Tintype Tuesday: Tipple for Two

Sometimes I wonder what kind of scenic backdrop I would have selected if I were having my picture taken in the 19th century. You see a lot of really corny ones in old tintypes: painted fairy tale forests, poorly-constructed false front porches, log fences and tree stumps erupting from imaginary meadows. The fantasy settings often look absurd in contrast with the Sunday best-clad men and women stiffly posed before them.

But then you have these guys. Clearly a couple of seasoned men about town, they are completely at home in their trompe l'oeil parlor. Here, gentlemen, have a seat. Relax. Let me pour you a drink, you randy devils.

When I get my time machine working, I'm totally going back and having my picture taken with these two.

Tintype Tuesday: The Cameo

I adore this tintype. I mean, have you ever seen two people who looked *less* happy to be in a picture together? Chances are, they were related, and cared for each other. But for some reason, in the face of the formality and foreignness of having their image taken, they felt the need to pose like strangers. I wonder if the photographer told them to face in different directions, or if that was their idea. They both kept their coats on. No touching. They look more like two disconnected people waiting at a bus stop than family members. 

At some point the photographer grasped the wet image and left an imprint in the collodion on the lower left corner. You see this a lot with tintypes, since it's difficult to avoid touching them during the many steps of preparing and developing the plate. Maybe one day I will find him on an old Bertillon card somewhere, if he had a criminal streak.

So many things about this image stir my imagination, but probably my favorite detail is the third party, the lady carpetbagger who crashed the shot. She probably had no idea that her fluffy skirt and hand, holding her réticule, were making a cameo in someone else's portrait. Yet here she stands, unwittingly and permanently encroaching on an awkward family moment.

City of Angels

I finally saw The Artist last week. There are so many things about it that I like, it would be ridiculous to list them. Suffice it to say I loved the whole movie. Every silent, beautiful minute of it.


In addition to its artistic merits, I also appreciate that The Artist was filmed entirely in Los Angeles. I've become enormously fond of L.A. over the years, especially its gritty history and varied architecture. There were a couple of scenes in The Artist that made my nerdy heart beat a little bit faster, because they were shot in two of my very favorite buildings in Downtown: the Oviatt Building, and the Bradbury Building. Everyone knows the Bradbury, whether they know they know it or not. Its atrium lobby is beyond iconic, and has appeared in all sorts of movies, from Blade Runner to 500 Days of Summer. It is a marvel of design that gives the simultaneous impression of being haunted and holy. Its creepy, softly creaking cage elevators and imposing filigree ironwork banisters fight to maintain their gloomy countenance against the downpour of sunlight coming through the glass ceiling. I think the darkness wins out; when I visited a few years ago on a bright afternoon, as soon as I crossed the threshold it felt like I was skulking around in an elegant Victorian asylum.


The Oviatt Building, by contrast, is a sparkling Art Deco masterpiece. The restaurant press interview scene in The Artist is filmed in the ground-floor space now occupied by Maxwell DeMille's Cicada Club (it was originally an upscale men's clothing store). I went to Cicada Club for a retro Halloween party in 2010. Now, I go to a lot of vintage costumed and anachronistically-themed events, but I can definitely say that I have never felt so completely transported to another era as I did when I walked through those doors. Every inch of it is original gilded 1920s glamour and frosted glass. The whole Oviatt Building is spectacular and worth exploring, and if you ever have the chance to go up to the private penthouse apartment and rooftop, run, don't walk. Like the Cicada Club space, it is an intact relic of the golden age of Hollywood. Legend has it that it was a major party spot for the Hollywood elite back in the day. I was told by a fellow party-goer that it was also a preferred hideaway for Bogie and Bacall in the early stages of their romance, while the former was still married to his third wife.


I was so delighted to see these beloved buildings in such a wonderful film. My amateur photos can't begin to do either building experience justice, but here are a couple anyway. I can't wait to go back!

Bradbury Building

Bradbury Interior

Elevator Shaft

Inside the Elevator

Cicada Club at Oviatt Building

The Band from the Balcony

Little secret corner booth for...private conversation (with a table for your martini, of course)

Recording a Radio Show

Elevator to the Penthouse

Lovely Lights

A library, for anyone sober enough to read

The Boudoir

Cocktails

Hmm, wonder what's in here...

What's this, a comfy upholstered chair?

No, it's a hidden toilet!

Tintype Tuesday: Fisticuffs

I have been collecting vintage tintype photos for many years. Actually, collecting probably isn't the correct term; I've been accumulating them willy-nilly, with little conscious intent to collect. I do this with a lot of things. I gather (read: hoard) what I like, and eventually have to decide if a mass of like objects merits elevation to the status of collection. Clearly, my tintypes now deserve the distinction.

I've always gravitated to old things, and the more personal the article, the more used by or connected to its past owner(s), the more magnetic its pull. I often feel a mix of sadness and awe when I see abandoned photos in thrift stores, garage sales, at flea markets, or blowing around in whirlwinds of street trash. The sadness comes from the thought of a photo being disconnected from its owner, or its subject, and hence its identity and meaning. The awe comes from the thought that some people toss out these links to their lives--documents of their ancestry, their homes, their pets, schoolmates, loves--like they would toss out a gum wrapper. Admittedly, I suffer from a hyper attachment to and sentimentality for objects, and not everyone shares my affinity for, say, broken fingers from mannequins. But photos are different. Photos are special. To me, they are about as personal as an object can get.

I often reflect on the people in my tintypes. When I consider that a person in the 1800s was lucky to have ever had a single photographic image taken in their lifetime, I feel privileged to be the keeper of these artifacts of the fortunate ones. I particularly love tintypes of people doing things, and being lifelike, which is why I chose this tintype as the first focus for this 'column.' Although it's technically one of the worst I own--all three men moved during the session so it's blurry, ghosted, out of focus--it's one of my favorites. In the center is a man dressed as a policeman. He is in the throes of busting up a fight. The man on his right wields an ax, and the man on his left is waving a pistol. Our heroic copper has no weapon, just the might of his will and his arms. 

Like many tintypes, it was taken in front of a studio backdrop, and if you look carefully you can see the foot of a fourth man in the lower right corner. I like to think that he was the choreographer of this nutty little staged brawl. I can almost hear him shouting directions, telling the gents to scowl or look menacing. I like to ponder why they came together and took this picture. Were they actors? Was it a re-enactment of a real fight? Were they drunk? Was the gun loaded? Did they dissolve into hysterics afterward? Who was the keeper of the photo for the many years between its being taken, and coming to rest on my shelf? Who loved it and cherished it and found it special enough to preserve in spite of its many flaws? So many mysteries ensconced in this tiny treasure.