iconography = ballsy, no ideas of our own, dangerous and impulsive.

Madison J. Dog at play and rest

Alice

 

Although I maintain a short list of what's on the nightstand here on first efforts, I don't usually blog about the books I'm reading. But I'm enjoying the current one so much, I just had to say a few words. It's Stacy Cordery's Alice: Alice Roosevelt Longworth, from White House Princess to Washington Power Broker (Penguin, 2007). Alice was the oldest daughter of Theodore Roosevelt and wife of Nicholas Longworth, who became Speaker of the House in the late twenties. She lived to the age of 96 and had a famous needlepoint pillow that read, "If you can't say something good about someone, sit right here by me." I am only on page 91 but have already learned the following marvelous things:

While still only a teenager in the White House, Alice became arguably the twentieth century's first American female global celebrity. Her choice of clothing would start fashion trends. Songs and dances were named after her. Photographers and newspapers followed her every move and scrutinized her behavior - much of which was, by the standards of the day, borderline scandalous. She is widely recognized to have popularized cigarette smoking in public by American women. She frequently carried a live snake and small bottles of whiskey in her purse. She once shot a pistol off the back of a moving train. She liked to gamble, so much so that as president TR had to work to suppress news photographs of her collecting her winnings at the track. She received so much mail - and so much of it from young men - that a White House secretary had to be assigned to screen the letters before she read them. And this one's my favorite: After her father's famous "race suicide" speech - which accused white, middle-class American women of shirking their responsibilities to the race if they limited the size of their families - Alice and two friends responded by starting a little secret society they called The Race Suicide Club. 

Did I mention that up to this point in my reading, she's only 18?

Saturday morning at the goat farm

 

 

Of organic gardens and locavore presidents

Swing sets, green fountains, and now this: a new vegetable garden. The NYT reports this morning on plans for the new White House organic garden. I went online to noodle around for historical photos of previous White House gardens and found instead this adorably informative video, which chronicles the locavore history of the White House:

All of this is good timing. I'm getting ready to put in my first real adult vegetable garden (read: not just tomatoes). And tomorrow my beloved and I are taking a short road trip to visit our favorite goat cheese farmers at Prairie Fruits Farm. We haven't been out there before, and I can't wait. We'll buy some cheese and eggs and also gawk at their new kids. FYI for you local folks, these "Farm Saturdays" run from 9 am to noon every Saturday until the Farmer's Market starts in May.

Beachy keen

This NYT piece from last week explores how even the well-off are suffering during the economic downturn. One "Atlanta socialite" interviewed even admits to (horrors!) recycling her designer duds by wearing the same dress at more than one gala (note: "gala" is the NYT word, not mine). The narrative and images like the one above reminded me of a marvelous series of FSA photographs made by Marion Post in the 1930s. In Florida to photograph migrants working in the citrus industry, Post took time to make a few photographs at a local resort in Palm Beach. They tell a different story of the Depression, to be sure. The FSA wasn't much into direct contrast, unfortunately, so these didn't circulate much. But they are a few of my secret favorites.

   

image credits: David Walter Banks for NYT (top);Marion Post, FSA

5 signs of spring

1. Open windows.
2. Open windows with a kitty in them.
3. Afternoon porch reading.
4. Neighborhood nun sightings. (Like most of our neighbors, the nuns were pretty reclusive this winter.)
5. The Barefoot Contessa's spring risotto for dinner. Tasty!

Set the flamingos free!

For all my MN friends and family who are tired of March weather. It's two minutes too long, but still funny.