Those backward Victorians

Greetings all! Apologies for my brief absence: writing deadlines plus getting locked out of my flat have prevented me from fulfilling my bloggerly duties. As a peace offering, I present a compelling photograph which crossed my path on my twisted journeys through the internet. This image puzzled me for days when I first saw it on Pinterest. Why would a Victorian photographer take a picture of this group facing the wrong way? Was it an accident? A modern photoshopped joke? A symbol of mourning? Some sort of feminist statement? Documentation of a photography studio?

In classic academic fashion, I was over thinking it. I’ve done some research on the image and the answer turned out to be deceptively simple. It is not a modern fake, but a genuine tintype from ca 1880, from the Andrew Daneman collection of American Tintypes (photographer unidentified). Can you guess why they are facing backward before you read the answer? (Answer after the jump!)

Hidden mothers in Victorian portraits

The first photographic images in the late 1820s had to be exposed for hours in order to capture them on film. Improvements in the technology led to this exposure time being drastically cut down to minutes, then seconds, throughout the 19th century. But in the meantime, the long exposures gave us a few unmistakable Victorian photography conventions, such as the stiff postures and unsmiling faces of people trying to remain perfectly still while their photograph was being taken.

Seems children were just as squirmy then as they are today, because another amusing convention developed: photographs containing hidden mothers trying to keep their little ones still enough for a non-blurry picture.  These fantastic portraits of children (found via Retronaut) all contain their mother, disguised as chairs or camoflauged under decorative throws behind them. Can you spot all the mothers (and one father)? More after the jump!

GUEST POST- Claire Atwater on The Bone Mother: Arresting images from Russian folklore

Baba Yaga by Ivan Bilibin, 1900.

Happy 2012 everyone! To start the year off with some beautiful images, todays post comes from a dear friend of mine, historian and writer Claire Atwater. In addition to her awe-inspiring knowledge of obscure history, historical fiction and film, Claire also has one of the most vivid and beautiful imaginations of anyone I’ve ever met, and it is a treat to hear more about one of her sources of inspiration: a stunning set of early 20th century illustrations from Russian folklore, by Ivan Bilibin.  Read on for more about her take on his amazing work…

Pike, by Ivan Bilibin.

Since childhood I have had a recurring dream where an impossibly old woman with wild pale blue eyes, iron teeth and strong, spindly fingers is braiding my hair. She is always whispering into my ear and I can never quite make out the words. Though always similar in content, this dream has varied in tone from terrifying and sinister to deeply comforting.

I am certain that the woman in my dream is Baba Yaga, the fabled crone who turns up repeatedly in Russian Folklore. A sort of demented fairy godmother, Baba Yaga flies through the air in a mortar using a pestle to steer. Her cottage rests on live chicken legs and goes whirling and screeching through the air until Baba Yaga is summoned by someone very brave or very foolish. She is the Bone Mother, nature spirit, equal parts witch and wise woman.

Eternity clocks by Alicia Eggert and Mike Fleming

In this wonderful sculpture by Alicia Eggert and Mike Fleming, the pair installed 36 clocks behind a piece of white acrylic, and manipulated the hands to read “Eternity”.  Once the clocks are started, they read “Eternity” only once every 12 hours. The result is a hypnotic meditation on time and an elegant kinetic sculpture.

The video above shows the piece go through the whole twelve hour cycle in just 31 seconds, which is over 1,000 times its actual speed. How much of it would you last through in real life before dying of boredom?

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Images and video via the fantastic blog Today and Tomorrow.

The Museum of Broken Relationships

An under-knee prosthetic limb, Croatia, 1992. "In a Zagreb hospital I met a beautiful, young and ambitious social worker from the Ministry of Defense. When she helped me to get certain materials, which I, as a war invalid, needed for my under-knee prosthesis, the love was born. The prosthesis endured longer than our love. It was made of better material!"

Divorce day dwarf, Slovenia. "... He arrived in a new car. Arrogant, shallow and heartless. The dwarf was closing the gate that he had destroyed himself some time ago. At that moment it flew over to the windscreen of the new car, rebounded and landed on the asphalt surface. It was a long loop, drawing an arc of time – and this short long arc defined the end of love."

Cell phone, Croatia, 2003-2004. "It was 300 days too long. He gave me his cell phone so I couldn’t call him any more."

Glass horse, Slovenia, 1982-1997. "He said: Darling, I love you. I’ll never stop loving you. You are my life. I answered: Me too, dear. When we entered the room, I opened my gift and saw the little glass horse. 20 years later, I am divorced. His love disappeared like the wind."

A "Mira Furlan" bowl, Slovenia, 2003-2005. "You wanted me to bake bread. Because a woman kneading dough is so erotic, isn't she? You probably thought I’d work up such a sweat that it would drip from my breasts directly into the bowl. One summer day I dressed up only in an apron, just for you and the bowl..."

A monument to broken hearts and lost loves, the clever Museum of Broken Relationships features objects related to former romantic relationships, anonymously donated by broken-hearted people all over the world. The museum was originally conceived by Olinka Vištica and Dražen Grubišić as a travelling exhibition, and now has a permanent home in Zagreb, Croatia. Featuring diverse love tokens such as teddy bears, wedding dresses, underwear, and even an axe, the collection becomes a (slightly funny) physical manifestation of the heartache, nostalgia and anger experienced during the demise of a relationship.

Irina Werning: Back to the Future

Irina Werning, Back to the Future series: Maartje in 1990 and 2011, Amsterdam

Irina Werning, Back to the Future series: Oscar in 1978 and 2010, Buenos Aires

Irina Werning, Back to the Future series: Lucia in 1956 and 2010, Buenos Aires

Irina Werning, Back to the Future series: Cecile in 1987 and 2010, France

Irina Werning, Back to the Future series: Lulu and G in 1980 and 2010, Buenos Aires

Irina Werning, Back to the Future series: Giorgio in 1982 and 2011, Paris

Irina Werning, Back to the Future series: Carol in 1960 and 2011, NY

Re-creating old photographs of yourself seems to be something that has become rather trendy around the web lately: check out zefrank’s Young Me/Now Me project, childhood photos of comedians recreated for this article in the Guardian, or the Age Maps series by artist Bobby Neel Adams, just to name a few.

Working squarely in this vein, Argentinian artist Irina Werning has become something of a web sensation with her Back to the Future series. Although the concept might not be particularly unique, her artful execution of the re-created photographs makes her work stand out from the crowd. Werning’s incredible attention to detail, sensitive re-creation of colour and light, and careful selection of engaging source photographs makes her series a delight to browse. I’m not convinced she’s really accomplishing anything particularly profound in these photographs, but they are pretty dang interesting to look through. It’s also fascinating to think about the reasons why these past/present  photographic projects are so popular right now, and what it might say about the cultural obsession with nostalgia and our personal sense of connection to the past.

WWII wedding dress made from a life-saving parachute

From the Smithsonian National Museum of American History.

This is by far the coolest wedding dress I’ve ever heard of, made in 1947 from a nylon parachute which saved the groom’s life during WWII. (Now in the collection of the Smithsonian Museum).

In 1944, an American B-29 pilot named Maj. Claude Hensinger was returning with his crew from a bombing raid over Yowata, Japan, when the plane’s engine caught fire. After using his parachute to safely jump from the doomed aircraft, the chute further helped him to survive by providing shelter until he was rescued. After returning home from war to Pennsylvania, he proposed to his girlfriend Ruth in 1947, and she used the life-saving parachute as material for her wedding dress. Modelled on a dress which appeared in Gone With The Wind, the skirt uses the original parachute strings, which Ruth pulled up in the front to create the train effect in the back.