All That Flickrs

I'm not much of a fan of Flickr -- far too many folks uploading stuff without information, credits, or even keywords/tags/labels which make much sense (whatever sense folksonomy can make). And I see far too many 'sexy self-portraits' which are anything but. I keep searching for every now and then I find something interesting, such as a collection of risque magazines, pulp book covers, photos of burlesque dancers, or something vintage & smutty with enough information to be either useful or intriguing.

Then a light shines.

I found Joey Harrison's set titled Mom's World. It's absolutely stunning.

Currently 232 photos are in this set. They are excellent photographs, mostly black and white, capturing a time and its sentimentality. While the old axiom that a picture is worth a thousand words is likely true, I find one of the most charming aspects of Harrison's Flickr set is the text commentary by Harrison's mom.

Clearly his mother is an intelligent, articulate women, with a warm sense of humor; this is easy to see in the photos she has taken as well as the photographs taken of her. But along with the commentary I find a thoughtful emotional component which endears. It's not the usual "remember when" that you'll find with many who page through their photo albums; it's not a mere analytical comparison of 'then and now' either. There is something more fierce yet elusive to define in her narrative... These are not simply quaint photos with typical anecdotes.

I first stumbled upon the photo set seeing this photo of 'mom' in her darkroom in 1949.

Something about the polished white jacket spoke of a determination & a professionalism that added complexity to an old photo of a pretty woman developing photos. (Her attire is explained as being her uniform for work at a doctor's office, of which you can see/read about circumcision, and other tales of medicine of the day.)

Clicking to see a larger view, I was naturally curious about the photo in the photo -- of what seemed to be a scantily clad beauty. So I read the comments:

I painted the room a dark rosy red and made traverse draperies of black to cover the one window. It was a warm womb for long Saturday afternoons with the Met playing softly on the radio. I totally lost track of time with the birthing of amazing black-and-white photos. Each was a miracle, over and over again. I'm as fascinated with them today as I was 56 years ago.

There was a small downside. As relatives and friends learned of my hobby they would press exposed rolls upon me to develop. I did a few. Oh, it was agony! Drudgery! Dreary, repetitive, unartful, bland photos. (Long before automatic cameras made even dumb photos at least in focus and properly exposed!)

Not all of the requests were refused. Jerry, smirking a little, produced a roll given him by his young brother Tony, who worked in a neighborhood beer store. Tony asked that I pul-eeze develop a roll for him. He'd been my booster since I met him as the 14-year-old son of my landlady, and he carefully kept track of telephone calls for me. His roll had been shot in the back room of the beer store of ladies of questionable reputation and groping young men, who were not exactly Ivy League! There wasn't any nudity, but a lot of hormones flowed! The props and background were strictly cases of beer. It would be pretty tame stuff by today's standards. But the photos were quite funny actually. If I can locate a negative later, I will share.

On another occasion Jerry produced a roll given him in strictest confidence by a handsome and successful young businessman in Grand Rapids, his customer. He implored Jerry to be absolutely discreet with the photos and negatives. I took it seriously and developed and printed the roll, all full of admiration for the beautiful photos and didn't keep a single one. Jerry then yielded the tasteful prints to his customer.

They were of a gorgeous young woman totally in the buff, posed 16 different ways. For many years, when seeing the handsome man on billboards touting his business, I would get a secret tickle. He married the girl and they raised a large Catholic family.

The 4x5 I am pulling out of the fixer in the photo above showing a gal in her black bra, was Rose Bottegal, the wife of Jerry's Army buddy Aldo. He and Rose visited us in 1949, and while on the water in a rowboat on a steaming day, Rose shed her blouse. Wearing just her bra, she said "Just make believe this is a swimming suit top."

If the photo drew me, the commentary mesmerized me.

I continued to visit all 232 posts, finding each as interesting as the next for one reason or another. Here we see in photographs & ephemera covering life in the late 40's and early 50's -- in that post WWII world where America was headed for suburbia and the nuclear family, where women were to return to a domesticity which has moved generations of women such as myself to moaning and retching.

Yet what emerges is far less threatening -- if far more emotional.




Seeing proof of women chasing men in this time and place:


The marriage and transformation to wife, including the wedding night:

This could just as well have been captioned "Our Wedding Night or How a Bad Photo Resulted in a Lifetime Hobby!"

Jerry's German camera turned out maddeningly random good or bad photos. Of course it was because we didn't know about setting it for distance, let alone shutter speed and f-stop. We posed this morning after our wedding in front of the hotel where we spent the first night of our married life. The picture turned out so badly I was motivated later to take the camera to a store to learn how to operate it and was sold a light meter. The rest is history: the beginning of better photos and a lifetime hobby.

In the hotel room on our wedding night Jerry suggested I bathe first. Avoiding his eyes, I took a few things from a small suitcase into the bathroom: nightgown, toothbrush, and little round plastic box from Dotty's doctor.

What a long day; it felt like it had been two or three. The shower was refreshing and good. I donned the nightgown Dotty gave me at a wedding shower. The delicate tea-rose rayon fell to the floor, skimming the body lightly, bias cut following all of the curves and hollows, wide lace panels defining upper areas. It was chaste but alluring I decided, viewing a mirrored image. Then panic struck.

How would I get from bathroom to bed?

I fidgeted there in the bathroom, trying to figure this out. I wasn't used to parading around in front of men in a nightgown. Suddenly in great relief I noticed my blue satin raincoat hung on the inside of the bathroom door, and put it on over my nightgown. I crept out to the bed shyly and quickly slipped under the sheets, raincoat and all. Jerry smiled slightly and went into the bathroom himself.

The first big hurdle in married life had been met and resolved. I shed the raincoat while Jerry showered; soon he joined me under the sheets. Appropriate events ensued.

Falling in and out of favor with his relatives:

In this 1950 photo we were at a bar owned by Jerry's cousin Al Cimarelli and his wife, Jenny. See the "modern" shape of the bar and the chrome barstools. The seats were surely upholstered in dark red vinyl!

Attending a PSA (Photographic Society of America) convention in Detroit the following year with photographer friends from Grand Rapids, we heard a lecture by Olga Irish, a Brooklyn portrait photographer. She chose me from the audience to come on stage and be used to demonstrate her lighting techniques – fully dressed of course. The next day the Detroit Free Press carried an article about the convention with a large photo of me posing, and all hell broke loose. One of the cousins was appointed to phone Jerry to enquire about my being in Detroit without him, staying in a hotel, not phoning them, etc., etc., all a bad thing in the eyes of these very decent, family-oriented relatives. Jerry wasn't exercising control. I lost favor fast.

The worry and wonder (now) of what happened to Anne:

That’s Jerry’s Uncle Jim holding his son, another Jerry, on his lap. His wife, Anne, sits in the middle. They spent that evening at our apartment, but we didn't see a lot of them. Anne was a little special, and she had spunk. She was quite pretty, dressed nicely, was animated, imaginative, and intelligent. She had talked Uncle Jim into changing the vowel at the end of their name to make it seem less Italian.

Their life changed drastically when Uncle Jim discovered she was having a romance. Jerry told me, "Uncle Jim got rid of her right away. That day." Indeed, she disappeared from sight and conversation. There's so much left wanting here that I want to scream. A child raised without his mother. A woman probably impoverished overnight. Was she so guilt-ridden she didn't seek legal help? Was she so fear-filled and accustomed to that kind of "justice" she simply accepted it? Hers is the saddest story I know. I should say "theirs."

From brunette to blonde...



A baby, our 'Flickr guy,' Joey.

All made more bittersweet with the knowledge that this pretty amateur photographer wife and her handsome younger husband would divorce... No matter how much fun it looked like they had together.


And that one day, the cute baby boy in these photos would upload the story and the images here, to this fantasy digital world unimagined then, to be shared by us all.