BOOK NERD :: “The Clansman” by Thomas Dixon Jr. – Cover and Illustrations – Reconstruction Trilogy 2 of 3

Go to the first book in the Reconstruction Trilogy, “The Leopard’s Spots”
Go to the third book “The Traitor”

The scans below are from a later edition, as it includes illustrations from the 1915 film .. ahem… photo-play, Birth of a Nation. The original illustrations can be found here.

BOOK NERD :: “The Leopard’s Spots” by Thomas Dixon Jr. – Cover and Illustrations – Reconstruction Trilogy 1 of 3

I’m posting a series of blogs featuring scans of the cover, title page and illustrations from three old Southern novels that constitute what the author called “The Reconstruction Trilogy”. Thomas Dixon Jr. (January 11, 1864 – April 3, 1946) was born in Shelby, North Carolina, about 2 hours southwest from where I was born and raised. He, like one of my own relatives, served in state government, but his time was short. He quit due to rampant corruption and referred to politicians as ”the prostitutes of the masses.”

I have not read this trilogy, and actually own quite a few of his novels (10 plus 2 duplicates of different printings), but have only recently begun reading his work starting with his anti-communist book “Comrades” (1909).

The Reconstruction Trilogy is composed of three novels:

It was the second book in the series that inspired the D.W. Griffith film The Birth of a Nation (1915).
A number of his novels are available at Project Gutenberg, and a seemingly greater number at archive.org (though that might just be because there are so many duplicates).
Below are scans from the 1902 edition:
Below are scans of the cover and title page from the 1903 edition. It is missing the illustrations ”The Hon. Tim Shelby” and “It was Dick!” for reasons unknown to me. It includes a “Historical Note” that the other did not.
Go to the second book in the Reconstruction Trilogy, “The Clansman”
Go to the third book “The Traitor”

Eugenic oriented non-text media on Archive.org

After finding “Tomorrow’s Children” I spent a bit of time going through all the books and media on archive.org tagged with the term “eugenics”. There are far too many eugenic themed books for me to quickly cobble together a comprehensive post, but there are a small number of audio and video files on the subject, though mostly critical. I’ve filtered out the conspiracy theorist garbage, “student projects”, and passed on one audio file from a religious radio show that is an interview with an author of a book attacking Margaret Sanger. Sanger was indeed a eugenicist, but the audio was merely a hit-piece. This culling left very little of worth, but I figured I’d post anyway.

I’m listening to this first audio now, so I cannot comment on the eugenic part, but if it’s about a modern exhibit on Eugenics, it’s probably completely critical.

“Mail Order Brides / Eugenics (October 19, 2005)”

Chriss Enss joins host Jeffrey Callison to talk about her new book, Hearts West, which brings to life true stories of mail-order brides of the Gold Rush.

The history of California’s aggressive eugenic sterilization program is revealed in a Sacramento State exhibit. Jeffrey speaks with University of Virginia Professor Paul Lombardo, an expert on California eugenics, and the exhibit’s designer, UC Davis Associate Professor Kathryn Sylva.

Here’s a video sponsored by a slew of Jewish/Holocaust organizations:

Dr. McGee discusses eugenics, past and present, both in Germany and the United States. Eugenics investigated human heredity, defining differences between individuals and groups in terms of “superior” and “inferior” traits. It focused on the social impact of genetic information and emphasized the value of “superior blood” in contrast to the menace of “inferior blood.” Are you well-born? That’s one of the questions addressed.

Here’s an fascinating lecture by Carleton Putnam, the author of the book “Race and Reason”, on the day that was declared “Race and Reason Day”. It was tagged “eugenics” though it’s not really about eugenics, but I’m including it here anyway:


Carleton Putnam, author of Race and Reason: A Yankee View giving a speech in Jackson Mississippi on 10/26/61 at a banquet held at the Olympic Room of the Heidelberg Hotel. In this speech Mr. Putnam addresses the following topics; timelessness of American ideals, integrity of the Jackson leadership and press, What is the Problem?, origins of equalitarianism [Franz Boas,Lysenkosim], persecution of legitimate scientists, UNESCO, race and environmentalist propaganda, the role of the church in the spread of equalitarian race doctrine, perverting Lincoln’s words and ideas, northern indoctrination as “moral” crusade, integrity of civilisation, not states rights must be the defence for racial problems and leftist “change” [prophetic!]

And finally (told you there wasn’t much):

Population Control’s Sad History

Columbia U historian Matthew Connelly’s Fatal Misconception documents 150 years and a cast of thousands involved in the effort to control the fertility of women in the name of population control. We discuss eugenics, China, India and the reality of population stabilization.

Raising the dead…

Background HERE. Post informed guesses as to years/location in comments below.

 

UPDATES/OBSERVATIONS:

Coop thinks the Model T’s are from 1915-16 and 1917-18. I hadn’t realized they were even different cars.

Picture 2 of 28 – “This is a 1915 or 1916 Model T.”

Picture 3 of 28 – “This one is at least a ’17 or ’18 Model T, but I’m not schooled enough to spot the minor differences, and they were pretty similar year to year. The main difference from the earlier T in the other photo is the embossed grille shell, stamped fenders and the rounded hood.”

Scott Huffhines “digs up” the following:

Re: the graveyard shot. Definitely from Maryland since she was referenced in a 1944 Sun obit (which I didn’ want to pay for).
http://tinyurl.com/claraditman
My guess the obit was for one of her children or relatives but not for her.

Rob Sherwood:

Number 3 has a license plate, which reads “OHO 256825 1920″ I think. I’m researching that, assuming that OHO refers to “Ohio” and 1920 is a date.

Looking at “http://www.worldlicenceplates….“, the OHO is common in ohio but a 6 digit plate number is only listed on the 1921 license plate.

Christopher Mealie:

What a great find. Nice scans too. From clothing and autos they seem to be 1910s.

 
A reader named “Jack” that wasn’t able to post for some reason peels a sharp eye on the scenes:

I’m sorry to get this to you via email, but I was unable to post comments when I logged in. These are interesting. You may have already noticed these things, but…

I think the woman in photo 20 is the same woman years later in photo 23 who is sitting on the right. She has the same mouth and the same hairdo. Although the hairdo was probably common back then, the facial similarities seem convincing.

The dog in photo 23 appears to be the same one sitting next to the boy in photo 19. The boy in photo 19 looks like the toddler in photo 27.

The man sitting on the left with the woman’s arm around his shoulders is the same guy standing in the middle in photo 24. Judging by that dimple on his chin and his overall looks, he is also the same guy wearing the hat in photo 11. That could also be him on the horse in photos 13 and 15.

The same little boy appears in photos 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, and 12. There may be some more repeat subjects but I’m not sure.

The rustic wooden bench in photos 20 and 21 is interesting. That would be a cool heirloom to have, eh? This isn’t really important, but the bench seems to have moved when you compare it’s position relative to things near it on the ground such as twigs, holes in the dirt, etc. Based on the way the man and the woman are dressed in those two shots, I’m thinking they may have gone to church that day. If so, then the paper leaning up against the leg of the bench may be the program for that day’s service. I’m not enough of a historian to know if churches could afford to do that back then though.

 

Nerd Project No. 1920 :: Analog + Digital = <3 (scanning glass negatives)

It’s been a little while since I posted a project. The last one might have been my Accordion Box that I refurbished. Yesterday I found three boxes of 5×7″ and 4×6.5″ glass negatives at a local junk shop that I stop in at least once a week. The place mainly deals with estates, so you never know what’s going to come in the door.

Being, well, me… I looked quickly at a few of the slides, asked for a discount on all three boxes (they were marked $4 each, but they gave ‘em all to me for $9) and then spent my Saturday morning scanning them and then doing a small amount of color correction in Adobe Lightroom, and now this afternoon putting them online.

The photos themselves will go into a post by themselves, but I did document the process a bit for here.

I WOULD like some assistance, if you’re inclined, in dating and locating these images. There are a ton of clues in the images for the keen observer. Please use the comments section to make suggestions (and give reasons).

Being the weirdo I am, I own a few bags of cotton gloves for occasions just like this. I also have a few other things laying around that I used in the process, as I’ll detail below.

Two of the negatives were broken, and many had deteriorated  or had some decay going on. I did my best to wipe off the dust and smudges on the glass side, and did a gentle wiping of the emulsion side. I suppose I could have looked online to see what should be done to clean these properly, but I didn’t. I did quite a bit though.

I tool some thick matteboard and cut a template out so that I could place the negatives in the scanner consistently.  I know I’ve got some plastic templates that they provided, but had no idea where a “cleaned them” to last time (to the spot I’m sure I thought I’d never forget).

 

There are three boxes, but the third wit the smaller negatives had no printing like these.

Here is one of the negatives on the scanner with the template. The template needs to be removed before the scan starts.

Just because, here’s the top of my scanner.

Holding up a negative, in case you’ve never seen such a thing.

Once the negatives were scanned, I took some packing sheets and cut them down to size to insert into the top and bottom.

 

Then I took some archival storage bags and put the boxes in them.

Now that I have everything scanned, I’d be willing to donate the negatives to either a museum, historical society, or the living family. One of the photos is a grave marker, so there’s a name to go on. If I can figure out a region, that’d narrow it down.

Oh, and the “1920″ in the post title isn’t really a guess, but it sounds good.

LADIES OF THE MOB by Ernest Booth

LADIES OF THE MOB

by Ernest Booth

scanned from
The American Mercury, Volume XII, No. 48, December 1927
ONCE when I was very young I saw a newspaper picture of a lady. “Beautiful Accomplice”, it was captioned. My interest was aroused. In various books I had met beautiful heroines, but that was my first knowledge that a woman who associated herself with a thief could be—and authentically was—beautiful! Clipping the picture, I sought for a secure place to hide and preserve it. Opening the large dusty family Bible, I inserted it between two pages containing the Canticles! But my sudden and intense interest in Biblical lore provoked an investigation. The picture was discovered, I was told I had committed fifty-seven varieties of desecration, and, after being paddled, was consigned to punishment in a clothes-closet.
I carried the memory of that picture with me through all the years I was steal­ing for a living. An accomplice, beautiful, fascinating, and loyal ! For a decade it was the paramount desire of my life to find her. During my quest I met many ladies of the mob who actually seemed to possess some of her high qualities. Beauty—often! Fascination—until I knew them! Loyalty —Ah, yes! But there were others, alas, vastly different. They were the girls who made their livelihoods “off” thieves: never definitely entering into crime, but helping to spend a major portion of the money stolen. Their usual prey was the more egotistical sort of thief; with a skill rivaling Lorelei Lee’s they devoured him. Others stole from thieves. Yet others prac­ticed a polite form of blackmail: they would possess themselves of all possible information concerning the activities of a thief, and draw dividends from it in the form of clothes and jewelry. Theirs were not crude, open threats, but veiled insinua­tions. How often have I heard the com­plaint, “Sure, I’d like to ditch her—but what the hell can I do? She knows every­thing!
One girl that I recall was typical of this class. Not beautiful, she yet possessed a fascination which brought her the plunder of several thieves. One after another they were drawn to her, abode their destined hours, and then vanished into prisons, to live for years in memory of the time when Florence was their divinity. The daughter of a small Pacific Coast town, she had been adopted in infancy by a Baptist preacher. Some indefinable, inherent quality had enabled her to weather his imprecations, and she emerged with a personality all the finer for the heat of the flames that had tested it. Although I knew her when she lived with one thief or another, at different times, she ever preserved her separate entity. She was only with them—not of them.
Our acquaintance began when she was about twenty years old; we intuitively sensed sympathetic traits in each other. There was a brief period of antagonistic probing, and then a truce was agreed upon, and we respected it for ten years. Thus, after ceasing to be “possibilities— to each other, we became fast friends.
During a lull in the trial of her latest devotee, we were in her apartment one evening. Although she had by then passed the Rubicon beyond which women no longer count birthdays, she still preserved the air and appearance of unconquerable
youth. Reclining upon a sofa, her slender body relaxed in a careless and ingratiating attitude of repose, she was floating tiny wreaths of cigarette smoke to the ceiling. The impression she would have made upon fresh eyes was that of an ingenuous crea­ture who must be protected against the devastating assaults of reality. Her short, attractively-bobbed hair showed faint glints of red-gold. She released each word slowly, hesitantly, as though it were too fragile, too precious to send unprotected into the air.
“I hope,” she said, and her eyes avoided mine. “I hope Johnnie gets another dis­agreement from that jury. . . .” Her voice trailed off.
I glanced meaningly at the vanity-case atop a nearby stand. The key to a safe-deposit compartment lay concealed within that case. A fair portion of the unset gems from Johnnie’s last raid upon a jewelry store was cached in the vault.
“Yes,” she continued, “I hope he is freed.” Our eyes met, “Oh! but I’ve given over half of them to the attorneys. I can’t do more—what would happen to me if he goes to prison?”
After Johnnie was convicted, Florence introduced me to another chap who was guarding her from the cruel world. She assured me that she had done rightly by her own interests when Johnnie went to jail.
II
Another—Marie—was the antithesis of Florence. Action was the word emblazoned upon her face. Marie possessed vast ag­gressiveness. Her presence in a group—at an apartment, a “scatter,” or a roadhouse —set up a liveliness which even the var­nish-removing beverages could not rival. She was ambitious to engineer a bank raid. She spent several weeks “casing,” that is, becoming familiar with the habits and locations of the employes, the hours that money arrived, and so on. Then she at­tempted to enlist three experienced men to
rob the bank with her. We enjoyed Marie, she was so refreshing, and we respected her ability to keep her mouth closed, should she be arrested, but we laughed at her efforts to blossom out as a leader of bandits. Exasperated, she sought out some foppish drugstore cow-boys, drove them to the bank, and filled them with the no­tion that they could rob it. She almost had to shout to get them through the door­way. Then the force of her dynamic per­sonality died, and they bungled the affair disgustingly. Two of them were killed; the third, wounded, gained the machine. Marie pulled him across the side door, and held him there with one hand as she piloted the car through the traffic. She ministered to him, and borrowed money from us to pay the doctor. Later he recovered, and, visiting his old haunts, was arrested.
Marie reaped her reward for stepping out of her class by being brought to trial with him on the stand against her, as a State’s witness. It came near breaking the rest of the outfit, “squaring her” out of that “rap.” Now she is content to help her man count his money after he returns from “working.”
III
Another, Madge, was young, pretty, and of Iowa stock. She caught Red’s fancy when he and I arrived in Los Angeles after a forced trip from Denver. She was a waitress, and covered a dearth of brains with a recently-acquired line of snappy chatter and a white uniform pleasantly charm-revealing.
Red’s regular lady, the volatile Vera, was spending a month at Hot Springs. In the role of a wealthy oil-land owner, he soon convinced Madge that as a profes­sion, “dealing ‘em off the arm” was not so much. Two weeks later, when I called at their bungalow, she naïvely informed me that they were married. I extended hearty congratulations.
Red was rough, abrupt, and reputed to be vicious. That reputation was merited
when he was “working.” Madge, believ­ing implicitly his tale of oily wealth, never questioned the truth of his explana­tions for his absences. I think it was that blind, trustful belief in him which divested Red of his usual hard exterior.
“My God! I’m hooked for that little broad,” he confided to me one day. “But what the hell am I going to do when Vera shows up? She’s due any day next week.”
“Can’t you give Madge carfare back to Iowa?”
“Sure,” and Red offered a curiously sheepish grin. “Sure I could, but I don’t want to. I’m telling you she’s the kind of broad every thief ought to have. She likes to cook, and she’s crazy about that flop of ours—even had a guy come out and make pictures of it, garden, car, everything. Wanted to send ‘em to her folks. Say! I’m going to root for some real big dough—marry her—and get off this racket!”
“Steady! steady!” I cautioned. “You’ve been drunk before—and got sober.” I had visions of an efficient partner gone to seed.
Madge was crying next afternoon when she admitted me. She was crying as a child cries—from its heart.
“S-s-some policeman took Reddy away.”
Snatching up a coat, I wrapped it about her, and quickly bundled her into the car. Red’s arrest might be only a routine one, and it might be—any one of several un­pleasantly definite things. There was no time for consolation when policemen were about.
She accompanied me without question as we drove to a beach town. She sobbed less frequently as the rush of air struck her face. Gone was all her snappy chatter: she was an eighteen-year-old baby knowing great grief for the first time.
Salvation Nell Murray’s home was a four-roomed apartment on the second floor of a building she owned. She had be­friended thieves and their girls for a score of years. Her place was an exchange for news and messages. A large, overripe woman, with a sparkle in her eye and a rough and ready humor, she had simpli‑
fled the problems of life into eating, drink­ing and loving.
“This is Madge,” I told her. “Her hus­band has had some difficulty. You know how these officers are.” Nell nodded. “I don’t want to see Madge arrested. Can she stay with you for a few days?”
Nell opened her arms to the girl and en­folded her to an ample breast. I watched the scene with pleasure, for in her move­ment was the gesture of one who welcomes with the soul. It was like the embrace of some great divinity. She could welcome and embrace Madge in particular, and yet seem to include scores of others at the same time.
Vera read of Red’s arrest, and the news of his “wife.” She rushed to Los Angeles, visited him at the jail, and then, unable to get a satisfactory explanation, she sought me. Of course I knew of no girl in connection with Red! Vera was uncon­vinced. Information she held, if revealed to the police, would have resulted in send­ing Red to prison for a longer time than he could hope to live. She never once inti­mated that she contemplated such a course —she knew of other girls’ “suicides,” and so I did not believe she entertained the idea.
But Red was held for investigation. The police, aware of his prison record, believed that he had been at work in the State, and continued to show him up to bank em­ployes, messengers, and payroll carriers in the hope that one would recognize him. Before I could return to tell Madge that she had best remain quietly with Nell, she had returned to the bungalow, and there Vera met her.
The indignant Vera disillusioned her quickly concerning Red. The discussion brought on a fight, and Vera lost. She rushed to Nell’s to get a gun. There I en­countered her. Madge was packing when we returned. A newspaper, folded open at the want-ad column, lay atop her ward­robe trunk.
“I don’t care,” she said with some re­turn of her former bantering attitude. “Redheads was always fickle.”
IV
There comes now the memory of Dale’s girl, Yvonne. She was French and she had come to this country as the wife of a patriot who had fought to make the world safe for democracy. Shortly afterward, he relinquished the charms of Yvonne for the more substantial ones of a Kansas corn-fed.
Though unable to speak American as it is gargled in a Kansas City dance-hall, Yvonne was yet able to get a job as a hostess. I danced with her one night, waiting to meet Dale. When he came in they danced. After that she danced no more with me, or anyone else—except Dale. From that moment there ceased to be a Dale or an Yvonne; they were insepa­rable and almost indivisible.
An attractive pair. Wrapped in their peculiar interests, they would be absent from the city for days, and offer no excuse to anyone when they returned. Dale was teaching her English, and acquiring some French for himself. Their jumbled conver­sations, particularly during dinner at some restaurant with the rest of us, were filled with a happy carelessness. Yvonne laughed often, but she had eyes for none but Dale. So evident was her devotion that when he suggested bringing her with us when we “went went against” a large down-town bank there was but a momentary dissension. She could already handle a shotgun or a pistol with a skill bespeaking volumes for his training.
I was the last man out of the bank. The others were in the car. Yvonne, behind the wheel, snatched us away from the curb with a rush almost breath-taking. I caught a glimpse of her eyes in the rear-view-mirror, and they were dark and intent. There was nothing of fear or terror in them. Rather they held calm determina­tion and cold resolve. The infrequent seconds during which she was not busy with the car were used to snatch melting glances at Dale by her side.
That night the house was surrounded by police and sheriffs. We had remained too long in one neighborhood. The officer on the beat had developed certain sus­picions, and having unusual intelligence for a cop, had kept his ideas to himself in­stead of coming to the house to make in­quiries. Finally, calling in help, he sent a street urchin to the door with a note telling us we were under arrest. Their message named several thieves whom the cops believed were with us in the house. Anticipating a battle, they had warned us with the note, and when we did not reply they opened fire. Yvonne displayed the same countenance she had worn during the afternoon’s drive.
“This is it—of which you told me?” she whispered to Dale as he and I stood irresolute.
“Yes,” he replied. “It’s a case of sell out—we can’t surrender.”
“Sell out?” Yvonne wrinkled her brow. “How is that?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” Dale jerked out. Already the police had fired a few shots into the house.
“I do!” she exclaimed, quickly taking a place behind a trunk, and preparing to reload guns for us.
“I can send you out. They won’t shoot a girl—I don’t believe they will shoot a girl,’ he amended.
“Give her a white handkerchief to wave and let her go before they start pouring slugs into the house,” I suggested.
“White kerchief—wave—out?” She looked quickly from Dale to me, her eyes wide and accusing. ‘Leave you ?’9
“Better if you stay you’ll get killed and—”
“No!” She stood erect, and swept past me as though I had ceased to exist. “Mon chérie! My little cabbage!” and a lot more. Dale gathered her to him. The pose might have been directed by a movie director, but it was really instinctive, unaffected. Faced with the fear of separation, they clung tenaciously to each other. I had the impression of two people trying to fore­stall the inevitable by the strength of their arms.
But it was not a moment for drawing fanciful conjectures. We needed an “out” and needed it immediately. The firing was desultory—only the pistols and rifles had been used. The machine guns and tear-gas bombs were held in reserve. Leaving Dale and Yvonne for a moment, I scanned the shrubs alongside the house. Auto­mobile lights and a couple of searchlights were being employed to illuminate the premises, but there was a dark strip where two lights failed to overlap. Returning to the kids, I brought them to the window and showed them the only possible chance of escape. In a few minutes it would be covered. But at the moment the siege had not been thoroughly organized.
Yvonne wore a light dress, and Dale forced her into a drab duster. He contented himself with turning up his coat-collar to conceal the white of his shirt. Swiftly he dropped to the grass. I lowered Yvonne. They crouched and scampered through the shrubbery. I saw them emerge at the farth­est end. A man accosted them. In the bright light there I discerned them, with­out coats or hats : they had discarded them to attempt a desperate ruse. They clung to each other as though frightened. Yvonne was speaking to the man, who, incident­ally, held a rifle in one hand. I crawled up on the grass close enough to hear the con­versation. She pleaded that they be al­lowed to go home. They had been for a walk, she said, and they lived but a few blocks further. The officer accepted their explanation, because he could not reconcile the two apparently scared youngsters with the bad men he had been sent to apprehend. He ordered that the lights be thrown on the garden. In the confusion of the adjust­ment I gained the sidewalk and a moment later mingled with the crowd.
Yvonne and Dale left the city that night. The house was riddled, two officers were killed in the cross-fire, and when it was found empty about noon the next day, the police were baffled to explain the escape of six bandits! But from the laundry marks on napkins in the house, the police estab lished past residence and soon had our pictures identified. Yvonne was linked to Dale by some of the loose-mouthed gentry of the dance-hall. Her picture was un­earthed in some manner, and with its pub­lication, Dale and Yvonne were unable to remain in the State. They headed toward the Pacific Coast. At Colorado Springs they were stopped for questioning. An officer attempted to arrest them. Yvonne shot him through the head.
Westward they drove until they reached. Glendale, a suburb of Los Angeles—Tris­tram and Isolde seeking a haven of safety for their love. Faced with the ocean, they drove back a few miles and rented a fur­nished home. From there they seldom ventured. Dale had a great sum of money from the Kansas City robbery, and there was no reason for further stealing just then.
There were frequent rumors that they were in Southern California, but the police could get no definite report. Eager to re­join some of the outfit, Dale risked a visit to Salvation Nell’s. He had no other means of establishing communication, and he wanted someone to go with him on a reck­less robbery that would result in making him independently rich, and enable him to return to France with Yvonne. This much he told Nell before a chance visit from a detective forced him to leave. In the ex­change of shots Dale was struck in the arm. With his identity established, and his presence positively located in that part of the State, the police posted bills like circus plasters for his arrest. It was impossible for him to undertake a lengthy drive in his condition, but Yvonne insisted that she could hold the wheel for the five hun­dred miles necessary to bring them into San Francisco. First they alternated in making trips from the house to different gasoline stations. At each they would fill the car tank and a five-gallon can with gasoline. With thirty gallons in reserve they could make the dash without stop­ping. They were set to go one evening about dark, and in an expensive, closed car they drove to the outskirts of Glendale. Stopping long enough to fill the tank again was a fatal mistake.
Dale had been at that station two days before. The clerk had recognized him and reported to the police. Four detectives were waiting, concealed in the shadows. Into the light Dale drove. While he was instructing the attendant an officer stepped into view, and, leveling a gun at him, he called for surrender. Dale leaped from the car and shot the man. Another opened fire from one side. Yvonne shot at him as he pumped the contents of an automatic into Dale. In the light, Dale whirled about, fired at the officer, and then collapsed. Yvonne lifted a rifle and fired at the third officer again. The fourth raised a shotgun and blasted away half her head.
V
Mae had married Art within a week after he had got seventeen thousand dollars for his end of a robbery. She was past forty, and had served several terms in the county jails, yet she had preserved some of the charm that gave Ninon de Lenclos the power to attract homage until the day of her death. Mae had a passion for marrying young thieves. Art was aware that she had not been divorced from the others, who were all in prison; one of them he knew. But when she insisted that he observe the legal rituals before being granted her debatable favors, he acquiesced.
Mae had a code, and followed it. She handled Art as a veteran trainer handles a fighter. She instructed him in what parts of town to avoid. She labeled for him the questionable characters among the thieves in her extensive acquaintance. And when he was arrested she used her peculiar knowledge to get him a disagreement in the first two juries. At the third trial she bribed the bailiff and secured an acquittal. Together they _knew a few hysterically happy weeks. Art swore that she was the finest and most loyal of all women. What was a. difference of twenty years in age?
When he was again arrested following a robbery in a different part of the State, Mae arranged a quick straw-bond for him. The investigation that followed his failure to appear for trial caused the State to be­come too small to contain him. So he went into an adjoining State and “worked” with a group on a night raid. He was arrested on a chance recognition, and Mae arranged a fight against extradition for him. When that seemed likely to fail, she climbed to the top of the jail, sawed several bars from a skylight and lowered hacksaws into the corridor. After Art had sawed his way out of his cell, she lowered a rope and he climbed safely up beside her.
When they had escaped to another part of the country, Mae drove a car while Art held up and secured from two employes a large payroll. When he was subsequently arrested for that robbery, and Mae was held as a suspect-accomplice, Art confessed and exonerated her.
“No, I never visit Art,” she told me. “It would be cruel. I can’t help him now. But you can’t hold that against me—I stuck to him as long—and did as much for him—as anyone could.”
She had a code—and she followed it.
VI
But to return to Vera—Red’s girl—Vera the curious mixture.
We were casing a large bank, and needed a house to work from. Red was well known to the police of that city, so the prelim­inary work devolved upon me. Certain ex­periences of the past had instilled in me a distrust of women as partners. If I could get a girl like Vera fine! But I preferred at that time to have only the passing con­tacts with women that I had known before serving my first prison term. Vera was against this.
“What you need,” she said, “is a square girl. I think I know one for you. You don’t have to get married. Not right at first—but you will after a while. It’s the only right way to live. I’ve been a thousand times happier since Red and I were married.”
We were seated about the dinner table, and she leaned over to touch Red’s freckled. hand. He grinned. I mused on the incon­gruity of her logic. Happier since they had yielded to a legal requirement? Happier in his profession of robber because he had stood before a justice of the peace and mumbled a formula? .. .
Vera was against Red’s continued steal­ing. She wanted him to make enough money in one raid to buy an apartment-house and then live within the law. She had found the germ of that idea, perhaps, in her belated observance of the marriage vows. Red was not exactly against the idea, but he had a great many friends who were constantly needing help. Frequently he had to pay attorney’s fees for thieves who had been caught broke. Once he had posted fifteen thousand dollars for an appeal bond. When the case was decided adversely by the Appellate Court he urged the chap to run away, and forfeited the bond with a smile. But Vera became in­sistent that his constant risks were too great. He treated her pleas lightly, and it was that fact which first gave her the idea that she was not completely understood by her husband.
Thus Vera grew in the belief that Red did not appreciate her. She nagged him constantly. She wanted him to quit, and leave the city with her. Her intuition told her there was something wrong. . . . I was in the house often in the days that fol­lowed. Vera threatened to kill herself if Red did not leave with her. He offered to send her halfway across the continent to visit some friends while he and I com­pleted our business. But she insisted that she would remain rather than go away and be prey to her imagination. She wanted to know precisely what chances he was taking. She had to have something to worry about—and Red supplied it.
She and I were waiting for Red. It was about eight o’clock and he had not yet come home for dinner. She became as nearly hysterical as a woman can go with­out screaming. She pulled at a pillow on the lounge until she tore it to shreds. Then, in odd contrast to her appearance, she spoke quietly. “He just has to come before another hour or I’ll go crazy—I can’t stand this!” There was nothing dramatic in her voice. She made the statement so calmly and judiciously that the words seemed to send a chill about the room. There was an ominous note of finality in them. She had mounted to the heights of anxiety and there concluded that she must have relief from the constant strain. Though she had stolen often herself, and taken her chances many times with Red, she yet retained some saving quality which would not allow her to enter completely into the life. Whether the marriage cere­mony had released that quality, I can only guess; but I know that after it she more than ever desired to have her man with her—that she was made frantic by the fear of receiving a ‘phone call from an attorney, to tell her that Red was in jail. I thought her rather selfish at that moment. As I saw it, Red was taking chances for her daily. He was risking long years in prison to gain for her the home she had so often pictured to him.
Again she grew restless. Her calm de­termination now deserted her. She plucked the shredded pillow case with increasing nervousness. As her eyes encountered mine I saw they were wide, and she blinked rapidly. Ever acutely conscious of others’ moods, I tried to calm her, despite the fact that I was fighting a battle to retain my own composure. I succeeded only in add­ing fuel to the flame rising within her.
“It’s not worth it!” she exclaimed. -All the money in the world isn’t worth this worry.
“It’ll be all right,” I offered. “He’ll be home soon. Probably he’s only busy, and—”
“Oh! you don’t understand!” She stood erect and crossed to the window. “It isn’t only now—it’s always! Can you imagine what it means to have the one you love
better than life constantly away from your side?” I thought I could, and again I assured her that he would come soon.
“Yes,” she said with an odd catch of her breath, “yes, I believe he will. But in the morning he’ll be gone again—for the whole day, maybe half the night. And then this awful worry! When he’s here, everything is all right—but when I’m alone—oh, I can’t explain it ! Please, please! Make him stop! won’t you, please? Ask him to stop and let’s all go away! You don’t know how much it would mean to me, away from here. Please make him stop, won’t you?”
She was rapidly losing every vestige of control.
“Of course I will,” I assured her. “There’s no reason why you and he can’t take a train out tonight. I’ll talk with him, Vera—but sit down and don’t be worrying so. It’ll be all right.”
“If it only would be all right.” She returned to the lounge, and grabbing the torn pillow she shook it as though to re­lieve her excitement in physical exertion. “I’ve heard that so often: ‘It’ll be all right.’ It’s a thieves’ phrase that gets on my nerves. I can’t stand it! I can’t stand this—I’ve got to do something!” At the ringing of the telephone she uttered a sharp cry. “Oh, what has happened? I know that’s him.”
Racing into another room I answered the call. It was Red. He told me to take a certain suitcase containing a new Thomp­son automatic from the closet, and put it in a “plant” in the cellar. He believed that he was being followed and had decided not to chance a raid if he could not shake off ”the tail.”
Hastily I hid the suitcase.
Returning to the room, I told Vera that Red was all right. I found her lying with her face buried in a pillow, her toes beat­ing a tattoo on the end of the lounge. Her body quivered as though in the toils of some tremendous convulsion. I touched her shoulder and she turned a face so dis­torted with weeping that I was startled.
“I can’t s-s-stand this any longer,” she sobbed. “You don’t know! Oh, he doesn’t love me or he wouldn’t treat me this way!”
Again she pounded the pillow. I tried to reason with her. She repulsed me. “Oh, leave me alo-o-one—” and she was hys­terical again.
She had extinguished the light in the room. A shaft from the adjacent hallway cut sharply into the darkness and illumi­nated her form. I stood so that the glare of it would not strike her eyes as she twisted and wiggled about. An anguish so deep, so profound, seemed to possess her that she ceased to be herself. She became the symbol of all thieves’ girls—of all the women who have lived, loved, and worried with thieves. Always theirs has been the role of sustaining a silent grief transcending in its horrors the most ignominious horror ever suffered by the martyrs.
A Eurydice in Hell, awaiting the music of her Orpheus. Yes—a thousand Eury­dices! And in a Hell such as Dante never imagined.
VII
Her frantic struggling mounted until it approached the point where it must break —either in great comedy or great tragedy. I was holding her in a futile attempt to in­duce a return of sanity. Then Red entered. He had opened the door so quietly that I was unaware of his presence until his form shut out a portion of the hall light.
“What the hell’s the matter?” He ap­proached and I caught the odor of whiskey.
“She’s worried,” I explained. “She wants you to quit the racket and—”
Vera sat erect. Red dropped down be­side her. They faced the light. Her lips were distorted and her hair hung before her eyes. Encircling her with one arm, Red brushed back the locks from her forehead.
“What’s it you want?” he asked, thickly.
“O-o-o-o!” She tried to free herself from him. Together they stood up. Red’s eyes were hostile, uncomprehending.
Disengaging herself she faced him. “I can’t stand this! I can’t stand this !  I can’t stand this! You’ve got to quit now—or—” she strove desperately for some control of her mounting voice and failed—”or I’ll kill myself!”
“Say!” Red spoke sharply. “Cut that out! What do you think this is? Think I’m going to duck because you have a fit?”
“Don’t! don’t!” She shrank from him as though he had struck her. “Don’t talk like that, Red. You don’t love me—oh! I’m better dead!”
“Aw, Vera—you know I can’t quit now. C’m on—be a regular fellow. Have a drink and you’ll feel better.” Red was less angry then, but his irritation was evident. He bent over her and attempted to kiss her. She interposed her hand so suddenly it seemed like a slap on his face.
“Oh, I’m better dead! I can’t go on!” She almost shouted it.
Stung by the unexpected slap, Red jerked himself from her “Stop talking like that! Stop saying you’re better dead. What in the name of God is the matter with you? Ain’t I giving you all I can?”
“Ple-e-ease promise me you’ll stop stealing.”
“Sure—when there ain’t anything more to steal,” Red snorted.
“Oh-h-h, if I had a gun I’d kill myself!”
Angrily, Red snatched a revolver from his pocket, and held it before her.
“Here’s a rod. Blow your brains out if you want to—or else shut up and have a drink.”
With a movement so quick I could scarce believe it had occurred, she caught the revolver from his hand, put the muzzle into her mouth and pulled the trigger. Glass from a shattered picture on the wall behind her tinkled on to the floor as she collapsed on the lounge.

MY FAVORITE PICTURE by William Mortensen

Scanned from Popular Photography, December, 1939.

MY FAVORITE PICTURE by William Mortensen

This brilliant photographer, famed for his spectacular and dramatic effects, selects as his favorite work a picture that achieves effectiveness and charm through simplicity.
THIS, I think, is my favorite picture. Although I made it a good many years ago, my pleasure in it has not grown less, but rather in­creased. Many more spectacular “masterpieces” that excited me tre­mendously at the time have long since found their way into the ash can.
It lasts so well, I believe, because it expresses a universal idea with­out straining after symbolism—the close relationship of the eternal feminine and the fertile earth. One reason that it turned out so satis­factorily was the particular joy that went into its making. There was no especially laborious preparation: “Today we shall make a picture to be called ‘Woman of Languedoc.’ “
Instead we just took a few bits of costumes and went out to get some pictures. Everything was just right. The day pleased me, the light pleased me, the model pleased me very much. I was even pleased with myself. And, finally, the pic­ture pleased me. She looked rather like a French peasant, so we called her “Woman of Languedoc.”
Nietzsche said: “What is good is easy; everything divine runs with light feet.” Lots of hard work may go into a picture, yet it must come off easily. That which is consum­mated in dull drudgery cannot help but be dull.
“Woman of Languedoc” is a miniature shot, made with a Model F Leica camera. It was taken out­doors when the sunlight was con­siderably softened by an overcast sky. The print was made by the bromoil transfer process.

“DE-PERSONALIZE” YOUR PICTURES by William Mortensen

I’ve scanned and converted the following from Popular Photography, Feb. 1941.

——

DE-PERSONALIZE YOUR PICTURES

You can improve your pictures by showing less in them. Fig. 1 (right) is cluttered up with personal detail. Fig. 2 (above), which the author titled "Nemesis of Childhood," is a "de-personalized" version of the same subject. Note how much more interesting it is.

WE all realize that there is an im­portant difference between good photographs and good pictures.
A fine photograph wins our admiration as a piece of work well done. But, having admired it, we are anxious to get on to something else.

A real picture, however, is just as in­teresting a week from now as it is today—even more interesting. A picture brings us satisfaction that is far deeper than the superficial admiration that we ex­tend to mere technical excellence.

In this series of articles we are discuss­ing some of the qualities that contribute to good pictures. Pictorial excellence is not altogether a matter of composition—although sometimes we are assured that it is. Much of pictorial excellence is in­herent in the subject matter itself. In finding a picture, at least 75 per cent of the job is finding your subject and the best way of approaching it with your camera.

Last month I indicated the four qual­ities that subject matter should possess in order to lend itself to the making of good pictures. It must be

  1. unified
  2. impersonal
  3. timeless
  4. essential

Last month we discussed how best to find unity in subject matter. We will now consider ways to steer clear of its purely personal aspects.

fi3. 3 (left) shows the result of too much "expression." To avoid extremes like this, catch your subjects face in repose, as shown in Fig. 4 (above). Fig. 5 (right) is an ordinary picture of an individual. Note how the subject has been "de-personalized" by distortion, used to make his face longer in Fig. 6 (above).

To be of lasting interest, pictures must have universal appeal. This expert tells you how to avoid the personal elements that are not important to anyone but yourself.

First—a warning. It is important to understand that at this time we are not concerned with portraiture. Photographic portraiture, by its very intent, is limited in its appeal. Conventional portraits are made to conform to the subject’s vanity and for the indulgent admiration of friends and relatives. The usual portrait, there­fore, speaks in the most restricted of per­sonal terms. Insofar as a portrait be­comes a picture, it must transcend the limits of personality. It must have some broad appeal that will make it of interest to others beside the subject’s friends and relatives. No matter how good a tech­nical job it is, it must have something more than mere photographic accuracy to make it a real picture.

To illustrate this point, let us consider the case of a man you’ve undoubtedly met; we’ll call him “Joe.”
He corners you on the 8:15 local, at the office, in the locker room, or even on the street. With a fanatical gleam in his eye, he pulls forth a little bundle of prints.

“Hiya, Bill,” he says eagerly. “Want to see some swell pictures? I took them of Junior, on his birthday.”

Interpreting your expression of resig­nation as consent, he plunges ahead. “Now, this one shows him on the front steps. He moved a little, but you can see how big he is getting. Here he is with his birthday cake. It’s a little underex­posed of course, but that’s Junior right there. Now, here’s a really good shot of him riding his tricycle—`tike,’ he calls it. By the way, did I tell you the cute thing he said the other day when I was giving him his bath? . . . Oh, I did? . . . Well, this picture—Oh Boy!—wait till you see this one! It shows him when. . . .”

And so on and on—as long as you can stand to listen to it. Now, Joe is really a nice guy, and a fairly good amateur pho­tographer as well. But when he is in one of his “did-I-show-you-these” moods, people carefully sidestep him. The prints are really not so bad, and Junior is obvi­ously well fortified with vitamins and destined to grow up to be a good citizen and a leading light in his community—but there is not a picture in the lot.. Pa­rental pride and pictorial discrimination rarely go hand-in-hand. It is obvious that Joe is interested in Junior only for Junior’s sake—not as subject matter for real pictures.

Junior’s parents are primarily inter­ested in his personal aspects—matters of profound indifference to the general pub­lic. But—it is important to note—Ju­nior also can be pictorially presented. Note, for example, Roy Pinney’s first-prize print, “Hunger Strike,” which ap­peared in the December issue of POPULAR PHOTOGRAPHY.

Of course, the camera does the personal and particular with great ease. When it is well done, we like this sort of thing, just as we enjoy a bit of gossip—what he said, and what she said, and what I heard about her first husband. But mere gos­sip, however amusing, will not make lit­erature—nor will the photographic equiv­alent of gossip ever produce a picture. Nevertheless, we like this photographic gossip. We like it so well, in fact, that the biggest publishing bonanza of the century has been found in various picture magazines that tell us, in thousands of undistinguished photographs, just what he said, and what she said, and give us the very specific low-down on her first husband.

We like these gossipy photographs—but we don’t like them for very long. We must have fresh, more intimate, and more personal items if our interest is to be kept up. To find any sort of perma­nent pictorial interest, we must abandon our quest for the merely personal. We must seek a more detached viewpoint and learn to evaluate subject matter in other than personal terms. In order to make pictures, we must “de-personalize”—if I may coin a word—our subject matter.

Here, I want to outline four ways in which this “de-personalization” may take place. There are numerous other possi­bilities, of course, but the discussion of these four should bring out the general procedure.

The first of these methods consists of avoiding or eliminating personal elements in the environment or background. En­vironment tells us a great deal about the personality of the person who creates it or lives in it—but the things it tells us be­long largely to the category of gossip, which we described above. Life, for ex­ample, is very fond of showing us people —people of all ages and conditions of life, in their completely detailed, native en­vironment. There is no gainsaying the vividness of these photographs as social records, but they should not be taken as pictorial standards. The very complete­ness of their backgrounds destroys their value as pictures.

Fig. 1 might be taken as typical of this sort of fully-realized background. If it appeared in a picture magazine, it might have some such caption as this: “Miss Grace Willoughby, teacher of the third grade in the Avenue A Elementary School.” Here is plenty of environment and background, but it is all particular and peculiar to Grace Willoughby of Avenue A. If there is a picture any­where about, we cannot see it because there is too much Grace.

How shall we go about dealing with this too-personal environment? One way would be to eliminate it completely and photograph the figure in front of a plain black or white background. This solu­tion is sometimes useful, but it is too simplified and too drastic for most occa­sions. Backgrounds are very valuable pictorial elements, but they must be re­duced to their most simple and important elements.

Fig. 2 shows us one solution of the school-teacher problem. Here we have some of the same elements of environ­ment as those that appear in Fig. 1—the desk, the ruler, the book—but in Fig. 2 they are used as symbols of the “Nemesis of Childhood” rather than as part of the personalized clutter of Miss Grace Wil­loughby.

The personal element has been elim­inated from Fig. 2. It is not any particu­lar teacher in any particular school on any particular day. It is simply an alarmed child’s impression of the “Peda­gogical Presence.” Fig. 2 is, in a word, a picture; Fig. 1 certainly is not.

This, then, is our first suggestion for the “de-personalization” of subject matter:

Reduce personal detail of back‑ground or environment to symbolic elements.

The second method of escaping from the purely personal limits of subject mat­ter has to do with the expression of the model. An excess of expression always limits a picture, because it brings the model’s personality to the fore. A good picture is impossible when the model in­sists on throwing her personality at the camera through her eyes and teeth. There is much more likelihood of getting a pic­ture from a face in repose than from one that is the parade ground for all sorts of emotions. Such transitory expressions are likely to assume a violent or hyster­ical aspect when fixed in glassy perma­nence by the camera.

Even a somewhat standardized theatri­cal expression such as that displayed in Fig. 3 is a bar to pictorial representation. Personality is again insisted upon, even though it is “phony.”

How much better pictorially is Fig. 4, in which the model does not throw her­self at you.

Here we have the second suggestion for the “de-personalization” of subject mat­ter:

Avoid too much “expression” in your model.

The third method of reducing the per­sonal implications of subject matter is the use of distortion by projection control.

Any sort of graphic representation in­volves some degree of distortion. Even a straightforward photograph like Fig. 5 is distorted, for the colors of the original have been reduced to a scale of grays, and the three dimensions have been reduced to two. But a distortion of form, such as the elongation shown in Fig. 6, helps us to attain a much greater degree of de­tachment. Fig. 5 is a very indifferent sort of portrait. Fig. 6, however, is effec­tive as a picture. And it does not owe its effectiveness to the fact that it represents any particular person.

Note that such distortion is effective only when it stresses inclinations already inherent in the subject. In this respect it follows the technique of selective exag­geration practiced by the cartoonist. The length of face noticeable in Fig. 5, for ex­ample, is given pictorial exaggeration in Fig. 6.

Thus, the third suggestion for the “de­personalization” of subject matter is the following:

Make occasional use of distortion as a means of effective emphasis of the qualities of the subject.

A fourth valuable method of reducing the personal implications of the subject is afforded by the choice of the angle from which the subject is photographed.

A child, when he first attempts to draw the human countenance, tries his hand at a full-face representation—an irregular oval with squiggles for eyes, nose, and mouth. A little later he tries a profile—an arrogantly jutting nose, with dashes to indicate mouth and eye. He isn’t con­cerned with ideas of personality; he sim­ply draws faces. It is considerably later in his career, if ever, that he essays the complications of the three-quarter angle.

In like manner, the maker of pictures who is interested in faces rather than personality will do well to cultivate these two primitive angles—the full face and the profile. The faces about us are most familiar when seen in some variant of the three-quarter angle. This is the angle usually favored by conventional portrai­ture, and is most clearly bound up with ideas of personality. On the other hand, the purely pictorial values of a face are most frequently realized in profile or full-face representation.

Another use of angle is shown in Fig. 2. The low viewpoint enhances the impres­sion of detachment, so that the figure of the school teacher looms implacable and as impersonal as the multiplication table.

The fourth suggestion, therefore, is:

Reduce the personal implication of subject matter by careful choice of the angle of presentation.

Wise application of these four sugges­tions is certain to improve your pictures. When you get to working with them, they undoubtedly will bring to light other means toward the same ends. For­get about them when you are taking por­traits, but use them to best advantage when you are after real pictures.