Snapshot in the Dust
I'm doing a creative writing challenge over at NYC Midnight. We're supposed to write a 1,000 words or less story based on a genre, location and object provided. On the first round I got historical fiction (genre), photo shoot (location) and a corkscrew (object). This is what I came up with. Keep in mind we only had two days to write the story.
Title: Snapshot in the Dust
Synopsis: Dorothea Lange always understood that a picture is worth a thousand words. So when she was hired to work as a stenographer and document the experiences of those affected by the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl, she let her photographs speak for themselves.
Note: The story is based on this picture
Snapshot in the Dust
California, March 1936.
“This is the hottest spring California’s had in over ten years, I reckon,” said Paul as he rolled down his window.
Dorothea hummed in acknowledgement. She was still thinking of that family they encountered back at the gas station. Six people crammed into a small car. All of their possessions fit into two suitcases. The father had that look about him; sort of crazed around the edges. Dorothea thought the man would’ve killed himself long ago if it wasn’t for his family. She’d taken their picture before driving away.
The weather was making everybody a little crazy. Aside from the unusual heat, large, rusted clouds of dust swooped in and out at intervals, teasing folks with the possibility of impending disaster.
“We’ve already been blown outta everywhere else,” the man in the gas station had said. Dorothea understood the underlying message. There’s no land west of California. If the droughts and dust storms reached California, where would they go?
“I was thinking we could go for a family picnic this weekend.”
Dorothea didn’t respond. Her gaze remained fixed on the barren landscape, so different from San Francisco. She had been working for the FSA for a year and she was still surprised at the conditions some people survived in.
Paul sighed. “We can’t save them, Dorothea. It’s not our job. We’re here to document their plight. It’s up to the government to save them.”
Dorothea continued to look out the window. “It looks like the dust is starting up again; you better roll up your window.”
Paul sighed again and did like she suggested.
They drove down the main highway. The landscape never changed much; orange dust and meager farmlands. They were passing though the town of Nipomo when Dorothea spotted it. From afar it looked like a hut but upon closer inspection she realized it was a crudely built tent. Inside the tent were a woman and her children.
“Stop the car, Paul.”
The V8 Woody had barely stopped moving when Dorothea jumped out, camera in hand. She couldn’t explain it if it was asked of her but she was sure she’d heard this woman’s cry inside her head. Dorothea had taken thousands of portraits but she had never seen so much fear and resignation etched onto someone’s face. She knew then she had found it; the Dust Bowl’s human face.
Dorothea walked up to the woman and introduced herself. Told her she and Paul worked for Farm Security Administration, going around the country documenting peoples’ living conditions during the Depression. The woman looked at her for a long time.
“We’re only trying to raise awareness,” Dorothea continued. The woman finally acquiesced to have her picture taken.
Dorothea readied her camera. Getting behind the lens was always a unique experience. The viewfinder tended to highlight some things and hide others. Her eyes scanned the makeshift campsite. The tent faded into the background. She focused on a few incongruous items; a rocking chair, a dust pan, a shoe shiner, a rusted corkscrew. The migrant mother had kept these things despite the fact that she had no floors to dust, no shoes to shine and no bottles to uncork. Dorothea snapped the first picture.
She moved closer to the family. This woman wasn’t like some others. She didn’t pose, didn’t try to fix herself up or smile. She didn’t even make eye contact. She just sat there, holding her baby to her breast. The only time she spoke was when Paul asked her how old she was. The mother said she was thirty-two. She was the oldest thirty-two year old Dorothea had ever seen.
Dorothea noticed that the baby was the only one of the children with shoes on. At first Dorothea had felt worse for the baby but now she understood that the baby was better off than her sisters; she was the only one the mother could still adequately dress and feed. Dorothea shot a second photograph.
While working for FSA Dorothea had seen how kids had the remarkable ability to adapt to any situation. Some even retained their cheerfulness despite their depressing lives. They would come over to her, grab her hands between their grimy ones and try to engage her in play. These girls just clung to their mother, just as silent and forlorn. No child should ever look that old, Dorothea thought. She shot two more pictures in rapid succession.
Dorothea raised her face from behind the camera. She thought of her two sons back home, and of Paul’s kids. She imagined them with that aged look on their fresh faces and shuddered. She was suddenly thankful for all the shrieking tantrums and displays of immaturity.
Dorothea lowered her face to the camera and moved closer to the woman still. She focused the lens. This was it. She could almost feel the picture happen, see it perfectly in her head: the weary mother with the weight of the world and her children on her shoulders. She would call it The Migrant Mother. As soon as it was ready, she would send it to Roy Stryker in Washington. He would know what to do with it. This picture was much too important to remain hanging on the walls of her San Francisco studio.
Title: Snapshot in the Dust
Synopsis: Dorothea Lange always understood that a picture is worth a thousand words. So when she was hired to work as a stenographer and document the experiences of those affected by the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl, she let her photographs speak for themselves.
Note: The story is based on this picture
Snapshot in the Dust
California, March 1936.
“This is the hottest spring California’s had in over ten years, I reckon,” said Paul as he rolled down his window.
Dorothea hummed in acknowledgement. She was still thinking of that family they encountered back at the gas station. Six people crammed into a small car. All of their possessions fit into two suitcases. The father had that look about him; sort of crazed around the edges. Dorothea thought the man would’ve killed himself long ago if it wasn’t for his family. She’d taken their picture before driving away.
The weather was making everybody a little crazy. Aside from the unusual heat, large, rusted clouds of dust swooped in and out at intervals, teasing folks with the possibility of impending disaster.
“We’ve already been blown outta everywhere else,” the man in the gas station had said. Dorothea understood the underlying message. There’s no land west of California. If the droughts and dust storms reached California, where would they go?
“I was thinking we could go for a family picnic this weekend.”
Dorothea didn’t respond. Her gaze remained fixed on the barren landscape, so different from San Francisco. She had been working for the FSA for a year and she was still surprised at the conditions some people survived in.
Paul sighed. “We can’t save them, Dorothea. It’s not our job. We’re here to document their plight. It’s up to the government to save them.”
Dorothea continued to look out the window. “It looks like the dust is starting up again; you better roll up your window.”
Paul sighed again and did like she suggested.
They drove down the main highway. The landscape never changed much; orange dust and meager farmlands. They were passing though the town of Nipomo when Dorothea spotted it. From afar it looked like a hut but upon closer inspection she realized it was a crudely built tent. Inside the tent were a woman and her children.
“Stop the car, Paul.”
The V8 Woody had barely stopped moving when Dorothea jumped out, camera in hand. She couldn’t explain it if it was asked of her but she was sure she’d heard this woman’s cry inside her head. Dorothea had taken thousands of portraits but she had never seen so much fear and resignation etched onto someone’s face. She knew then she had found it; the Dust Bowl’s human face.
Dorothea walked up to the woman and introduced herself. Told her she and Paul worked for Farm Security Administration, going around the country documenting peoples’ living conditions during the Depression. The woman looked at her for a long time.
“We’re only trying to raise awareness,” Dorothea continued. The woman finally acquiesced to have her picture taken.
Dorothea readied her camera. Getting behind the lens was always a unique experience. The viewfinder tended to highlight some things and hide others. Her eyes scanned the makeshift campsite. The tent faded into the background. She focused on a few incongruous items; a rocking chair, a dust pan, a shoe shiner, a rusted corkscrew. The migrant mother had kept these things despite the fact that she had no floors to dust, no shoes to shine and no bottles to uncork. Dorothea snapped the first picture.
She moved closer to the family. This woman wasn’t like some others. She didn’t pose, didn’t try to fix herself up or smile. She didn’t even make eye contact. She just sat there, holding her baby to her breast. The only time she spoke was when Paul asked her how old she was. The mother said she was thirty-two. She was the oldest thirty-two year old Dorothea had ever seen.
Dorothea noticed that the baby was the only one of the children with shoes on. At first Dorothea had felt worse for the baby but now she understood that the baby was better off than her sisters; she was the only one the mother could still adequately dress and feed. Dorothea shot a second photograph.
While working for FSA Dorothea had seen how kids had the remarkable ability to adapt to any situation. Some even retained their cheerfulness despite their depressing lives. They would come over to her, grab her hands between their grimy ones and try to engage her in play. These girls just clung to their mother, just as silent and forlorn. No child should ever look that old, Dorothea thought. She shot two more pictures in rapid succession.
Dorothea raised her face from behind the camera. She thought of her two sons back home, and of Paul’s kids. She imagined them with that aged look on their fresh faces and shuddered. She was suddenly thankful for all the shrieking tantrums and displays of immaturity.
Dorothea lowered her face to the camera and moved closer to the woman still. She focused the lens. This was it. She could almost feel the picture happen, see it perfectly in her head: the weary mother with the weight of the world and her children on her shoulders. She would call it The Migrant Mother. As soon as it was ready, she would send it to Roy Stryker in Washington. He would know what to do with it. This picture was much too important to remain hanging on the walls of her San Francisco studio.