“How true it is, that
it is too late to catch the living form and face of our dear friends, and well
illustrates the necessity of procuring those more than life-like resemblances
of our friends, ere it is too late— ere the hand of death has snatched away those
we prize so dearly on earth.”
Taking Portraits
After Death. N. G. Burgess
From The Photographic and Fine-Art Journal Vol.
8, No. 3
March 1855 Page 80
The description of this item is brief. It is
an ambrotype from the Woodward manuscript collection. The item is listed as an
“interesting example of post-mortem portrait of baby along with a woven piece
of hair.” Other images are listed as part of the collection, but these two
objects, as they are listed in one sentence, are presented as a unit.
Therefore, our group treated them as one item in two parts. In this way, the
description scripted out treatment of the items (Bernstein’s idea of
scriptivity; Phelan’s point that writing changes the performance) – we wouldn’t
have considered them together otherwise.
The objects were donated by Fletcher Gardner,
who married Lucy Woodward (hence the “Woodward collection”). Based on the fact
that the image is an ambrotype, a medium that was most popular between
1854-1860 (Lilly’s description gives this information), the child in the
picture was probably one of Lucy Woodward’s elder siblings. The family would
have been able to afford such a photograph as the father and many of the sons
were all physicians. The family often wintered in San Antonio, which further
intimates that they were well off.
In order to consider Wexler’s reading of
racial history and photography in light of this item, we need more context. Admittedly,
the picture does not depict a black subject, however, the production history is
significant. The Woodward family had connections to states’ right movements
and, therefore, may have also possessed pro-slavery sentiments. Not only did
they spend time in Texas with a man who wrote the book (literally) on a
decisive battle in the movement for Texan independence at the beginning of the
nineteenth century, but one brother, Alexander, wrote the “Review of Uncle Tom’sCabin or an Essay on Slavery” (Lilly records) A brief look at the book’s table of contents reveals the
following heading: “Slavery is not an evil under all circumstances. It would have
proved a blessing to the slaves, if masters and servants had complied with the
requisitions of the Bible. None so much to blame as abolitionists. The
condition of an individual may be such, that he is fit for nothing but a
slave.” The fact that this was written by a
northerner from Monroe County, Indiana highlights that the divide between those
who supported abolition and those who defended slavery was far more complex
than merely North vs. South.
Wexler
said that she wanted to model a provide a close, attentive reading of
photographs so that she “could restore voice and context to historical
knowledge that may have been hidden or repressed” (161). The fact that this
child was born to a family with these sympathies is the only voice one can offer,
as the child him/herself, based on his/her age, never had a literal voice.
Moving
from Wexler, one can also read Harris’ polychronic and multitemporal concepts
in the physical object. It is the production of a world in transition, just as
the child was the production of a family whose ideas were becoming
counter-geographically stereotypical. The fact that this is an ambrotype is
significant. According to the Encyclopedia
of Nineteenth-Century Photography, this form of photography came after the daguerreotype,
but was superior in that it didn’t have the reflective finish that made daguerreotypes
so difficult to view. Rather, the plate was exposed in order to capture the image,
then the plate itself was adhered to a dark surface in order to highlight the
image (1496). This means that an ambrotype is unique and its moment of
production is also its moment of final creation. This begs the question: could
an ambrotype be a photographic form of performative speech? Could a Polaroid be
the same?.
The
images could, as this one is, be touched with color. In the case of our image,
the baby’s lips and arms have been tinted pink, adding an additional layer of
lifelikeness to a dead image of a dead infant. This piece of history bridges
the gap between one form of photography and another, one form of preservation
and another – it both supersedes the past, but it is almost immediately
superseded by the print portraits. (The supersession wasn’t perfect: ambrotypes
continued to be a popular form in certain areas, particularly Japan until 1888 [1498]).
The technology of the photograph and, quite possibly, the political sentiments
of the subject’s family, were both challenged by the imminent Civil War, in
which abolition was the law of the land, and more durable forms of photography
(not on glass) became popular.
To
examine the item fully, as Bernstein would demand, one must also attend to the
picture’s very bright brass border, faced by a velvet, embossed protector and
set in a thermoplastic frame. Thermoplastic was created as a response to
decreasing availability of ivory for use in billiard balls. The thermoplastic used in the
case surrounding the baby’s photo is hard, black, and hinged; it has an
intricate floral motif. However, unless one knew that this is not actually
plastic, but an early form of it made from different components, one would have
no idea that this is pseudo-ivory. Would previous photos like this have been
housed in ivory cases instead? How would that change our reading of this
object? Would it have then had more in common with the woven hair?
In any event, the woven hair oddly does echo
the case’s floral motif. As stated above, the archival materials
indicated that hair was somehow integrated within the portrait frame. However,
when we actually handled the artifact, we realized that the picture and frame
were separate from the hair, which was actually a kind of woven art piece of
sorts, braided to form a tiny bouquet of flowers anchored by a wire frame at
the base. It's not certain whose hair this is - - - probably not the baby's,
perhaps their mother? - - - but what is certain is that this object was part of
the extensive Victorian mourning culture that extended from beyond the confines
of Great Britain, to influence culture in America, and Indiana. Mourning
jewelry often showcased locks of hair of the deceased, sometimes woven into
fanciful shapes or elaborate patterns. It is a lovely, somewhat disconcerting
object, this tiny little posy with three colors of hair braided together to
form separate stalks and blossoms. It is an eerie object, because it once
graced some living human being's head (presumably), and we know they are long
dead due to the age of the item. It is a ghostly remnant of a former life, a strange,
moving monument to love in the face of death. The patience and delicate touch
required of the person tasked with crafting this object is staggering. It must
have been a family member or someone who loved the deceased very much, so much
that they created this “never-dying” representation of a bouquet of flowers,
something that, like humans, withers and dies. Hair lasts for a very long time;
indeed, there are mummies with lush heads of hair that are thousands of years
old. In a way, you could see this piece of hair art as a palimpsest, something
that has been shaped into a new thing, but retains visible remnants of its
former incarnation. We know that this piece of hair was once on a living
being; now, it remains archived as a piece of decorative, albeit morbid, art.
It’s also clear the object is the production of a woman, not
a man, and not only represents flowers, but also skill and the body. This item
was made by a woman from herself and others’ selves in order to inspire memory.
One could tie this to Phelan’s argument about performance of female bodies and
metonymy, in a way. Here, the woman has created a “spur to memory, an
encouragement of memory to become present” (146). Her and/or others’ bodies are
metonymically represented by hair. We can’t access what/who was being
remembered through the hair and floral motif, but it previously served that
scripted purpose for its owner (Bernstein). It is not, as Phelan argues, the actual performance, but it – like the
photo – is a remembrance of a beloved person/body. Or, to reach back to Roach,
it is a surrogate for one who is lost or no longer present.
The contrast is striking between the
previously alive and currently dead hair representing flowers and the
photograph of the previously alive and currently dead child. However, when one
considers the purpose of the photo, the oddity fades. This is, in actuality, a
familiar object. It is not an uncommon practice for fathers to carry pictures
of their children in their wallet today; in fact, it’s commonplace to buy cheap
plastic sleeves to slide them into. Not only that, but we can collect even more
on our smartphones or digital cameras. Capturing those candid moments in the
park or better yet, a video of them swinging on the swings, begging daddy to
push them higher and higher!
So stumbling upon this sleeping child at the
Lilly didn’t seem too unusual. The size was completely manageable and perfect
for travel; it’s about the size of a baseball card. And it comes in a hinged
picture frame with broad detail on the outside, and the inside has velvet
lining on one side and the image of the child is framed with a thin gold-like
metal plate on the other. There is also a small latch to ensure that it stays
shut.
And the baby looks happy. Isn’t that how you
want to remember your child when you’re away from them? Smiling. Rosy cheeks.
Pleasantly napping. Peaceful.
Blissful. Of course that’s how you want to remember your baby. Even if your
child has died.
It was not an uncommon practice to photograph
the dead in the 19th century. It was so common that photographer
N.G. Burgess has an article all about in the March 1855 issue of The
Photography and Fine-Art Journal entitled “Taking Portraits After Death.” In this article he describes exactly
what you’d expect him to describe. He speaks on if the child is an infant it is
perfectly acceptable to have it propped on the parents’ lap, or, if it is an
older child, to lay him or her on a blanket on a table with their head facing
the window as to catch the light. There are other semantics that any
photographer goes through, of course, which is the backdrop for a picture of
this sort: having your assistant hold a white sheet behind you to reflect the
light, and, of course, if the child cannot be removed from the coffin, he gives
insider secrets on how to hide the wooden box (Pst. you put blankets around the
coffin).
So why is this photo interesting? Aside from
the obvious historical context it comes with (and also that intricately braided
piece of hair), the photograph is fascinating because it is misleading. There
is no indication that this photograph is of a dead child or a sleeping child.
When you first look at the image, it appears to be a child sleeping peacefully.
In your mind, that child was alive. And thus, in your reality, s/he was. When told that the child actually
was dead. The image then becomes one of a dead child -- very similar to the
Schrödinger’s Cat experiment.
How does this image interact with the viewer,
or how does it ask the viewer to dance (Bernstein)? Well, first of all it’s in
a bi-fold picture frame. If this is closed, and better yet – if the latch is
locked – then you know that it is your role to open it and see what is inside. Very
similar to a book. This is not a normal picture frame that you hang on a wall.
You’ll either keep it closed somewhere on a table top, or prop it up. Either
way, you will not just hang it up and forget about it. It is a mobile object
and it relies on us for its communication to be completed.
In short, knowing that this photo was taken
of a dead child, not a living one, is kind of creepy. The effort they went
through to get that snapshot. But how much resonance does Burgess’ quote from
the end of his article hold for us? He urges us to capture images of our loved
ones while they are alive and well. For when they pass on, he can make them
look like an innocent, sleeping child… but the child is still gone. And, as Hodgdon argues, there is no way
to push the performance back into “re-being” through photography, despite the
best efforts of the photographer to “make visible the invisible” (89, 104)
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