by Elise Hooper
ON THE DRIVE back to Berkeley, Imogen was my sole passenger. I hadn’t seen much of her in recent months. After a few minutes, I turned to ask her a question, but she was asleep. Using one hand, I draped my jacket over the front of her as a blanket. On the distant horizon, dark clouds appeared. What had looked golden on the way to Oroville now just looked plain dreary. My thoughts drifted to Dan and John. During our last visit, John had scampered ahead of me on long, lean legs while we were hiking in the Marin Headlands. His hair, lightened in the sun, no longer curled in ringlets close to his ears, but flopped in thick hanks over his eyes. He was growing and changing. God, I missed them. I tightened my hands on the steering wheel and forced myself to think about work, how Dr. Taylor had interviewed people at the sawmill. He asked simple questions and jotted down the answers in a small black notebook. How long have you been working here? Where did you come from? Who did you come here with? The exchanges had been conversational. He had been unassuming, easy to speak with. I’m not sure what I had expected from this trip, but I felt wrung out by the quiet earnestness and hope in the workers’ eyes. And then there was everything I was trying to avoid thinking about. I sighed.
As we passed signs for Albany, Imogen stirred and rubbed at her face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”
“Don’t worry, Sleeping Beauty, I’ve rather enjoyed the silence. It’s not every day that I get a few minutes to think.”
“Thinking, huh? Careful where that leads,” she said gruffly.
I turned off the highway and drove east on University Avenue through the manufacturing district, passing under the Berkeley sign at San Pablo Avenue. Dusk cloaked the street in a violet haze. With electric bulbs behind the G and A on a GARAGE sign burned out, only RAGE glowed.
Imogen watched a Key System streetcar with only a handful of passengers glide the opposite direction toward the Bay. “I stopped by Willard’s and saw your strike photos. They’re powerful. We’ve got a new f/64 exhibit coming up. Maybe you should exhibit with us.”
“We can see if the timing is right. But you don’t need to invite me. Honestly, there are no hurt feelings.”
“I’m glad. Listen, I’ve been meaning to talk with you.” She cleared her throat and shifted to look out the window, away from me. “Roi’s divorced me.”
I gasped. “When did this happen?”
“I went to New York last April without saying anything to him before I left.”
“You snuck away?”
“I had to. He was opposed to me going, so I left and mailed him a letter from Chicago saying I needed to test out some of my new work beyond California. When I returned, he’d gotten a divorce in Reno.”
I shook my head. “What did you do in New York?”
“I met with Vanity Fair and they offered me some new projects.” Wind from the open window blew her thin, graying hair back from her face and she glanced over at me. “You know, I went to Stieglitz’s gallery too.”
“You did?”
“All the fellas are always complaining about him, how judgmental he is. So, I just walked in there and asked to photograph him.” She giggled. “I didn’t even have my camera on me, but he let me use his. When I got home, I sent him the images. He wrote back to say he liked my portraits.”
“Really?” I was still shaking my head, both impressed and amazed by her audacity.
“Yes, but he also pointed out that he always looks good in portraits.” We both started laughing. “Can you believe that?”
“The nerve!”
“I know.” Our laughter tapered off and we were quiet for a moment. “Oh, I suppose I should have seen it coming. All those years I focused on raising the boys . . .” Her voice trailed off before she folded her thin arms across her black blouse. “I thought once they were older, I could step deeper into my work. I organized f/64, put together shows, got offers from magazines to publish my work. I thought he’d be proud of me after seeing how long I’d been patient. When we first met, I owned my own studio. I always assumed he understood I’d return to it once the boys didn’t need so much of my time.”
“And now he resents your successes.”
“I suppose so.”
We turned onto her street and I stopped the car in front of her bungalow. Neither of us moved to get out. Though cool evening air seeped in through the open windows, the car still radiated warmth. I pushed my shoulders back into the seat to stretch my lower back, cramped after the long drive. Imogen, while never a beauty queen, looked especially drawn and defeated.
From the open windows along the homes lining the street came the scrape of cutlery, the clatter of dinner dishes. She raised her bony wrist to check her watch. “I’d better get inside to feed those boys. They’ve probably chewed right through the cupboards by now. They’re like locusts.” She gave a wry laugh.
I tried to picture what Dan and John were doing at the Tinley’s and swallowed past a lump in my throat.
We climbed out of the car and removed her bags from the backseat. With her camera bag resting on her shoulder, she straightened and faced me, but her expression was lost deep in the shadows of the late hour. In a voice layered with disappointment and fatigue, she thanked me, and I pulled her toward me. Wrapped in my arms, her narrow back trembled under my fingers. I could trace the bones of her spine under the thin layer of her cotton blouse. For all of her bluster, she felt like a cluster of twigs. I squeezed her before letting go. “Chin up, dear friend, if there’s anyone who can pull through something like this, it’s you. Please let me know if I can help somehow.”
She gave a half smile and waved as she walked toward her house.
Back in my car, I sat for a moment before pressing the starter button. Imogen had always been so confident and measured in her life. To think of her secret mission to New York left me stunned. The end of Imogen and Roi upset everything I had always taken for granted. Hard times were forcing us all to change: our homes, our jobs, our families. Being broke compelled us to adapt to new circumstances, but I could feel deeper changes inside myself too. I was becoming someone new. Did anyone else see it?
DR. TAYLOR ARRANGED to show our Oroville work at Willard’s gallery on Brockhurst. When I brought him my photos, I held my breath as he looked at them.
“You moved around the camp effortlessly,” he said, before glancing at my right foot and reddening. “I mean, you didn’t seem worried at all about those . . . rough types.”
“I know my way around them.” I hesitated for a moment, wanting to ask something that had nagged at me ever since the trip. “Do you think it will work? The cooperative . . . will it help?”
“It’s hard to say. There are a lot of forces working against those people. The state’s resources—its land, water, workers—they’re all being manipulated in ways that regular people can’t control. Or at least can’t control yet. But that’s what we’re trying to do. We need to teach everyone how the system is failing by showing the effects on the people who have the most to lose.” As he spoke, he pushed up his sleeves.
I pointed to a row of photos already hung on the wall. “Are those yours?”
“They are.”
“I didn’t realize you were taking pictures too.”
“Well, I only took a few. Some are from other site visits. Obviously, I’m no artist.”
I pointed to one of Imogen’s photos. “She’s a real artist. See how the composition works so nicely here? I like how the man’s off-center in front of that door. It’s visually pleasing. The light’s good. Why, he’s even labeled with that sign right next to him. She’s done everything right in that photo.”
He tilted his head to study it. “Yes, but she set up her camera in front of that door and waited for ages for someone to come into her shot. I watched you. You didn’t wait for shots. You followed people, studying them closely. You got the details that tell a story. Like in this one.” He pointed at a photo of mine with three children looking into the camera. “Sure, at first this looks like some kids
playing, but then you look closer and you realize those two boys are watching after that little girl, the toddler. Where are the parents? They’re off working or looking for work and leaving all three young children to fend for themselves. Probably all day. It’s sad but what else can they do?” His jaw tightened while he continued to stare at the photo. He was angry on behalf of these people. But then he looked back up at me, almost shyly. “I don’t know who will come to this exhibit, but I’m trying to figure out a way to show the human side, the human cost to this problem. Economists love numbers, and I can write a report that’s filled with statistics, but I think the number crunchers and the policy makers sometimes resist facing people as human beings. Statistics make it so the numbers can be manipulated any way they want, so they don’t have to think about the humans who comprise those statistics. But if I can get them to associate numbers with human beings . . . now that would be something else.”
Our conversation paused and we both looked at each other, uncertain how to proceed. I turned to the wall of photographs, anything to look away from Dr. Taylor studying me soberly.
“You have a knack for capturing what I’m trying to communicate,” he said.
I took a few steps closer to the wall of photos. “I like how this work makes me feel useful.”
He moved forward so we were side by side. “Would you be interested in doing more?”
“I have a portrait studio over in San Francisco.”
“I understand, but you’re good at this. You have an eye for seeing people and you can use it to help them. Do you want to do more?” He looked at me, waiting for a definitive answer.
As our gaze met, I realized he saw me in an entirely different way than others saw me, and how I saw myself. For so long, I’d been viewed by everyone as a society portrait photographer. No one saw me as an artist. I was a businesswoman with a trade. Success had limited me from seeing myself any other way. But this man saw something else in me. He saw me as an artist, a storyteller. Even though it went against every logical calculation in my head, I took a deep breath and said, “Yes.”
Chapter 24
Dr. Taylor was as good as his word. It didn’t take long for him to call me. SERA, the State Emergency Relief Administration, hired him to investigate the sudden influx of people arriving in the state in search of work. After he explained the project to me, there was a brief pause over the phone before he said, “They couldn’t understand why I needed a photographer, so you’re budgeted as a typist.”
It was my turn to pause. “My typing is terrible.”
“You won’t be typing. I just needed a way to work you into the budget. Don’t worry, you’ll be taking photos of migrant farmworkers.”
“All right, but just so you know, I’ve never been to a farm and barely know a mule from a tractor.”
He laughed. “I’ll be there to help.”
I hung up the phone and smiled. This man—Dr. Taylor—his interest in people and how they lived and worked, fascinated me. The logistics of the new project meant I’d be heading into interior California. I needed to move the boys from the Tinleys’ in Marin County. It was too time-consuming to continue heading back and forth from north of the city by ferryboat. Two massive bridge projects were under way for the city: one crossed the mouth of San Francisco Bay from north to south; the other would span east to west to connect the city with Oakland. But with neither bridge set to open for a couple more years, it made sense to house the boys in the East Bay since that was the direction I seemed to be traveling most. I found a new family in El Cerrito who could board them. When I said goodbye to Dan and John in their new home, I pulled each one close, breathing in the smells of grass and little boy sweat that clung to them. I brushed at my eyes and slid into the car. Unable to look back at them, I shifted the car into gear and drove away.
The next morning, I arrived in Berkeley at Dr. Taylor’s house at sunrise to drive south toward Nipomo in San Luis Obispo County. He introduced me to Tom Vasey, one of Mr. Taylor’s graduate students; Rosa Valdez, our Spanish-speaking translator; Ed Rowell, a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle; and Irving Wood, from the state’s Division of Rural Rehabilitation. I couldn’t picture how this crowd with fancy titles was going to descend upon a migrant camp without disrupting things but I trusted that Dr. Taylor knew what he was doing.
Because Mrs. Taylor needed the family vehicle, I drove us all in my station wagon. In an earlier planning phone call, Dr. Taylor mentioned he wanted maps for the report, so I suggested Maynard for the job and he was to meet us down south in a few days. Before we climbed in, Dr. Taylor said, “Now, Dorothea, just get a lay of the land. If you don’t get any pictures today, that’s fine. I want you to get a sense of what we’re working with.” Vasey and Wood exchanged glances and I imagined they thought it was pure foolishness to bring along a portrait photographer. I vowed to prove them all wrong.
After several hours, we turned off the highway and drove down a long, narrow dirt road, following hand-drawn signs directing us to the work camp. My stomach rumbled with hunger. The sun was well up in the sky, giving the air a dusty, dry feel, and the land around us was filled with nondescript scrub brush. Intermittent pieces of garbage along the side of the road indicated the first sign of the camp. It was as if Hansel and Gretel had left a trail of old, busted-up tires, splintered boards, broken bottles, and filthy rags to guide us. Maybe there was a reason SERA never had budgeted for a photographer before. Maybe the migrants would be hostile toward having their photos taken. I chewed my lip. What lay ahead?
Within minutes we arrived at a cluster of tents and slowed to a stop, cutting the engine. The smell of burnt cooking oil hung in the air. The men conferred while I leaned my head out the window, eyeing the shacks constructed of canvas tarps, collapsed cardboard boxes, dried brush, and sheets of corrugated metal. Outside one, a thin woman in a faded calico dress set a plate on an overturned crate serving as a table. Four children swarmed from the recesses of the tent and began digging into the pan with their bare hands. I couldn’t tell what she served them, but the kids inhaled whatever it was, pushing the food into their mouths with both hands. The young mother watched with a dull expression.
From the front seat, Dr. Taylor spoke to me. “You and Ed can start investigating while I conduct some interviews. Just do the best you can.”
“Sure, Dr. Taylor, I’ll just bring one camera.”
“That should be fine. And please, call me Paul.”
I nodded and smiled and decided to bring the Rolleiflex since it would be lighter and less conspicuous than the Graflex. We got out of the car and Paul approached an old man who had come out of his raggedy tent to watch us. Taking off his hat, he said, “Good morning, sir. Know where we can get some gas around here?”
“There’s a small town ’bout three miles down the road. Reckon you’ll find a gas station there.”
“Thank you.” Paul nodded and looked around. “How long you folks been here?”
The man creased the visor of his cap and lifted it to scratch his scalp as he looked around. “’Bout six weeks.”
“What kind of work are you finding?”
“Well, there’s folks pickin’ peas a couple miles yonder.” The old man poked his index fingers past a copse of trees, all with splintered nubs marking where bottom branches used to be before being taken away for kindling.
The old man wore grubby overalls and a faded plaid shirt. Gray stubble bristled his hollowed cheeks. When was the last time he’d eaten anything more than a can of beans? Next to him stood a stack of crates filled with dented pots and pans. Paul’s gaze never left the man’s face, but he raised the small black notebook he carried at his side and began jotting down notes as the man continued to speak.
“He’s good, huh?” Ed whispered next to me, nodding his chin toward Paul. “He never makes people feel like they’re being interviewed. You’d be amazed what kinds of things they tell him.” He pointed toward a cluster of tents. “Well, what do you say? Should we l
ook around?”
I nodded. We wended down a narrow path in between rows of tents and brush shelters, stepping over empty flour sacks, a pile of potato peelings, and soggy, faded piles of moldering newspaper scraps. In front of us, a trio of small children appeared, blocking our way.
“Hello,” I said to the largest one, a girl who sported a lopsided bobbed haircut. She stared back at me.
“Who you?” asked a little boy at her side. He appeared to be about five years old and wore denim overalls without any shirt underneath, despite a cold breeze clipping the air.
“My name’s Dorothea Lange.” I considered saying more, but didn’t have to because the little shaver cut back in.
“Name’s Tommy. This here’s Hildy.” The young boy pointed to a toddler who ambled around the corner of a tarp-sided tent. “That’s Bert, my baby brother.” The youngest sucked his thumb and stared at us. I tried not to think about how dirty his little hands were. Flies hovered around the baby, landing on sores that ran up his scrawny forearms, but he didn’t bother to wave them away. Tommy stepped closer to us and uncrossed his wiry arms from his chest. With his eyes on my camera, he pointed to it and asked, “What’s that?”
As I explained how I used the camera to take photos of people, I felt stricken by how the children’s collarbones protruded from their clothes and the sores clustered around the edges of their mouths.