Arne Svenson, The Neighbors #11, 2012 © Arne Svenson, Courtesy Julie Saul Gallery, New York.
Last month, This Picture asked you to consider a photograph from Arne Svenson’s series, The Neighbors. Taken without the subjects’ permission and shot with a long lens, these photographs of people in their private residences garnered widespread attention because of the lawsuit filed against the artist for alleged invasion of privacy.
This month’s responses did indeed explore the tension between public and private, but they also in equal measure injected a healthy dose of levity into the conversation by focusing on the partially obscured, slightly surreal, and completely compelling stuffed giraffe that makes an appearance in the photograph. I must admit, when we selected this image as one of our This Picture features, not one of us predicted the draw of “the giraffe factor.” Live and learn.
Copy of a photograph of the 1926 Pittsburgh Crawfords baseball team. Standing left to right: Nate, co-founder Bill Harris, Harry Beale, Buster Christian, and Jasper Stevens; seated left to right: William Smith, Tootsie Deal, Julius, Whitey Turner, Reece Mosby, Bill Jones, co-founder Charles “Teenie” Harris, and Johnny Moore, Carnegie Museum of Art, Heinz Family Fund, 2001.35.9090 © 2006 Teenie Harris Archive.
What in time became known as one of the greatest baseball clubs in the world began as a group of black and white Pittsburgh youths playing ball on the sandlots of the Hill. Organized baseball might have been lily-white in the 1920s, but race didn’t count that much on the Hill when it came time to choose up sides for a game. Blacks and whites played together, ate meals at each other’s homes, and often were whipped by both black and white mamas when they got into trouble. The Hill was a racial and ethnic smorgasbord, and pick-up games reflected that variety. As street play became increasingly organized into team competition, however, a sorting out by race occurred. Consequently, sandlot clubs were rarely composed of both black and white players, even though their members might have grown up playing ball together. The Crawfords came out of this interracial mix but became an all-black squad as they moved further away from the streets.
The roots of the Crawfords were in the South and the subsequent migration northward. Bill Harris was born on Christmas day 1909 in Calhoun, Alabama. His parents had met while working as cooks at the local public school, but neither a piece of land nor a job inspecting cars for the railroad was sufficient inducement to resist the lures of the North. The Harrises’ oldest son, Earl, was the first to leave. He moved to Pittsburgh and worked construction jobs. When Earl wrote home that the money was good, the Harris family soon joined him. His father worked construction, too, beginning as a laborer and eventually becoming a pusher, or gang leader. The five Harris brothers held a variety of jobs but became better known for their feats on the diamond, first in Pittsburgh and then across black America.
Charles “Teenie” Harris, group portrait of Elsa Elliott Harris, her mother Annie M. Elliott, Agnes Elliott, Vann Harris, Lionel Harris, and unknown girl, standing on grass with trees in background, c. 1949, black and white: Ansco Safety Film, Carnegie Museum of Art, Heinz Family Fund, 2001.35.24756 © 2006 Teenie Harris Archive.
The last week of summer has come and gone, and with it go fond memories of warm sunshine and summer activities. I’m certain we’ll all miss the delicious tastes of the season—mouth-watering fruits and vegetables, barbecued meats, or fresh catches from the sea. The smell of sand and surf, fragrant meadows laden with flowers, and long sun-filled evenings spent outdoors are being traded for snuggling on a cozy couch with a great book or TV show. Perhaps you, like many, shared some fun moments with loved ones at family events such as weddings, baby showers, birthday parties, or reunions, enjoying the time seeing old friends and meeting new additions to your circle.
The family of Charles “Teenie” Harris had such a summer event—an annual family reunion. A portion of the festivities were held at Carnegie Museum of Art, which offered the Harris family time to explore the Teenie Harris Archive exhibition, Teenie Harris Photographs: Baseball in Pittsburgh. This collection was curated by Negro League player Josh Gibson’s great grandson—a fellow player and friend of Teenie’s. They also witnessed The Teenie Harris Archive’s contribution to Race: Are We So Different?, an exhibition currently on display at our sister facility the Carnegie Museum of Natural History.
What is your official title, and what are some of your general responsibilities?
My official title is Archival Assistant for the Time-Based Media Collection. I am part of a broad, comprehensive effort to preserve all of the film, video, and audio assets at the museum. My main task is to create an archive that will house the photographs, letters, reports, posters, slides, and memos that provide context for the media materials. These papers help tell the fascinating history of film in Pittsburgh. I am working to preserve the records and taking steps to make them available to everyone inside and outside the museum. Some materials will even be scanned and put online. Overall, my goal is to make this information readily accessible so more people can use it for research. I hope my work helps others discover the city’s unique, exciting, and influential film scene.
Film still from Discarded: Joachim Schmid and the Anti-Museum © Carnegie Museum of Art.
“I am an artist because there is no other description for what I do.”
These are the surprisingly telling words of Joachim Schmid, a Berlin-based artist who has spent more than 30 years of his career working with found photographs. The majority of his projects have involved gathering and re-presenting photographs—both print and digital—taken by the anonymous public. Oftentimes intentionally discarded by their creators, Schmid’s source materials would, but for him, disappear into the physical or virtual trash heap. Instead, Schmid’s “anti-museum” of forgotten, lost, and disused photographs, challenges us to reconsider not only our assumptions of photographic worth, but also how photography and collecting function as cultural practices.