by Ransom Riggs
T A L K I N G P I C T U R E S
IMAGES AND MESSAGES RESCUED FROM THE PAST
RANSOM RIGGS
Dedication
FOR DOROTHY AND JANET
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
1. Clowning Around
2. Love and Marriage
3. Times of Trouble
4. Life During Wartime
5. Janet Lee
6. Hide This Please
7. Unsolved Mysteries
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
INTRODUCTION
I HAVE AN UNUSUAL HOBBY: I COLLECT PICTURES OF PEOPLE I DON’T KNOW.
It started when I was a kid growing up in South Florida—the land of junk stores, garage sales, and flea markets—as a kind of coping mechanism. Despite my best efforts to avoid them, I was often dragged along on Sunday afternoon antiquing expeditions, down dim and dusty aisles crowded with needlepoint portraits and moth-eaten sport coats—a hell-scape for any boy of thirteen—where occasionally, while my grandmother hunted for bargains, I would find caches of old snapshots. They were photos of strangers, of weddings and funerals, family vacations, backyard forts, and first days of school, all torn from once-treasured albums and dumped into plastic bins for strangers to paw through: communal graves of a sort, the anonymous dead shuffled into ersatz families of the unwanted. I spent hours sifting through the bins, the faces blackening my fingertips.
What fascinated me about them—even more than the images themselves, at first—was that they were available for sale at all. I wondered how people could give away pictures of their families, even those of distant relatives they might not know or remember. Why would they give these photographs up—why, for that matter, would complete strangers want them?
The first question was almost too grim to ponder. As for why people would want them, I began to understand it the first time a snapshot really caught my eye. It was a portrait of a pretty girl who bore an uncanny resemblance to someone I’d suffered a hopeless crush on at summer camp. I found her smiling up at me from a shoebox, encased in a little cardboard frame, and knew in an instant that she was destined to become my fantasy girlfriend. I ponied up a quarter, took her home, and propped her on my nightstand, where for the better part of a year she occupied a hallowed spot between cardboard likenesses of Nolan Ryan and Ken Griffey, Jr. It was fun to wonder who she was and what her life might’ve been like.
When I finally outgrew baseball cards and fantasy girlfriends, I decided to retire them from my nightstand into a proper album. But the girl’s picture wouldn’t fit because of its cardboard frame. Ever so carefully, as if performing important surgery, I pried it out. Turning it over in my hands, I saw the back for the first time.
For a long while I just sat on the edge of my bed, staring at it. I’d spent months imagining a life for this person, and in an instant it was all erased. She was no longer anonymous. Now she had a name—Dorothy—and a city, and a fate. I’d been fantasizing about a dead girl.
Of course, many of the snapshots I’d handled were of dead people; they were old pictures, after all. But the discovery that Dorothy, who looked so young and alive in her photo, had likely died just months after it was taken, hit me pretty hard. I found myself grieving, in a small, quiet way, for a person I had never known, who had been dead now much longer than she’d been alive, and whose own family had probably not thought of her in decades. Smiling and doomed, Dorothy haunted me for some time.
Fifteen years passed before I bought another snapshot. Once I crossed that threshold, though, my old hobby blossomed into an obsession. I became a collector, albeit an odd one; my primary interest was in snapshots that had writing on them. This had advantages and disadvantages. Among other things, by looking at only the backs of the photos, I could sort through a bin of a thousand snapshots in just a few minutes. But interesting captions were pretty rare, so more often than not I’d walk away empty-handed. I never worried about other collectors buying the photos I wanted before I could get to them, though, because my favorites were almost always diamonds in the rough. Dorothy taught me that a great snapshot doesn’t have to meet the aesthetic standards by which we judge other types of photography. A photo might seem absolutely ordinary, but for a few words scribbled on the opposite side. Like this one, they’re hidden gems:
Judging only by the front side, it’s as banal as snapshots get: a wall, a sign, and some bushes. It’s flat; it’s boring; it’s not even in focus!
Flip it over, though, and the picture is transformed:
Now it’s much more than just a wall: it’s a scene imbued with pathos and drama, the strength of which has little to do with composition or tone or even, really, the subject of the photo itself. What’s pictured on the front is a reminder, a sort of keepsake, inscribed so that Dorothy might never forget where she was on the day she found a baby girl by the side of the road. (That her name is Dorothy is an uncanny coincidence not lost on me.)
Maybe the girl had been abandoned by her mother. Maybe she’d been there all night, a cold one even for Southern California in January, and if Dorothy hadn’t found her when she did, the baby wouldn’t have survived. Maybe this affected Dorothy so profoundly that she returned to the spot again and again, compelled by something she couldn’t quite name, and on one of those trips brought along a camera. Maybe the picture is blurred because she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking as she took it. We’ll never know, but thanks to the inscription on the back we can at least wonder. It lent the mutest of snapshots a voice.
The best inscriptions make a snapshot feel current, no matter when it was taken. They have an immediacy that transcends era, and counteracts the distancing effect old snapshots can have. As a kid, I found it hard to believe that photos of my grandmother as a young girl, posing stiffly in a sepia-toned world, could actually have been taken during her lifetime. They seemed like artifacts from some ancient civilization. That’s because old photos have a way of looking older than they really are, focusing our attention on all that’s outmoded and obsolete: technology, styles of dress, and other such cultural ephemera.
Great inscriptions have the opposite effect. They allow us to recognize something of ourselves in the blurred and yellowing faces of our forebears. By echoing something timeless, they remind us of all that hasn’t changed: the ache of long-distance love; the anxiety felt by parents sending their children off to war; that everyone, at one time or another, has felt self-conscious about the way they look in pictures. If any of these snapshots can speak, I think what they say is: things aren’t so different.
Sometimes a word is worth a thousand pictures.
1. CLOWNING AROUND
Courtesy of David Bass
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
IF THE SIGN SAID
SEGRAM SEVEN INSTEAD
OF ”7 UP“ I’D BE INSIDE.
Courtesy of Robert E. Jackson
CAUGHT IN THE ACT
WITH A CIGGERETTE IN
MY FACE.
LOOK NATURAL.
NO CHEATING ALLOWED
HIGHWAY ROBBERY
THIS IS THE WAY I MAKE MY
LIVING. ALBERT ON THE
RIGHT SIDE AND I AM THE
MAN WITH THE GUN.
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
SUICIDE + MURDER
HERB AND ED SMART
Courtesy of Robert E. Jackson
Courtesy of
Robert E. Jackson
ANUAL BATH.
MYSELF WITH MY FRIENDS
WIFE. TO WHOM I RECENTLY
ACTED AS BEST MAN.
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
2. LOVE AND MARRIAGE
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
Courtesy of John Van Noate
Courtesy of Erin Waters
TO MY WEAKNESS
FROM BOB
LOVE ALWAYS
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
Courtesy of Roselyn Leibowitz
I AM SO AWFUL LONESOME, GEE I WISH THAT YOU WERE HERE.
THIS IS HOW I WILL LOOK SUNDAY IF YOU ARN’T WITH
ME—SO PLEASE ARRANGE IT, DARLING
BESS
Courtesy of David Bass
Courtesy of Erin Waters
I’M THROUGH WITH ALL GUYS. ALL THEY DO IS HAND
YOU LIES. THEY BREAK YOUR HEART AND MAKE YOU
CRY. YOU WANT TO DROP SOMEWHERE AND DIE. THE
WAY THEY TREAT YOU IS A SIN. WOW!!!!!!!
DIG THAT GUY THAT JUST WALKED IN!!!
OSCAR DIDN’T WANT TO GIVE HER AWAY SAID HE WOULDN’T
TILL 2 DAYS BEFORE THEN SAID HE WAS GOING TO WEAR
OVERHALLS + STRAW HAT AND CARRY A PITCHFORK.
Courtesy of Roselyn Leibowitz
Courtesy of Angela Paez
3. TIMES OF TROUBLE
ONE OF MY JOBS 70 MILES FROM HOME. I’D GO ANYWHERE
THAT I COULD TO MAKE A LIVING. DO YOU KNOW
OF ANYTHING BACK THERE?
MOVED TO DETROIT WHERE DORIS JEAN + ELENORE RUTH WERE BORN.
BOTH DIED—DORIS JEAN AT 11 MO. SPINAL MENINGITIS
ELENORE RUTH AT 4 MO. MALNUTRITION
NO $ FOR FOOD
STEALING EVERYTHING
I COULD GET MY
HANDS ON. HA HA
1932
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
MILLS BANK, SMITHLAND IOWA
SAFE BLOWN BY BURGLARS 9-28-11
W.J. WOLFE
WAGNER, SO. DAK.
Courtesy of Albert Tanquero
Courtesy of Albert Tanquero
ME—THE SHERIFF.
JUST CAME IN FROM A MAN HUNT,
THE MAN STILL MISSING.
LEX
SUPER 38 AUTO NAMED SUSIE Q
(JR. MYERS ACCIDENTALLY SHOT HIMSELF WHILE REMOVING
RIFLE FROM CAR AFTER RETURN FROM HUNTING TRIP.)
YOU CAN SEE CECILIA
CAN’T SMILE TO GOOD
WITH STITCHES IN HER LIP
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
Courtesy of David Bass
THIS IS A PERFECT PICTURE OF OUR DAUGHTER MARION -
27 - WHICH UNCLE GEO. TOOK IN COLO. SPRINGS -
ABOUT A MONTH BEFORE SHE PASSED AWAY
Courtesy of Angela Paez
Courtesy of John Van Noate
Courtesy of John Van Noate
OH PLEASE EVERYBODY BE GOOD TO
POOR LITTLE SUSAN AND MY
DEAR BABY IF IT LIVES. OH MY
GOD HAVE MERCY ON MY CHILDREN
AND TAKE CARE OF THEM.
MAMMA DON’T EVER FORGET TO TELL
SUSAN TIME AND TIME AGAIN HOW I
LOVED HER AND LONGED TO LIVE TO RAISE HER.
Courtesy of David Bass
4. LIFE DURING WARTIME
LEAVING HOME FOR WAR
I HAVE PICTURES OF
FIRST DAY TO SCHOOL
FIRST DAY TO HIGH SCHOOL
FIRST DAY TO COLLEGE
AND
FIRST DAY OFF TO WAR.
THIS ONE I COULD
EASILY + GLADLY HAVE
DONE WITHOUT
Courtesy of David Bass
Courtesy of David Bass
MET - JULY - 18
STEADY - JULY - 25
ENGAGED - AUG - 5
MARRY - AUG - 29
ENLIST M. - OCT - 9
SWORN - OCT - 16
LEFT - OCT - 19
HOME - NOV - 16
LEFT - NOV - 30
CALLED - DEC - 28
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
PROTECTING THE MADMAN OF BERLIN
FROM THE MURDEROUS WRATH OF
MEYER THE MAGNIFICIENT
MISS HICKS IN HER AIR RAID OUTFIT
Courtesy of Roselyn Leibowitz
THIS WAS TAKEN HILL 10 SOUTH VIET NAM.
THINGS AREN’T TOO BAD BUT GETTING WORST
EVERY DAY, REALLY AT NIGHT
A STUDENT
BILL
THIS IS A PICTURE OF A BATTLE FIELD WHICH EXTENDS FOR
MILES NORTH OF VERDUN. THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF
DEAD WILL NEVER BE ACCOUNTED FOR. FOR MILES I COULD
NOT SEE A FOOT OF GROUND THAT WAS NOT TORN UP BY
PROJECTILES FROM BIG GUNS. CONCRETE FORTS 30 FT
THICK WERE BATTERED UNTIL THE CONCRETE REINFORCED
WITH IRON LOOKED LIKE ONLY A MOUND OF EARTH. HARRY
Courtesy of Stacy Waldman
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
FROM HAROLD TO BILLIE
HE SAYS FOR YOU TO SHOW
THIS TO THE LEATHERNECKS AND
TELL THEM FROM THE LOOKS
OF THESE MEDALS THEY
DID NOT ALTOGETHER
WIN THE WAR.
Courtesy of John Van Noate
Courtesy of Stacy Waldman
Courtesy of John Van Noate
JOHN IN FRONT
OF HOUSE
1918-VOLUNTEERED FOR WORLD WAR I
133 FIELD ARTIRRALY-WAS A CRACK
SHOT-SERVED IN FRANCE.
RETURNED HOME-1919-A MENTAL WRECK
Courtesy of Lynne Rostochil
Courtesy of Erin Waters
5. JANET LEE
“Let’s Forget About It”
6. HIDE THIS PLEASE
Courtesy of Erin Waters
I’M NOT AS FAT AS I LOOK HERE, IT’S
THE TERRY CLOTH PAJAMAS OVER MY
BATHING SKIRT PLUS WIND.
Courtesy of Angela Paez
Courtesy of David Bass
Courtesy of Roselyn Leibowitz
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
I CAME OUT TERRIBLE SO I PUT INK ON MY FACE
AND SCRATCHED IT OFF.
Courtesy of Roselyn Leibowitz
JUST ME PEARL NETTER.
CHILLY’S SIMPLEST
JUST A WASTE OF TIME
Courtesy of David Bass
7. UNSOLVED MYSTERIES
Courtesy of Erin Waters
THERE’LL BE NO KIDNAPERS GET THIS CHILD.
50 YRS FROM NOW
IMAGE OF JESUS ON COW
Courtesy of Roselyn Leibowitz
Courtesy of David Bass
Courtesy of David Bass
THIS MAN TOOK CARE OF THE BRUSHING OF TEETH BEFORE
THE HEADS COULD BE ROASTED. HE IS CONVICTED OF NOT USING
COLGATES TOOTH PASTE. SO HE GOT DRAFTED.
Courtesy of Sarah Bryan
Courtesy of David Bass
Courtesy of Roselyn Leibowitz
Courtesy of Robert E. Jackson
AFTERWORD
Courtesy of Peter J. Cohen
People don’t write on the backs of photos much anymore. That’s because we don’t write on anything as much as we used to—at least, not in a traditional, pen-to-paper sense. Nor do we even take photos—by which I mean real photos, printed on paper coated with photo emulsion. Cameras have proliferated as never before, but the images they produce are ephemeral strings of ones and zeroes, rarely printed, stored on chips and drives that are easily damaged or erased, susceptible to heat, magnets, wear, and obsolescence. A hard drive might last five years, a compact disc ten or fifteen. A well-printed snapshot will still be visible after a century—negatives even longer.
W
e are no longer leaving behind a tangible, enduring photographic record of ourselves. Future generations will be far less likely to find our creased snapshots in dresser drawers and attic trunks, as we did those of our ancestors. Which is to say: old photos may seem numberless now, but they are being lost and tossed at an alarming rate, and we’re not making new ones. They’re an ever-diminishing and increasingly precious repository of knowledge about our past and ourselves, a visual history of who we were and the way we lived. The passage of time makes old photographs more than just someone else’s memories. When names and faces are forgotten, they pass into collective memory. In a sense, they belong to all of us.