The Hospital Band of Clarinda, Iowa

It's a serious bunch,
almost solemn,
with a direct gaze
most conductors
would like to see
in a band.

 

Yet their sober faces
seem a bit humorless
as if they might be easily offended.

And some stare with inky coal-black eyes.
It's a cheerless grave expression

which must have chilled the photographer
who looked at them through the camera lens.

Today I feature a group portrait of musicians in
the Hospital Band of Clarinda, Iowa.

But it was no ordinary medical facility.

It's a large band of nearly two dozen men, mostly brass players with four clarinetists, a flutist doubling on piccolo, and two drummers. They wear neat suits with formal wingtip collar shirts, a gentleman's style from the late 19th or early 20th century.    

Seated on the left is a horn player with a piston valve horn, an instrument once commonly used in France and Britain. In this era German horns with rotary valves were more prevalent in the United States. Next to him is a man with a similar instrument called a mellophone, but it is actually very different since it is played with the right hand and uncoiled it would be less than half the length of the other horn. Standing in the back row are four different types of tuba including a double-bell euphonium, a novelty instrument usually   given to a talented soloist. 

Closer inspection of their attire shows a light-color stripe on their trousers and decorative trim on their coat cuffs not unlike a uniform, but more like a military rather than a civilian bandsman's garb. A few men have badges on their coat collars with the initials — I. H. I.  and one man, seated center, has a pair of 5-pointed stars, too. He also has a cornet and a baton, so he must be the band director. 

The initials, I. H. I., stood for Iowa Hospital for Insane. 

These bandsmen were employed at this institution,
once known as the Clarinda Lunatic Asylum.

Hospital for Insane,
Clarinda, Iowa.
will send a letter soon.  Sarah E.

This photo postcard was sent on 9 August 1907 to Miss Lulu Q. Noute of Denver, Colorado. The image shows a sprawling institution set behind a huge grassy field interspersed with a few ornamental trees. The building is made of brick with a succession of three-story wings around a taller central building that features a clock tower. 

Clarinda is a small town and the county seat of Page County, Iowa, situated in the southwest corner of the state near the border of Missouri. In 1884 Iowa's two state asylums in Independence and Mt. Pleasant were deemed insufficient to care for the growing number of Iowans who suffered from mental health problems. A state commission selected Clarinda, whose population was then around 2,000, as the site for a third hospital in the western part of the state.

The commission chose architects from Des Moines to design the Clarinda facility based on ideals promoted by Dr. Thomas Story Kirkbride (1809 – 1883), a physician, alienist (an old term for a psychiatrist), and hospital superintendent for the Institute of the Pennsylvania Hospital. Kirkbride is remembered as one of the fathers of modern American psychiatry.

In 1840, Kirkbride was appointed the first superintendent of the Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane located in South Philadelphia. Over the next few decades in Philadelphia, Kirkbride also helped found the Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the Insane (AMSAII), holding several officer positions in the organization including secretary and president. Through his experience caring for people suffering from severe mental disorders and his background as a Quaker, Dr. Kirkbride rejected the old system of imprisoning people afflicted with psychiatric issues in isolated prisons and poorhouses. Instead he worked at developing new methods that would improve medical treatment and care for the insane.  

Kirkbride envisioned new asylum hospitals that focused on healing the mentally ill by creating places that offered activities to patients, seclusion from suspected causes of illness, and access to medical therapy. His intention was to seek cures for mental disorders that would benefit patients' lives. He advocated for larger institutions which would have abundant exposure to natural light and air circulation, separate wings for men and women, divided floors according to level of mental condition, and access to outdoor activities like gardening and farming. 

His progressive ideas were adopted in the 19th century by many asylums built in America, following institutional building designs that became known as the Kirkbride Plan. Most would have different architectural details but still use a master plan conforming to the Kirkbride "bat wing" scheme which arranged numerous wings attached to a center administration building. The first asylum built to the Kirkbride Plan was the Trenton State Hospital in Trenton, New Jersey, constructed in 1848.

1848 lithograph of the Kirkbride design
of Trenton State Hospital in Trenton, New Jersey
Source: Wikipedia

Most of the construction of the Clarinda Hospital for the Insane was completed in 1886 when it first began accepting patients and transfers from Iowa's other two overcrowded asylums. The causes and treatments for mental illnesses, like most diseases and disorders, was still poorly understood by medical science in this time. Doctors at insane asylums like the Clarinda Hospital also treated alcoholics, drug addicts, people with genetic conditions or geriatric dementia, and people with physical disabilities, as well as the mentally ill, and criminally insane. 

Clarinda IA State Hospital for the Insane
Source: Library of Congress
[click to enlarge]

As was the custom of the time, the physicians and staff of Clarinda Hospital lived on the grounds of the asylum. In the 1900 U. S. census for Page County, Iowa, there were 23 pages devoted to the people employed, committed, and living on the 513 acre site. Roughly 150 people were on staff at the hospital. Five were physicians, which included the superintendent, and there were 62 nurses, both male and female. The rest were housekeepers, cooks, laundresses, seamstresses, gardeners, engineers, and farm laborers. The remaining 17 pages of the 1900 census for the Clarinda hospital records 856 names without occupations or comments.

Newspapers in Iowa regularly reported on state institutions like prisons, schools, and hospitals, covering annual expenditures and accounts from superintendents. Often the papers printed dense articles written by special correspondents who had visited a hospital. In December 1895 one writer toured  the Clarinda Hospital for Insane.  One paragraph described the variety of activities and amusements at the hospital, including the hospital band.  

Sioux City IA Journal
16 December 1895

Plenty of Amusement. 

    Amusement is an important feature of hospital life and every effort is made to relieve the tedium of long winter days and evenings by divers entertainments.  The beautiful amusement hall, which Is fitted with a stage and properties, serves as a great pleasure to the patients.  The hospital band, which has a well earned reputation in that section of the state, is an Important factor in the entertainments, and plays for the dances which are given in the large hall every Saturday night.  In the summer open air concerts are given on the lawn three times a week, and the men play ball and engage in numerous other athletic sports on pleasant days.  The women are regularly trained in calisthenics and the men are drilled in military deportment, which seems to have an excellent affect.  The patients are given regular medical treatment and each one Is considered individually.  His physical and mental requirements receive skillful and studious attention, and no means are spared to relieve the suffering of the unfortunate people.  Religious services are conducted regularly by Rev. D. 0. Stuart, the hospital chaplain.  The management holds that under the present methods of caring for the insane it is not enough that medical treatment, trained nurses, and amusements are furnished for patients, but it is also necessary to provide employment for the idle hands and brains in equal abundance. 

In the previous year, 1894, a new superintendent, Dr. Franck C. Hoyt, was appointed to the Clarinda asylum. Dr. Hoyt was a part of a national movement of young physicians who were changing the way hospitals managed the care and treatment of mental disorders. The hospital band was one of his innovations, as was a standard uniform for the hospital's physicians, orderlies, and nurses. It was reported to be made of blue cloth and gold trim.  

According to another report published in April 1897 in the Sioux City Journal:

"Dr. Hoyt is himself a lover of music and has a musical family, and under his patronage a hospital band has grown up which is one of the best organizations in the west.  The members of the band are hospital employees, and they give concerts two or three times a week in the auditorium or general assembly room to the patients, by whom the music is much enjoyed.  The evening spent by the Union County party at the hospital was a concert evening, not only at the hospital, but at St. Joe, Kansas City, and Omaha, whence the music was conducted by long distance telephone. Some idea of the excellence of the hospital band may be gained from the fact that such numbers were rendered as Verdi's "Macbeth," "Il Trovatore" and passages from Wagner and from other authors of equal merit."

I believe that my photo of the Clarinda Hospital Band was taken around this time, 1895–1897, and possibly on the stage of the hospital's auditorium. 

Council Bluffs, IA Nonpareil
4 March 1898

In March 1898 Dr. Hoyt reported that in the previous month the Clarinda Hospital for Insane had admitted 17 new patients; discharged 12 as either recovered, improved, or died; leaving 684 people in care, 413 male and 271 female.   

Later that year Dr. Hoyt left Clarinda to take up the superintendent position of the State Lunatic Asylum in  Mount Pleasant. Iowa. 

    

The Clarinda hospital band continued for at least a year after Dr. Hoyt's departure. In November 1899 the band was one of a dozen bands participating in a welcome home parade in Council Bluffs for U. S. Army troops who were returning from the Philippines after service in the Spanish–American War. But beyond that year the band did not merit any more attention in newspapers, so I presume it faded into memory.

On 21 May 1901 Dr. Frank C. Hoyt died in Kansas City, Missouri while on leave from his position at the Mt. Pleasant Hospital for the Insane. He was not yet 40. The cause of death was tuberculosis complicated by a rheumatic heart, an unfortunate occupational risk for a hospital physician. 

Clarinda Treatment Complex, August 2025
Source: Wikipedia

In 1902 there were almost 1,100 "inmates" at the Clarinda hospital for insane, just a couple dozen more than the patient populations at the other Iowa state asylums in Independence and Mt. Pleasant. Over the next century the facility gradually reduced its patient numbers as medical treatments for mental health changed and improved. More recently it was known as the Clarinda Treatment Complex and in 2015 it was closed. The buildings and grounds are still maintained but no other development for the site is planned.  Below is a Google Street View which gives a better perspective of this historic example of Dr. Kirkbride's ideal hospital.  

* * *

* * *

Clarinda is not a very big place, its population was roughly 3,300 in 1890 and only 5,350 in 2020. The surrounding terrain is very flat and the seasons can be pretty harsh with summer temperatures above 100° and winter often in negative double numbers. 

A hospital band of doctors and nurses seems unusual for our time but not for the men in the photo. Once upon a time music could only be enjoyed in a live experience of musical performance. For all that medical science did not know about mental health in the late 19th century, they did understand the calming and healing power of music. That special capacity of harmonious sound, either in vocal or instrumental music, to relieve physical stress, emotional discomfort, or restore memory is now recognized as a proper accredited medical discipline called music therapy. I think that the serious expressions on these bandsmen conceals a pride that they were making music for their patients to enjoy. For a short time, however brief, a brass band could soothe a troubled mind. That's the story concealed in this photo.  

For reasons I can only explain as coincidental, I have written several stories for my blog about photos of bands or orchestras from Iowa intuitions. The first was the The Fort Madison Prison Orchestra; then A Birdseye View of a Girls Orchestra about the Iowa State Industrial School in Mitchellville; Don't This Dazzle Your Eyes! is about the girls' band at the Iowa State Normal School in Cedar Falls; and there are two from Mason City: The Orphans Home Band and the Iowa I.O.O.F. Orphans Home Orchestra. Iowa seems to have a strong musical heritage and lots of clever photographers to record it. 

So I shouldn't have been surprised at the following strange serendipitous report I found this week in my research on the Clarinda Hospital Band. But I was just a little spooked.

Council Bluffs, IA Nonpareil
29 August 1966

60-Year-Old Clarinda Band Photo Turns Up 

A photograph of the Clarinda Hospital band, believed at least 60 years old, has been found in Missouri.  Mrs. Ona Gideon of rural Jasper, Mo., has asked B. N. Bench, Clarinda postmaster, to help her find some area family interested in having it.  The old picture shows 23 men, 10 of them with mustaches.  Mrs. Gideon said she found the 10 by 17-inch photo in an old frame, behind another picture. 

My photograph is mounted on
heavy maroon-color cardstock with gold edges.
There are 23 men in the photo. Ten have mustaches.   

Is it the same photo?

Who knows?

Only they could tell us,
and they're not talking.  

{After printing the photograph, the photographer discovered that
the eye pupils of several men were bleached out.
So he carefully dabbed a dot of black ink into their eyes.
This is my effort at an improvement.
I guess I went a bit crazy.} 

This is my contribution to Sepia Saturday

where it is strongly advised
to always keep a-hold of Nurse

for fear of finding something worse.

The Orchestra of H.M.S. Royal Arthur

 

I don't know his name
but I do know where he was sitting.
He is poised on the deck of a warship
in Great Britain's Royal Navy,
the H.M.S. Royal Arthur.

His affable face was easy to spot
when he turned up in several photos
taken onboard this ship.

Here he is again
with two of his shipmates,
all dressed as seamen
of the Royal Navy.

But what set him apart
from an ordinary sailor
is that he played a violin
in the ship's orchestra.
That's generally not
a standard rating in any navy. 
 

Today I present a small collection
of photo postcards
taken at a time when
Britannia ruled the waves. 

The H.M.S. Royal Arthur was a first class protected cruiser built at the Portsmouth Dockyard in south England and launched on 26 February 1891. It was 387.5 ft (118.1 m) long with a beam of 60.75 ft (18.52 m) and it displaced 7,700 tons. It was the fourth of nine ships built to the same Edgar-class design for a "protected cruiser", so-called because of an internal protective deck that shielded the magazines and machinery spaces within the ship's structure with a layer of 5 in (130 mm) thick steel armor. 

British Edgar class protected cruiser.
Brassey's Naval Annual, 1897. Plate 13.
Source: Wikipedia

The main armament for the Royal Arthur consisted of one 9.2-inch gun mounted aft and twelve 6-inch guns, with one pair replacing another 9.2-inch gun usually mounted at the bow in other ships of this class. The ship was also armed with a dozen smaller guns and four 18-inch torpedo tubes. Power for its twin propellers came from steam expansion engines fueled by coal and producing 12,000 ihp. And for extra insurance there were two masts for rigging sails. 

Engines of the First-Class Protected Cruisers
Theseus and Royal Arthur
Source: The Engineer, 23 March 1894

A cruiser ship in the Edgar class typically carried a complement of 544 officers and seamen. After being fitted out and passing its sea trials, in 1893 the Royal Arthur was first assigned to the Pacific Station in the British fleet which then operated on the eastern side of Pacific Ocean. In this era a voyage to the west coast of South America might take anywhere between 4 to 6 weeks depending on weather. 

My trio of sailors stand on an upper deck of the ship in front of a cowl ventilator which channeled air to the lower decks. Their dark blue uniforms and caps are a classic style that distinguishes sailors of the Royal Navy. The navy's tradition of putting a ship's name on its sailors' caps makes it much easier to identify them compared to soldiers in army uniforms. They have the look of three comrades pleased to pose for a photo that they could send home to their families.  

HMS Royal Arthur, stern view
Source: Wikimedia

In 1897 the Royal Arthur transferred to the Australian Station where it served as a flagship for that fleet from 1897 to 1904. Steamships of this era might make an Atlantic crossing from England to America in about 7 to 10 days. But a voyage to Australia covered a distance of roughly 24,000 km or 15,000 miles and took between 40 to 70 days depending on whether the route went via the Cape of Good Hope at the bottom of Africa or took a manmade shortcut through the Suez Canal. 

What first caught my attention was finding this postcard of a small orchestra of sailors who posed in front of an outdoor stage backdrop. There are 13 musicians with eight violins, cello, clarinet, trombone, and two drums, and all wear caps branded with the badge of HMS ROYAL ARTHUR. The sailor who I've focused on stands second from right in the backrow. Historically the Royal Navy has always used bands of the Royal Marines, but these men are clearly in navy uniforms and, with the exception of the clarinetist, trombonist, and drummers, they are not bandsmen. 

Sydney NSW Morning Herald
16 February 1901

It was during its time in Australia that the HMS Royal Arthur received the most attention in newspaper reports. As flagship of a fleet the Royal Arthur was the resident vessel of the fleet's commanding officer, a vice admiral, who had numerous social and diplomatic duties while the ship was in port. Having a small orchestra onboard offered a useful cultural asset to promote the navy when in port as well as provide a diversion to officers and crew during long voyages. In February 1901 a Sydney newspaper carried a short report of an entertainment at the Seamen's Institute performed by singers, instrumentalists, and orchestra from H.M.S. Royal Arthur. "A selection of patriotic, descriptive, and humorous songs and recitations was rendered by Messrs. Smeaton, Baker, Judge, Parnell, Heald, and Thompson Mr. Cornfoot (violin), Mr. J. Doust and Mr. Howe (mandolin duet), with the orchestra, viz., Miss Evans, Messrs. Collins, Cornfoot, Doust, and Prangley, provided the instrumental items.  The 251 seamen present appreciated the entertainment, and responded heartily to the call for three cheers, made by the chaplain, Rev. T. H. Distan Morgan."

A month earlier the sailors put on a minstrel show at the Temperance Hall in Hobart, Tasmania. A review of this event reported that "the most interesting feature of the evening was the sword bayonet display by the Royal Marine Artillery, the wrist play and movements of the six performers engaged being exceptionally clean and active.  The cutlass display by the blue-jackets was also creditable, and the performance concluded with a farce entitled "Touched".

In February 1902 the Royal Arthur was in Adelaide, South Australia where a group of its sailors gave a concert at the Institute Hall. A short review gave tactful praise: "The String Band Orchestra delighted the audience by the way in which it rendered the selections and accompaniments." Even wrong notes and gimpy rhythms can be entertaining. 

Admiral Pearson's flagship H.M.S. Royal Arthur, 1898
Source: University of Melbourne Archives

The HMS Royal Arthur returned to Britain via the Mediterranean in May 1904 for another refitment at Portsmouth's Dockyards. In 1905 was assigned to the North America and West Indies Station for a short service before returning to England in 1906.

In this photo the Royal Arthur's string ensemble is a bit larger with 16 musicians posed onboard the ship. Seated on the deck in the center is my guy holding a round life saver with the name HMS ROYAL ARTHUR stenciled on it. Seated right behind him is an officer, perhaps the ship's captain. Standing  in the back row, far right, is an older man with a violin who wears a different uniform and cap. He was also in the previous photo. I'm not certain, but he may be dressed in a marine uniform. It's possible he is the leader of this little orchestra. 

In 1906 the Royal Navy added a new battleship to its fleet, the H.M.S. Dreadnought. This huge ship started a revolution in naval power with its size, increased armor, and firepower. It was 527 ft (160.6 m) in length and 82 ft (25 m) across the beam. There was thick steel armor along the belt of the hull, on the decks, around the guns, and between the bulkheads. It was also powered by new steam turbine engines which made it very fast for its size.  But it was its powerful armament which made it a new threat to battleships of other navies. The Dreadnought carried 5 x twin 12-in guns, 27 × single 12-pdr guns, and 5 × 18-in torpedo tubes. Its heavy-caliber guns were capable of a very long fire, a range much longer than other battleships of the time. Soon all the first-order nations began building bigger battleship fleets with more big guns. It was an expensive and jingoistic rivalry that started a naval armament race which in a few years would set up political conditions that led to the First World War. 

This musical group from the Royal Arthur is reduced to 9 musicians with all strings except a clarinetist and a keyboardist on the right. That man sit by a small harmonium that uses foot pedals to inflate its organ bellows. Seated center is an older gentleman not dressed as a sailor but instead a black suit coat with clerical collar. I believe he is the ship's chaplain and that this ensemble was performing a worship service on the ship's deck. Could he be the Rev. T. H. Distan Morgan mentioned in the Sydney Morning Herald?

The photographer must have thought the sailors' caps were too much for the occasion and took this second photo with their hats off. Even the padre has removed his hat. For me it's a rare treat to get a variation on a group photo. 

After returning to Britain, the HMS Royal Arthur was placed in reserve for three years. By 1909 advances in naval design had made cruisers of this type practically obsolete so it was reassigned to the Home Fleet just for training purposes. I don't believe it was ever used again as a flagship, so it seems unlikely that the Royal Arthur orchestra continued after 1906.  

All the postcards were never posted and only one has an imprint: W. Charles. 29 Rhodes St., Holloway, London which might be the name of a photographer or a collector. So it is difficult to date or place a location on my little collection of the Royal Arthur's orchestra. The postcards do have a divided back for message and address, so that means the photo paper is later than 1902 when Britain first allowed postcards to have messages. But beyond that, time and place are just a guess. I think they likely were taken around 1903 to 1904 when the ship was stationed in Australia. 

On board H.M.S. Royal Arthur, 1898
Source: University of Melbourne Archives

This photo of the Royal Arthur's aft 9 inch gun with a seaman and officer standing on deck came from the archives of the University of Melbourne. It and the previous photo of ship at anchor came from a private album of photographs taken in 1898. I like how it gives a better perspective of how compact this warship was when every element had to serve several functions to keep the ship safe and still maintain its military purpose. 

My last postcard of from the HMS Royal Arthur is a grainy photo of twenty men posed formally on a small stage. Several men are dressed as clowns. One man in the back row is showing off his muscular arms. A string band of mandolins, violin, and guitar wear young boys' school uniforms and caps. Behind them is a painted backdrop of a fantasy courtyard with a sign at the top: North Sea College.  Seated second right of center is the officer seen in the photo with the life ring. And seated left of center is the same chaplain seen in the other photos. It's obviously a variety show troupe, most dressed in silly costume for an entertainment. On either side is a navy seaman and a Royal marine standing at attention with rifles fixed with bayonets. It's the only photo where I can't spot the sailor who appears in all the other photos. 

During its time of service the HMS Royal Arthur never participated in any great naval battle but it is an example of how Britain's Royal Navy embraced a formidable sea power to defend the British Empire. That empire, and several others too, would be challenged in 1914 with the start of World War One. 

During the war the Royal Arthur served as a guardship at Scapa Flow and later as a submarine depot ship. It was decommissioned after the war and sold for scrap in August 1921.

The era of HMS Royal Arthur bridges a time between a modern navy powered by steam engines and an older tradition of warships under sail. Close quarter action between ships was still considered possible so sailors trained with hand weapons. Here is a postcard captioned: Life in the Navy, Cutlass Drill showing two long lines of Royal Navy sailors practicing their swordsmanship. The ship is not identified but the postcard was printed in Great Britain, probably around 1902-03.   

A life at sea required diligent work for every seaman in the Queen's/King's Navy. Their ship was their home and it protected them only so long as they obeyed orders and followed countless rules and regulations. I believe most men inevitably formed strong bonds of comradery through their navy service. But it's fascinating to think that some sailors got to enjoy another level of friendship through making music. I would have loved to see one of their shows.    

Now I will close with a rendition of
"When I Was a Lad" a song from HMS PINAFORE,
an operetta composed by Arthur Sullivan
from a libretto by W. S. Gilbert.
 This is a 2017 preview from the Stratford Festival.

I bet the orchestra from HMS Royal Arthur
did a passable version of this song.

This is my contribution to Sepia Saturday

where saucy sailors sing only on high Cs.

More Smiles for the Camera!

 

It's a simple request,
an invitation really.
"Smile, please."

But do we look
at the camera
or at the photographer?

At other times it can be a plea,
a desire to see a face shine.
But some people are just shy
or perhaps too coy to smile.

Once in awhile a smile comes naturally.
A spontaneous expression
stirred by a wonder
too beautiful for words.

Yet when the shutter clicks
each smile, scowl,
 grin, or grimace
will be caught
by the camera,
preserved on film,
and printed on paper
for all to enjoy.

Today I present
a few postcards and photos
of photographers with their cameras.

L'Objectif

Regardez mon objectif,

Le trouvez-vous suggestif?..

Je voulais votre portrait,

L'occasion est unique,

Je vousa cueille sans réplique:

Un... deux... trois... voilà; c'est fait!
                                            A. G.

The Objective

Look at my objective,

Do you find it suggestive?

I wanted your portrait,

The opportunity is unique,

I'll capture you without a word:

One... two... three... there; it's done!
                                        A. G.

This young French photographer entices us to admire her equipment and focus on her camera lens. A short note is written on the front: Bon souvenirs ~ Good Memories. I believe this postcard and its short verse were part of a series of lighthearted images produced to promote the novelty of having one's picture taken. This card was sent to another young lady in Ligny-en-Barrois, France on 27 July 1903.

* * *

On this postcard we are shown a scene not unlike a screenshot from a film. A young couple sit at the base of a great tree in a forest. The man, a member of clergy to judge by his collar, makes some earnest entreaty to a young woman who looks away dejectedly. Meanwhile in the background two men with cameras furtively attempt to photograph the couple.

The caption reads: Camera Fiends.  

The card was posted on 23 October 1905 from Tiverton, a town in Devon, England, to Mrs. Dilten(?) of Newbury in West Berkshire, about 120 miles northeast of Tiverton.

                                Very sorry not to have
                                written before but do not
                                seem to have time.
                                Will write later on.
                                When are you coming
                                home again shall be 
                                glad to see you.
                                I am making a blouse
                                & hundred & one other things
                                so am pretty well filled up.
                                            Love from all  X Gweneth X
 

* * *

This postcard is an illustration, not a photo. A group of seven figures, male and female silhouettes, cut from black paper I think, gaze on a grand view of snowcapped mountains. Most of the people have umbrellas, canes or walking staffs, but on the left one person is bent over, hidden under a hooded camera that is mounted on a tripod. He is either focused on the mountains or on the other tourists admiring the majestic landscape. There is a caption in French and German:

Lever de soleil                Sonnenaufgang      

3 h. du matin                  morgens 3 Uhr   

~

Sunrise

3 a.m.

   On the side of the image is a printed name of the publisher:
902 Éditeur: Comptoi. De Phototypie,  Neuchatel (Suisse)

 

The card was sent from La Côte-aux-Fées, Switzerland on 31 August 1899 to Monsieur Carey in Geneva which is about 60 miles to the south. It has a playful quality that makes fun of the efforts foreign visitors would go to just to experience a sunrise over the Alps. 

* * *

For a theme of cameras and photographers
I can't resist including some pictures
of the photographer I know best. 

This young soldier is a very long way from the Alps but he does have a Swiss camera hanging over his shoulder. This is my dad, Russ Brubaker, smiling for the camera as he stands on a rocky mountain ledge overlooking the Sea of Japan. It is 1952 and he was a Lieutenant in the 2nd Infantry Division of the U. S. Army serving in South Korea. He had only been married to my mom for a couple of months when he was ordered to join the forces battling the Chinese and North Koreans in Korea. This photo was taken that summer and he wrote a caption on the back.

 Gee ... !  I'd love to have a beer!
note the sweat on my hat band.

In this photo Russ stands next to a tall rocky embankment as he fiddles with his camera. His caption on the back says:

 Koje   Turning up the next picture

Koje is an island on the southern coast of the Korean peninsula. 

This was his new camera, an Alpa 35mm single lens reflex made in Switzerland that he had recently purchased in Japan while on leave. I suspect he was still getting used to the mechanism for reloading film. It was his second camera, an improvement over a cheaper 16mm fixed lens mini-camera which is what took this picture held by one of his comrades. These snapshots were processed by a photo service which I presume was at an American military base in Japan. After the prints came back my dad carefully fixed these photos of his war service into an album, each mounted with adhesive corners on heavy black paper with captions in white ink. 

 

I almost missed this photo as the print was rather dark. But looking closely I recognized a face. It's my dad taking a selfie while wearing his army helmet. This photo has a caption too. 

"reflections on a search light" 

It's a variation on the first photo that he took with his Alpa camera, another selfie using a Tokyo hotel room mirror, which begins my December 2021 story The Eye Behind the Camera. Here he must have been walking around his unit's compound and spotted the mirror of the searchlight. After I played with the digital scan I improved the contrast to show a pretty decent composition. However I suspect that when the searchlight was turned on the heat from the lamp, not to mention its brightness, would have made it very dangerous to be this close. With his helmet on he looks like another photo.

This is a closeup crop from another photo of my dad in Korea that I featured in Everything In Focus back in August 2018. None of his photos show any of combat or action. Most are of people, soldiers mainly, who smile for his camera. Fortunately his unit was never involved in the worst battles of the Korean War, but he still endured enough discomfort to recognize that he wasn't cut out for the infantry. The following year he transferred to the U. S. Army Transportation Corps where he found that handling logistics for the army made for a more rewarding career. He continued for another 25 years retiring as a Lt. Colonel. 

Since I had not yet come into the picture, so to speak, the memories in these photos are not mine. I only grew up thumbing through the pages of these photo albums, mostly paying no attention to my dad's stories about his comrades and the war they experienced. I know now that this first exposure to combat overseas defined his commitment of service to his country. It makes me proud to see him in uniform. But what I most recognize in these photos, something I noticed even as a child, is my dad's smile. It was a face full of friendly enthusiasm and unbounded curiosity. It was a smile for the camera that still makes me smile. 

This my contribution to Sepia Saturday

where, for a change, the camera takes center stage.