Learning to See

by Elise Hooper

  “There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

  Although it’s only visible for a flash, Dan flinches as if to ward off a blow he thinks is coming.

  “What?” It’s the dejection in his voice that prompts me to take my hand off his arm and place it in my own lap while trying to steady myself. We’re as fragile as we’ve ever been.

  I freeze for a moment, unsure what to do next, but then I reach into my pocketbook and take out the letter to hand it to him. The whiteness of the envelope is now scuffed. MoMA’s return address now no longer glows. The edges are worn after three weeks of traveling inside my pockets and purse. “This arrived in the mail several weeks ago.”

  Puzzled, he frowns but takes the letter and reads it before looking at me, amazement bringing a boyish glow to his face. “Why didn’t you say something? This is incredible. I can’t believe you haven’t told me yet.”

  I try to sound nonchalant, but my voice quivers as I say, “You’re the first person who knows about it. Aside from the people at MoMA, of course.”

  “What? Why?” He looks at the letter again. “This is an honor—a retrospective show of your work. How many other photographers have had this? There can’t be many.” His voice is louder and he’s shaking his head as he reviews the contents of the letter in disbelief. He puts it down and stares at me. “Wait, you haven’t told Paul?”

  “No.” I can’t explain how Paul’s reaction will bring me little satisfaction. He’s always believed in me. In fact, his confidence in me has been greater than my confidence in myself. If anything, he’ll be annoyed it’s taken this long for them to ask me.

  “You’ll do it, right?”

  “Of course, but it’s going to be a great deal of work. I’m going to need help. A lot of help.”

  He places the letter on the desk next to the file, folds his arms across his chest, and watches me. “Everyone will want to be a part of it.”

  I nod. “Dan, I asked you to come with me here because it’s your help that I want.” I almost say it’s his help that I want most, but I leave that off. I’m still cautious about putting too much out there.

  “But Paul knows your work. Or Rondal . . . ? What about Imogen? They all know your art so much better than I do. They’ve been around you for years.”

  My heart hitches for a moment. My art. He says it so casually, so effortlessly that it brings tears to my eyes, but I blink them back. Having my work described as art still amazes me. After years of feeling on the outside of so many of my peers in photography, his words feel like a gift.

  “Maybe if you get to know my art, you’ll understand why I made the choices I made. Much of my work has been about starting a conversation. I’d like to think I’ve started conversations with many people over the years, but I need to have one with you. I know I’ve made choices that have hurt you, hurt all of you, I suppose, but you’re the one who—” My throat feels raw from talking, and I stop and swallow, at a loss. Even though I’ve spent the last few weeks planning this conversation, I’m unsure how to proceed. “You and I have a complicated history. I don’t regret my choices, but I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  His dark hair needs cutting and falls into his eyes. It blocks his expression from me, but I’ve learned to watch and wait. We steep in the silence of the room, and the warm smell of dry stale paper.

  I point to the MoMA letter. “I want your help.”

  A thin, guarded smile creeps over his face, his expression reminiscent of Maynard. “Of course I’ll work with you.”

  “You may change your mind once you see the piles and piles of negatives, contact sheets, and prints to sort and inventory. It all may number in the tens of thousands. I’ve got some ideas of how I’ll want to organize the work that’s shown. And I’m sure the curator from MoMA who’s in charge of the exhibit will have some ideas too. It may get difficult.”

  “I won’t change my mind.” He looks at his hands. “Thank you for asking me.”

  “Of course.” Silence hangs between us, so I say briskly, “Now, should we see what’s in here? I’ve been dreading seeing these photos. Everything during the war was so rushed. The files will be a mess.”

  While I catalog the many reasons I expect these photographs to disappoint me, Dan stands and lifts the cover off the file box, pulls out several smaller boxes, and sets one in front of us. I open it and feel a lump in my throat as photo by photo, Dan spreads them before me. The craggy mountains, the vast emptiness, the tense faces, confused and forlorn. Christina and I worked so quickly and under such stressful conditions, I was sure the photographs would be terrible.

  But they’re not.

  “These will be important for the show,” Dan says.

  I shake my head. “No, the army still won’t give me permission to make them public.”

  He opens his mouth and gestures wordlessly at the piles of photos in front of us. “But then why are we here?”

  “I needed to see them once more.”

  He glances at me, alert to my use of once more but says nothing.

  “When we get back, I have an appointment with a doctor in the city. I’ve been losing weight. Look at me, I’m frailer than ever. There’s something really wrong with me this time.”

  “Don’t say that. You’ve been having health problems for the last twenty years.”

  “Exactly. That’s how I know this time it’s something different.” I stop, trying to clear my throat, but my mouth is dry, every swallow a struggle. “The MoMA show offers me the opportunity to set the record straight on how I’ve viewed my career. No more government telling me what to do. This will be my vision of how the pieces of my career fit together. My evolution . . .”

  “As an artist? Activist?”

  “My evolution as a human with all of life’s joys and sufferings. For me, it’s been about finding connection through creativity.” I bite my lip, thinking about all of the missed connections with the man who sits in front of me.

  “Well, it’s taken you long enough.”

  We both laugh and it feels good. Not good physically. A laugh can get my throat burning, I start coughing, and quickly, I’m a mess. But still, it’s worth it. We haven’t sat side by side and shared a genuine laugh over anything in so long that I want to stay in this little room forever. Instead we will leave soon, return to our hotel room in Georgetown. Then we will take the train up to New York City to meet with MoMA staff. I’ll squeeze in a visit with my beloved Fronsie. Then, Dan and I will travel back to California to begin the long process of going through all of my negatives and prints. We’ll throw many away, we’ll gather others and begin curating this show. Imogen will weigh in with her many opinions. We will all argue over how the work should be organized and grouped. Everyone will believe this show represents the most important moments of my life, but it doesn’t. The moments that profoundly shaped me happened when a camera was nowhere in sight: the feverish nights I spent fighting polio; the afternoon my father shut the front door behind him and left us forever; the morning Fronsie and I lost our life’s savings to a pickpocket; the evening Maynard raised my foot to his lips and kissed it; the day I left Dan and John to be cared for by another family; the morning Paul first telephoned me.

  This show is a collection of images, a view into the world as I’ve seen it. Although I’m quite certain I won’t live to see it, Paul will. Dan and John will. My grandchildren will. My friends will. Each of them will look at these pictures and decide what they see. No one ever sees the same thing, and I’ve come to accept that and even hope for it. For me, art has never been recognition and what hangs on the walls of museums. Its significance lies in the act of creating it and letting it loose to find its own way in the world.

  Acknowledgments

  Every day I’m amazed to be surrounded by such a wonderful group of supporters. Librarians, booksellers, book bloggers, bookstagrammers, and book club members—I’m grateful for all that you do to advocate reading. And thank you to the readers who find my books, take the time
to read them, and encourage others to do so.

  Thank you to my editor, Lucia Macro, for her enthusiasm and keen insight into this story. The entire team at William Morrow and HarperCollins worked tirelessly and patiently to bring this book into the world and I couldn’t be more grateful for everyone’s efforts. Thank you to Barbara Braun, my agent, who believed in this book from the first moment I mentioned Dorothea Lange’s name. The rangers and librarians at FDR Presidential Library & Museum and the curatorial staff at the Oakland Museum of California helped me to imagine Lange’s world, and I’m indebted to them for their expertise and assistance. All errors are entirely my own.

  Thank you to all of the early readers and supporters who helped in the making of this book: Jenny D. Williams, Renee Macalino Rutledge, Danya Kukafka, Devin Murphy, Chanel Cleeton, Ellen Dorr, Kelly Johnston, Kristie Berg, Kate Olson, Kourtney Dyson, Stacey Armand, Susanne Eckert, Paula Dowtin, Tamara Moats, Ray Wilson, Nancy Bowman, and my beloved colleagues and students at The Bush School. There’s no better way to be held accountable for a deadline than to tell a room of high school students that you will do something.

  I’m also always inspired and humbled by my community of friends who buoy me along with the stuff of daily life and then turn around and champion me as an author by coming out for my events, inviting me to book clubs, giving my books as gifts, and so much more. Thank you.

  Finally, a heartfelt thank-you to my parents, brother, in-laws, and my daughters, Kate and Cookie. I couldn’t have a more loving group of people in my corner. And a special thank-you to my husband, David, for always listening, laughing, and believing in me.

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

  * * *

  Meet Elise Hooper

  About the Book

  * * *

  A Note on Sources

  A Conversation with Elise Hooper

  Reading Group Guide

  Dorothea Lange Photos

  About the Author

  Meet Elise Hooper

  A New Englander by birth, ELISE lives with her husband and two young daughters in Seattle, where she teaches history and literature. The Other Alcott was her first novel.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  About the Book

  A Note on Sources

  Historical research was imperative to create a realistic portrayal of Dorothea Lange. First and foremost, I viewed the documentaries Dorothea Lange: Grab a Hunk of Lightning; Child of Giants: My Journey with Maynard Dixon and Dorothea Lange; Maynard Dixon: Art and Spirit; and Maynard Dixon: To the Desert Again many times to get a feel for Dorothea and the people closest to her. Suzanne Riess’s oral histories with both Dorothea Lange and Paul Taylor were also critical for understanding how they viewed themselves and their work.

  I relied upon Linda Gordon’s excellent biography Dorothea Lange: A Life Beyond Limits for an assessment of this complicated woman that was both modern in its interpretation but grounded in careful research. Gordon was also kind enough to answer my questions over email. Impounded: Dorothea Lange and the Censored Images of Japanese American Internment, edited by Linda Gordon and Gary Y. Okihiro, was also essential to understanding Lange’s artistic process and reaction to the evacuation and internment. My copy of Milton Meltzer’s biography Dorothea Lange: A Photographer’s Life proved to be invaluable toward creating a complete image of Lange and her world. Donald Hagerty’s Desert Dreams: The Art and Life of Maynard Dixon allowed me to view beautiful color plates of Dixon’s paintings and provided much-needed biographical information so I could better understand this man.

  Some other important research sources include: Group f.64 by Mary Street Alinder; Everyone Had Cameras: Photography and Farmworkers in California, 1850–2000 by Richard Steven Street; Restless Spirit by Elizabeth Partridge; Dorothea Lange: The Crucial Years by Oliva María Rubio, Jack von Euw, and Sandra Phillips; Dorothea Lange and the Documentary Tradition by Karin Becker Ohrn; California on the Breadlines by Jan Goggans; Imogen Cunningham: A Portrait by Judy Dater; Consuelo Kanaga: An American Photographer by Barbara Head Millstein, William Maxwell, and Grace M. Mayer; and The Worst Hard Time by Timothy Egan. In addition, I found John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and his “Harvest Gypsies” articles important in providing evocative details and language of the era, as well as Farewell to Manzanar by Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston and James D. Houston for a primary account of life at Manzanar. Despite all of these resources, any mistakes I’ve made in this story belong entirely to me.

  A Conversation with Elise Hooper

  Q: Why did you decide to write about Dorothea Lange?

  A: After I finished writing The Other Alcott, I decided to be practical and find a new story set closer to home. I’d always found Oregon-born Imogen Cunningham’s abstracted flower photographs to be beautiful and wanted to learn more about her. During my research, I discovered that her best friend, Dorothea Lange, had also been a pioneering photographer, although the women had very different views on the purpose of art and photography. When I learned Lange had photographed the internment of Japanese Americans and that these photos had been impounded due to their subversive points of view, I decided to shift my focus from Cunningham to her best friend, Lange. In the Pacific Northwest where I live, the internment’s legacy is particularly relevant since many of Seattle’s residents were forced to leave their homes and businesses after FDR issued Executive Order 9066. I wanted to know more about this woman who dared to believe the government was making an unconscionable mistake at a time when some Americans actively participated in discrimination against Japanese Americans or looked the other way.

  Midway through writing this novel, the political climate of the United States shifted with the results of the 2016 presidential election. Women took to the streets in January 2017 to express many grievances over the direction of the nation’s policies and values. This energy and rising political consciousness made me believe Dorothea Lange was more relevant than ever since she was a woman who had experienced a political awakening in her late thirties and acted on it. As a result of the worsening economic conditions in California and the breadlines threading down the sidewalk underneath her studio window in the 1930s, she became an activist for democratic values and social justice. Though she sometimes denied any political angle to her art, she often spoke about her desire for her work to prompt conversations about labor, social class, race, and the environment. Her awakening as an activist breathed new life into this project for me and made me more excited than ever to tell her story.

  Q: It’s interesting that a woman who is best known for taking such poignant images of women and children had such a conflicted family life.

  A: Dorothea’s complex and seemingly contradictory feelings about motherhood fascinated me. Her own father abandoned her family when she was twelve, and this left her with a powerful sense of rejection. So deep was her hurt that she rarely spoke of it to anyone. In fact, it wasn’t until after her death that Paul Taylor learned the truth of her father’s absence in her life. Yet despite the anguish that her father’s abandonment caused her, she fostered her own sons out during the Great Depression, a choice for which her children never forgave her.

  No one faulted Maynard and Paul for not attending to their children, but people questioned Dorothea’s choices and this criticism stung her. Her ambitions and talents put her at odds with many of the norms of the time when few women were the breadwinners in their families. So, although she sometimes felt guilty and selfish, she persevered with work she believed was necessary and important. This tension between ambition and parental duty drew me into her story. While I wrote this story, there were times when I struggled to make sense of Dorothea’s choices to foster her children out to strangers, especially after she married Paul Taylor, but I had to remember that in the early 1900s commonly accepted ideas about child-rearing and child development differed from today. People tended to emphasize the resilience of children and ove
rlook their emotional needs. In some ways Dorothea reminded me of another woman from the same era who is celebrated for her humanitarian work: Eleanor Roosevelt. Like Lange, Roosevelt had a fraught relationship with her children stemming largely from her active political career outside the home. The fact is that women who chose to pursue careers in the early 1900s lacked role models, mentors, affordable childcare options, and other supports that are now widely accepted to be critical to balancing motherhood with work outside the home.

  Q: Given that Lange carried such psychic scars surrounding her own father’s abandonment, how did she justify her choices?

  A: To be clear, there were some major differences between Dorothea’s father’s departure and her decision to entrust her boys to someone else’s care. She didn’t fully understand the causes for her father’s departure until years later when her mother provided more context. He had fled his wife and children in 1907 because he was in trouble with the law as a result of some unsavory business practices. Dorothea’s mother hid it from her children, but she continued to meet with him in secret until they finalized their divorce on the grounds of abandonment in 1919.

  Dorothea believed she was keeping her boys safe from a life of poverty that was unfolding around her on San Francisco’s streets and beyond. The 1930s represent an era of hard times that almost defies comprehension to us today. People were desperate to feed their families. Orphanages were packed with children whose mothers and fathers couldn’t support them. Families disintegrated. It was a period of vulnerability and danger for many children. So, while Dan and John never forgave Dorothea for leaving them with strangers, she felt she was doing the best she could to keep them cared for and safe.