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.