As I walked in the gallery I wasn’t sure what to expect. It was the first time that I have attended the Foster Art gallery when photography was being displayed. What was being displayed were works by Walker Evans that highlighted the Sharecroppers in the American South during The Great Depression. I walked to the desk as usual to sign my name in for Art 227 participation and proceeded to the left toward the art in the wood floored section. The first photographs I saw were mostly architectural pieces that displayed a dreary existence of shanties used as gas stations and general stores. As I walked further toward the now closed projector room, I noticed a build white and Greek-like with its roman style columns among the photos of shanties and despair. I noticed this photo specifically but stopped only for a moment as to not stop the flow of on lookers. I viewed the walls of that wooden floored section until being brought back to the sign in desk. As a way to break my train of thought I made small talk with the desk attendant. It was a cooler rainy night the night of the opening so I was donned in my Northface rain jacket. The conversation quickly moved from the weather to the quality of my jacket, for the moment it was the topic of conversation between the attendant and I. Before moving along I ended the conversation by saying “Some people always question why I buy almost strictly Northface products and I always tell them; When I buy these jackets and hats I know that I’m getting a product that's quality and that I wont have to worry about replacing it for years. It’s important to do it right the first time and having the feeling of knowing it’s right, that’s why I buy this brand.” I moved on quickly after saying that so I wasn’t sure if the attendant responded to me or not but I felt that I had gotten my message across. This message came back to me on Friday as I spent the afternoon talking with and listening to Baldwin Lee. During the critique of a fellow student’s photography work Mr. Lee said that two of the three portraits conveying a struggle to fit in missed the mark. It was interesting listening to him say that the one that fit the idea was perfect but then was verbally upset that the photographer didn’t stay with the other attempts until they were exactly what the photographer was looking for. Mr. Lee said, “You walked away knowing that it wasn’t exactly what you wanted. The feeling and the idea are almost there in these pictures but you didn’t stay with it. You left before it was right for your idea.” As a bystander just listening to him critique someone else’s work it freighted me but at the same time I understood what he was saying. He had mentioned the same thing earlier that day during his lecture describing Walker Evans photography. Mr. Lee detailed how Walker Evans used to stay with a photo idea until he had what he was looking for, often coming back to a spot multiple times before finally feeling that what he was looking for was conveyed correctly in his photographs. He also said that sometimes Walker Evans didn’t know exactly what he was looking for but had this feeling that something needed to be said in the area that he was in. His ability and perseverance not to leave an idea until he was satisfied is what made his work truly his and a wonder for everyone else to view. As I kept walking around the right side of the gallery I felt a stronger connection to these works than I did on left side of the gallery. This connection came from remembering photographs of my experiences in Iraq brought on by the photographs Walker Evans took while tasked by the F.S.A., Farm Security Administration, to take pictures of sharecroppers in the U.S. south. I kept walking around looking at his work and with nearly every photograph I remembered images that I’ve had seen in Iraq from both of my tours over there. I felt strangely lost but at the same time felt whole. It had been awhile since I had thought deeply about my time over there, it was only awkward now because of my vicinity to strangers. Normally I have no problems telling my life stories but within such an environment, as an art gallery, I felt it was wrong. This was not my time to speak; this was my time to reflect. A few of the photos I found myself standing in front of, completely ignoring the need for others to view them as well. I didn’t care. I had allowed myself to get lost in a set of silverware on the wall, the eyes of a small boy sitting in a chair and inside a worn out dusty pair of boots alone in the dust. The silverware struck me as familiar and a warm feeling of safety overcame me. “Luxuries?” I thought as I gazed at them. I knew from that picture that Mr. Evans was trying to explain that this family had very limited means and that these forks, spoons, and knives were luxuries they could not afford to replace. I knew of this need to preserve items that everyday people would consider trivial. When we, my unit, the 2nd ACR, arrived in Sadar city, a suburb in Baghdad, Iraq, we were responsible for replacing a unit that had taken over a college unlike any colleges in America. The dorm rooms were filthy and you were lucky if you found one that was livable without major cleaning. My team and I found one by chance that had a refrigerator. We wondered why this room was still free but found the answer why when we opened that wonderful refrigerator. All the food that was in there had been left some time ago and rotted so bad that opening it was as if we had walked into the putrid bowels of hell itself. It took a long time to clean it up but the metal racks were still too filthy to store any water bottles on in fear of contamination. Instead of tossing them, as everyone suggested I do, I kept them and proceeded to make a shelf out of one of them. That shelf was the only thing that made my room feel like home. It was something so small and so meaningless that its importance to me for meant the difference of being comfortable and uncomfortable. These days I don’t think twice about the shelves I buy for the many rooms of my home. During Mr. Lee’s lecture he discussed a few things about the photo of the wall silverware that I hadn’t seen or even thought of. He mentioned that below the position of where the silverware now rests there were two un-painted lines where the silverware previously hung. Why? When he explained the lines were present because of the children it completely made sense. As the children grew up the vertical height of the silverware had to increase or else face lost silverware and for a family that couldn’t afford one more fork or spoon losing one meant a lot. It amazed me that this story didn’t come to me as I stared at the picture. All I could think about was my hardships but even that realized hidden things inside my memories. I continued walking the walls of the gallery and I again paused, this time on the eyes of a small boy sitting quietly in a chair. I instantly noticed his gaze. He appeared to stare off into the distance as if he were dreaming of playing in a different world. His eyes dazed, lost in his thoughts. How could this little boy have that much thought weighing down his shoulders? It was sad to me as I thought of all the time I spent having fun in my childhood. I couldn’t imagine having to worry about adult life while enjoying the spoils of being a young boy. I thought about that as I gazed into his eyes but again my mind drifted to a memory of personally seeing those same eyes on a young boy. I’m at my position in Ramadi, Iraq. It’s a square timber frame covered and surrounded by sandbags barely large enough to hold three soldiers and our gear. Its location is on top of a hill over looking the MSR and our troops concrete fashioned barricade to regulate our control of the road. On the backside is a small house located on the banks of the distant lake. During my shift on that position I noticed that a boat had appeared on the banks of the lake near the house and a group of small children were seen running around the house. Not noticing a family occupying that house before I questioned the other shift personal about them. They told me that there was a small family living there and they aren’t seen often, as the fishing in the lake has not been very good. I let it slide and a week or two went by until I was in the position again. This time I noticed something different. The father and a boy were out by the boat shortly after my shift had started. I watched them as the father climbed into the boat and began tossing water out. It was sinking just off the shore in front of their home. I kept watching as the man struggled to save his boat but then noticed a glimpse of flashing white just to the left of his head. I zoomed out with my binoculars and stopped perfectly to frame the scene. The young boy that was with his father had picked up a tall pole with a bleached white flag attached to it and was waving it in front of his father. I watched and watched as his little arms struggled with the weight of the wind over his shoulders. I watched him as I zoomed in closer to his face. His eyes stared straight back into mine. I lift my head from my binoculars as my heart sank. This little boy was not lifting this flag in attempt to fly a kite he was doing it so we wouldn’t shoot his father. I couldn’t imagine having to wave a flag in fear that if I didn’t I would lose my father. I can still remember his eyes. I can still remember his struggle. His struggle matched the struggle that I saw in Mr. Evan’s photograph. It’s a struggle that I am glad to have witnessed first hand as much as I wish I had never seen it. I connect with these photographs because of what I’ve witnessed and how certain moments seem to have burnt permanently into my memory. It’s only on an occasion when someone like Walker Evans, who has captured poverty, hardship and despair in photography and so appropriately displays them that these memories burn like a kerosene watchtower in the dark.
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