23 Forster Street
Robert T. Belie
23 Forster Street
Robert T. Belie
23 Forster Street
Robert T. Belie
Copyright 2015 Robert T. Belie
Cover art is the work of the author based on an adaptation of the following public domain work:
Title: [Unidentified children, possibly Linus and Mary Alice "Pett" Barbour]
Date Created/Published: [between 1850 and 1860]
Medium: 1 photograph : sixth-plate daguerreotype.
Reproduction Number: LC-USZC4-12557 (color film copy transparency, after conservation) LC-DIG-ppmsca-07814 (digital file from slide of the back)
Rights Advisory: No known restrictions on publication.
Access Advisory: Original served by appointment only.
Call Number: DAG no. 1405
Repository: Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA
23 Forster Street
-Table of Contents-
Title
Beginning
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About the Author
For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.
--Khalil Gibran
***
The one story Harrisburg establishment on the corner of Forster Street and Commonwealth Avenue was rather modest given the nature of the miracles performed within. All the same its confines served the owner’s purposes well enough to the extent that neither spacious quarters nor grandiose trappings were necessary embellishments.
The freshly painted wooden sign beaconing from the northwest face of the building read McAdams & Associates Daguerreotypes, but this was somewhat misleading. Henry McAdams did indeed own the building and did operate a photography studio therein, but as far as associates go the only other person in the business’s employ was a young page named Jack. His role primarily involved circulating advertising flyers, prepping materials, and making supply runs, but McAdams & Errand Boy didn’t quite seem to have the same professional lure to it.
If the sign did anything to belie the personnel composition of McAdams’ business, such deception was excused by the truly remarkable works the duo created. For as the world entered the early fall of 1842 what McAdams and others like him did was nothing short of magical.
The formulaic incantation for trapping the very essence of a moment in time on a permanent media had remained in elusive darkness for centuries. The Chinese were aware of the optical powers of light focused through a dark chamber, a camera obscura, to project images some four hundred years before Christ, but it would take another 2,200 years for mankind to figure out a process to lastingly capture those projections.
It wasn’t until the last year of the last decade that the proper mixture of potions, taming of light beams, and a suitable material that could durably hold an imprint had been publicized half a world away from McAdams’ humble Pennsylvania studio.
Quality was continually being improved upon and exposure times had decreased considerably as the photographic process was refined with more potent materials and techniques, but it was through experimentation and countless failures that the initial code had finally been cracked and made public knowledge in France in 1839.
Aside from an anomaly in England, its importance, its profound impact on humanity, was of such magnitude that it simply could not remain blocked behind the shield of patent protections, the cumbersome bonds of legalese, royalties and all the other obstructions that all too often stymie an invention’s ability to impact the masses.
Photography would revolutionize not only the world, but more importantly the way humanity perceived the world. Moments in time, people, and snapshots of life in all its forms could be accurately memorialized for posterity without being entirely subject to the whims and imperfect interpretations of artists using more traditional forms.
The eye and the mind seem to distinguish mediums differently. A paining registers as a painting and a sculpture as a sculpture, but a photograph tends to elevate the remembrance to a level significantly more on par with reality. Interpretation still factored through setup, framing, and experience, but an authenticity could now be achieved like never before. It was as if the daguerreotypes captured some portion of the very souls of those photographed. This process, this notion, that had so longed for fruition had finally found an answer through the workings of Louis-Jaques-Mandé Daguerre.
Within three short years knowledge of the Frenchman’s process had spread throughout the world, enabling that magic to be duplicated within the walls of McAdams’ studio on 23 Forster Street.
Harrisburg was not New York, nor was it Philadelphia to be sure, but the region served as a key geographical crossroads. It was the mark where transportation originating in the east transitioned away from water toward travel along the ground for those continuing their journey westward.
The flow of traffic along the Susquehanna River, as well as being within the shadows of the Keystone State’s seat of government-the red-bricked Hills Capitol building-made sure McAdams was not short of a steady stream of clientele. Westward traders brought business, business brought politicians, and with them came a tangled assortment of others, some preceding, some following, but all seemed attracted to the orbit of the state capital, as well as to the studio on Forster Street.
The studio’s three rooms offered nothing more than the most utilitarian functionality. One of the rooms, if leeway was to be granted in such a description, provided at most a closet’s worth of storage space for the tools of the trade. Neatly stacked copper plates were matched with those of glass. Two shelves served as a belt for the room’s sidewalls and held watch over the plates below while laboring under the weight of rows of containers grouped by the labeling of their contents; iodine crystals, bromine, rouge powder, hyposulphite of soda, rottenstone, dilute alcohol and liquid mercury. What little space remained was given to an assortment of polishing brushes, gadgets, foot stools, and iron propping tools that were all brought into the studio when necessity dictated their use.
Directly across from the supply closet was a slightly larger room that doubled as McAdams’ office and dark room. The two facing rooms prefaced a short hallway that led into the studio itself. In front of this room’s fireplace an ornate velvet sofa was positioned center of the flush curtains that hung to either side on movable wooden racks, altogether framing a standard backdrop that could be altered as necessary depending on the nature of each photo session.
The bankers, the politicians, and the military officers all had their particular stylistic preferences and props. McAdams had seen them all. Some patrons opted for standing, others favored sitting or leaning. Some carried smoking pipes or sabers, and some adorned hats while others held cherished books, dolls, and even pets were added to the mix on occasion.
Facial positioning varied as well. Many clients honed their focus on the lens itself, with their intense gazes somehow willing the machine to work its magic. Others elected to look out with conquering eyes toward an invisible horizon of limitless opportunity, or as McAdams knew it, the supply closet.
Aesthetics and composition often gave way to a patron’s ego, as ego did not always bow to professional suggestions no matter how delicately McAdams’ words could phrase them. He would steer them toward a better photo as much as they’d allow, but he was just as amenable to catering to their wishes, for after all they were paying money for their own living, wordless epithet.
As much as he willingly attempted to accommodate the wishes of his varied clientele there were some whom on account of being dead had no say in such matters. McAdams had no qualms about photographing the recently deceased. In cases involving the dead, the sessions were hired out at the request of their families, and as such his fees were paid whe
ther his subjects were living or not. But beyond the callousness of matters relating to compensation, he genuinely provided the bereaved with a lasting and comforting service. A photograph could certainly capture the essence of the living, but it could also provide a last remembrance of a cherished loved one’s life.
Death masks, busts and portrait paintings had all been used toward this memorializing end for some time, but at a significant financial cost on top of being devoid of the realism and life-like nature photography afforded. What morticians did to prepare empty vessels for funerals and final viewings, McAdams did for immortal memories. He provided a tangible, linking heirloom to bridge those remaining with those who have gone on. A necklace or smoking pipe passed down through family lines could summon some primal bond with the essence of the departed, but could do little to prevent time from blurring memories or serve to provide such a vivid snapshot view for posterity.
Preferences were not asked of the dead but McAdams certainly lent his delicate ear to the desires of their loved ones. Some opted for solo portraits with the lifeless bodies propped and arranged to mimic the living. A simple arm bent at the elbow could support the weight of a head and give the appearance of a casual repose. A tilted head adjusted just so could stare into the open
