There’s a standard set of questions that goes through this greedy collector’s mind as I flip through yet another dusty box of snapshots at a flea market. What accident or decision led these pictures to end up here? How long have they been hanging around? Who, if anyone, has been through them and what were they looking for? Are any of these people still alive? What toxic spores am I inhaling right now? After years of sun damage, what will the back of my neck look like when I’m 60? Are there any more boxes in this booth?
If I may speak for my eccentric tribe of fellow snapshot collectors, what sustains us is the needle-in-a-haystack thrill of discovery. This area is still one of seemingly endless reserves. Though found photography has evolved into a “viable market” the boxes of photos keep on coming and the odds that we will find a needle aren’t terrible. I haven’t discussed this aspect with other snapshot geeks, but there’s a state of semi-trance, possibly spore induced, that I fall into when making my way through countless pictures of birthday parties, men standing before a car, families awkwardly posed together. A gambler’s superstition and sorcery creep into the mix. As I rifle through successive boxes, I get a quick vibe on each lot, which is entirely illogical since the pictures are thrown together arbitrarily in a mish-mash, melting pot of humanity.
This box is crap. No joy in this box. I’m feeling it with this one.
I’ve learned to trust that voice. If I’m onto a good batch, I find myself willing the next picture to be great, the next, the next…
Then it happens. I find something remarkable (I swear, sometimes that eureka feeling happens a split second before I see the actual picture). It could be a crazy composition, an eerie double-exposure, a funny accident, a mystery, a silly set-up, an intimacy, sometimes a combination of these. A whole new set of questions arises. Who took the picture and what relationship did this person have with the subject? What was happening around them? How much of the photo was intentional? Did artistry play any part and was it appreciated as “a good shot” in its day? Might it even have been precious to someone at some time? Flip it over. It’s inscribed. Maybe the subject’s name is on the back or the date or city or a clue to the context, but usually an inscription busts open doors to more mysteries. Our own histories and longings fill in the gaps. Narratives unfold and I’m a complete goner.
Don’t look at it too long. Casually set it aside. Sandwich it between ordinary pictures and fan them out briefly before the vendor. “Will you take five bucks for these?” Pony up. Run like hell.
When Mark gave me a crate of pictures to look at, some packed in fat envelopes, some in either the original album or in albums that his assistant Diego had assembled, yet another set of questions came up. What kind of vetting process had gone on here? Is this the good stuff only or is it the unwashed masses? What direction, if any, was Diego given before putting the pictures in albums? I happen to know that when Mark takes a shine to any certain genre of “collectibles” (horrible word) he can cast a pretty wide net. Had he even seen all these pictures? I specifically asked him not to answer any of these questions, but I was very curious as to what an eye as sharp as his would come up with. As a “gallerist” (heinous word) he determines the merits of artwork presumably by applying such standards as artistic intent and skill. What if these standards are unknowable or altogether non-existent? What did he see in these snapshots? I’ve also had the opportunity to witness Mark first-hand at Kobey’s Swap Meet. He’s restless,
bemused, distracted, like he’s trying to sniff out the most curious aromas at a giant food fair. (Growing up, the highest praise my Italian relatives could bestow upon their children in the course of a brag-off would be to say he or she was a “good eater”. When it comes to visual experiences, Mark is a good eater.) His interests seem to be all over the place and so it is with his snapshot collection. He doesn’t appear to care so much about those crisp, tightly composed shots so valued by connoisseurs, but leans more toward the messy, funny, obscure stuff. He likes a series of pictures that tracks a subject’s life over the course of years. He loves period Interior Décor. He’s a sucker for pet portraits. On these subjects, our tastes are well aligned, but what he’s drawn to in the pet pictures I was presented with is between Mark and his Maker because I cannot for the life of me fathom his specific attraction. Perhaps he will enlighten me some day, but I suspect he will say something along the lines of, “I like them!” I don’t get it.
Not so with the other pictures. One of the first to grab me was this striking silhouette of
a man in profile holding who-knows-what (shown in detail, left). The back of the photo is inscribed in pencil with the words,
“Isn’t this a good silhouette? Harry took it at our hangar-"
and is then signed (in ink and in what looks like different handwriting)
“Chas. Lindbergh”.
Could it be? Sure looks a whole hell of a lot like this picture from the
Aviation History website.
Sometimes a picture feels like a grenade exploding in your face,but it might take a minute of inspection before the blast. This one gave me pause, as any picture of a handsome fella in uniform is likely to do. Also, that blimp-like shape in the top left corner was intriguing (if you look closely, the words “NO PUSH” are stenciled on there). But I might have moved on were it not for the inscription
“Love Ted”. So it was meant to be a gift. Luckily, I flipped it over:
“This was taken in Pearl. Do you see my hair has grown back in where I got cut (Ha Ha) Now I can take my hat off again. To a swell girl Love Ted”.
Did this slightly goofy-in-love, heartbreakingly sweet message from a young man far from home ever make it back to his intended swell gal? Did Ted? Holding it practically burned my hands.
Inspection. Slowing down. These can turn an initial impression on its head. Take this blurry, rather unsavory picture of a man who bears an uncanny resemblance to a post-arrest Saddam Hussein.
Quick! Keep flipping! Then I noticed the icing-words on the cake: “We love you DAD”. Suddenly, it’s a whole new picture.
God, I’m such a jerk. Of course, that does look like an icing tank below the sweet declaration of love, but still…
These staged shots of a soldier are pretty juicy and potentially disturbing. Our boy is posed in different spots with a picture of what I hope is his girl back home and not his mother. He’ll send them to her, let her know she’s always on his mind. I especially love
how the (please, God) girlfriend in the picture is making eye contact with him in the vertical shot and how the picture has perfectly titled itself, “HER”.
And then there’s Sly Ryan and his girls. This mind-boggling suite of pictures was mounted on what must be the original album pages, the kind of thick pages that have an adhesive backing covered by a clear cellophane sheet. I
had a few of these spiral-bound cheapies back in the 70’s. They all had groovy, brightly patterned covers and the informative words “Photo Album” were gold foil stamped on the covers. It’s not hard to imagine that this collection did too. But there’s no sign of the original cover and Diego has grouped them in a white binder emblazoned with the succinct title “PIMP”. As for the pictures themselves, perhaps the less said about them the better, given the troubling reality of what these folks’ lives were probably like. But here the pictures are, still together and on the face of it, documenting some good times that were had in days past. It’s a selective version of life, an attempt to create some order out of the chaos of existence and I suppose the same could be said about the act of collecting in general and possibly even of Art itself. What makes the universal impulse to impose structure on life so touching to me is its futility. Life, as far as I can see, is not big on order. But there is meaning to be found. And connection. And more beauty than any of us knows what to do with. And some good times to be had.
Maybe that’s enough.
, published by Gibbs Smith Press.
