This spring students in Sarah Rogers’s History of Photography course were given an assignment: choose one photographic work on display at the museum, assume a first-person perspective—the photographer, the subject of the photograph, or someone on site—and narrate what you imagine to be the experience of being there in the photograph. Use specific details to craft a narrative that draws in the reader and makes the photograph come alive as the moment might have been experienced on site.
Several students in the course chose to write about photographs from our exhibition David Plowden: Portraits of America. A sample of their submissions follows. Enjoy!
Sanding Locomotive, Denver & Rio Grande Western Railroad, Durango, Colorado, 1962
Narrative by Jonah Landsman ’24
The smoke doesn’t bother me anymore. In fact, it barely registers. Only now—as our photographer doubles over coughing for seemingly the fourth time in five minutes—do I remember how ubiquitous, unescapable, it is. I try to ignore him. No need to be reminded of what this shit does to you.
Of course the photographer decides to come on the muggiest day of the whole damn summer. My shirt clings to my skin; my limbs feel heavy. The photographer’s presence—a.k.a. that of the head honchos back in Denver—means that Harry and I need to be on our best behavior. No breaks under the smokestack today. A hot bead of sweat inches its way down my temple—even removing my cap to wipe it feels risky. I steal another glance at our surveyor. He’s squinting, hard, and tears are beginning to flow freely down his face. I wish he would leave. He probably wishes he could, too.
Enough complaining. Today is not so bad. Our job is simple. Backbreaking, yes, but simple. Usually, I just move through the motions and let my mind wander. Harry’s not much of a talker, either, so no problems there. Besides, I get a certain rush from working on the train. It’s a complete monstrosity. Even now it rumbles under my feet, reverberating through my quads, chest, lungs. (Now that I think about it, though, maybe that tingling in my lungs has more to do with something else.) Standing on top of this thing—this lumbering hunk of metal—I’m a flea. It’s the grizzly. And yet, even as it reminds me of how minuscule I am, I know: this train does not move without me. The work I do up here is essential to the locomotive’s continued operation; there must be thousands of pounds of iron here and it relies, in part, on me. Yeah, there’s definitely something poetic there.
I wonder where these photos will end up. If we’re lucky they’ll be in the paper. I got in the paper once before, when I was little. Beat the school record in the 40-yard. Nothing to brag about—it was a small school. But it felt good. And look at me now! Keepin’ this country moving, 40 yards at a time. That’s paper-worthy, I’d say. I wonder if Harry’s ever been in the paper. I think about asking him, but, eh, he seems pretty absorbed. We usually hit a quota of about three brief exchanges per day; the question can wait. The sun beats down.
Abruptly I am aware that it is silent. Well, not silent—it’s always loud here. But, like the smoke, I’ve learned to tune out the pervasive grumbling and clanging of the train. No, it’s silent because I haven’t heard a cough in a few minutes. I cast my eyes around the area: the photographer is gone. Onto the next poor pair, I guess. I take off my cap to wipe my forehead; Harry does the same. We keep working.
Narrative by Brett Gilman ’24.5
The infrastructure absorbs us. The engine below my feet rumbles. Thick, gray steam billows over my shoulder, blocking out the sky. The heavy timber buildings of the train yard stand imposingly, with beams as wide as my torso. All within my view bends towards the machine.
I am atop a locomotive engine, a metal beast chomping at the bit. It’s just a quick stop here in Durango for this freight load as it restocks an essential ingredient: sand. These grains and specks flow forth from the hose against which I strain. Each engine is equipped with a dome crowning its iron skull, positioned between the bell and the smokestack. The sand will trickle down tiny pipes, finding their way just in front of the wheels and onto the tracks. Sand provides grip. In the steep, mountainous terrain beyond Durango, this train will need all the help it can get to cross the Continental Divide safely.
The hose is a tense vessel, one that just barely reaches. I wrestle it calmly. It’s a small black hose, with a diameter or so equal to my palm. The flow of sand continues to sift forth with a soft purr. My partner stands intently, gazing on. We share silence, listening to the whirrs and booms of the railyard. Like watching an hourglass, the consistent, even pull of the sand is absorbing and contemplative. Refilling the sand is almost ritualistic for me and my crew-a routine right of passage for a safe journey, a peaceful moment of solemnity. Sanding is ceremony.
A glint of late-afternoon sun catches the crest of the dome to my left; the work day is almost up. My muscles will soon find reprieve. In just an hour or so, I’ll find fulfillment in the delight of a home-cooked meatloaf dinner. Still the sand comes, gliding down into the cavernous heart of the beast. I shift my weight and readjust, leaning further into the curve of the dome.
Stability and diligence are key atop the train. So is good footwork. I refocus on the task at hand, trying my best to ignore the rushing of other thunderbolts moving through the yard. The yardmaster watches from below, waiting for my signal. The sand continues to fill. It sifts down like fine brown sugar. Our sand supplies stocked inside the towering freight elevator have dwindled as we reach the end of the week. We all watch intently, hoping to God there is enough dust to get this train on its way.
Silent though we are, the locomotive is anything but. It rumbles and rolls, the lightly rusted steel vibrating beneath my feet. A clang here. A bell there. And ever the screeches and bursts of steam, the soft golden wisps a welcome warmth. It smells too-a gummy soot and sour odor. The raw, metallic taste of heated, sweating metal fills my mouth-my tongue dry, my teeth lightly chattering. Immersed, I am reminded: I’ve just mounted a meteor.
The sand level rises quickly now as it reaches the top of the dome. Like a baker’s measure or a cut of clean lumber, preciseness is key. I do not want to overfill. Just like that, the sand levels out and I shout ‘Ho!’ My fellow workman raises his hand straight up to mark a filling tank, and the yardmaster halts the flow. I loosen my grip on the hose. It recoils limply. As I navigate the matrix of pipes and rails atop this giant cannon, dismount, and climb the ladder up the tower to solid ground, I’m relieved. Another job well done.
Storekeeper, Watrous, New Mexico, 1972
Narrative by Lindsey Schweitzer ’24
I feel hot and sticky as I meander through the aisles, restocking potato chips and tuna fish cans. I hate tuna fish. It’s slimy and stinky and stays on Memaw’s breath long after she eats her afternoon snack. Placing the tin cans back on the shelf I feel my stomach rise to my throat as my nose crinkles. I quickly shake my head trying to relieve my disgust, and return to my task at hand: trying to reach the top shelf to get all the rows of cans to line up evenly, just like Memaw likes. Memaw recently started to let me use the ladder to stock groceries because she says now that I’m a proper Grocery Clerk I get to use all the serious equipment.
Grocery Clerk is super cool because I also get 50¢ an hour for all the time I work after school. Memaw said because I am such a good worker that I deserve to get paid. She said it’s a “good lesson for a growing boy.” Memaw stays a lot of stuff is a “good lesson for a growing boy” but half the time I don’t even know what the lesson is! Still, I’ve worked at Memaw’s corner shop all my life so I know I really am a good worker. Memaw even said when I was little she used to sit me on the counter so that I could say hi to all the customers when they came in. Even now some of the regulars come and pinch my cheeks and tell me that they “knew me when I was a wee kiddo” whatever that means.
I really like working at Memaw’s shop and not only because I got to show Johnny the new Batman comic I bought at recess with my savings. I’ll deny it if you tell anyone at school but Memaw is my best friend. We have secret jokes and songs we sing when the store is empty and even an extra special secret handshake that took us weeks to learn. And whenever Memaw has to drop me off back at Mom’s new boyfriend’s place, she leans down close and says that I am her best friend no matter what. Sometimes I wish I could stay here forever. Once on our drive I told Memaw that I didn’t want to go home. She got this weird look on her face, kinda like when she cuts up onions. Her forehead kinda scrunched up and her eyes looked big and watery. That time when she leaned down close she held me squished up against her for what felt like an hour. She smelled like she always smelled, like cinnamon gum. Then, when she finally let go her eyes were dry and her mouth set.
Today though, I do not want to be stuck inside restocking cans. It’s the kind of warm where the flies come in and the back of your shirt and under your armpits molds to your body like a second skin. Every breath comes in moist and hot and the store’s single fan does little to circulate the moist air. Still, as always, Memaw wears her typical shirt and cardigan, cold even in the humid weather.
Wisdom in Watrous, Narrative by Olivia Dumont ’26
Click, the man’s camera went off in a blink. “Perfect- that should be enough for today,” he concluded, capping the lens before looking up with a thankful smile. “I appreciate you taking the time for me to photograph you as well as your shop.”
I pulled my sweater closer around me, rubbing the soft knit texture with my thumbs. It was starting to get colder as the sun dropped lower in the sky, creating a soft glow which flowed in through the window and filled the store from floor to ceiling. “It was my pleasure, Mr. Plowden,” I replied, gathering the items that he had placed at the checkout for the sake of the scene. I put the canned goods away first, each item stacked two cans high and perfectly in line with the one beside it. My meticulousness was already the reason why our photoshoot had run so late; I had refused to let a single image be taken of my store in disarray. I could already picture my husband, Harold, rolling his eyes at my scrupulousness when he would come by to check on me later.
I moved to re-shelf the bread before finally turning to the Nabisco CRUNCH Premium Saltine Crackers, until I was interrupted by Mr. Plowden who had been waiting quietly. “I’d actually like to purchase those,” he said with a sheepish smile.
“Anything else?” I inquired. Most of my saltines went to customers who were sick with a cold or the flu, a crunchy companion to their chicken noodle soup. Mr. Plowden, however, seemed to be in perfect health, and I doubted that he had the ability to cook soup in the truck that he had parked outside. Still, stranger requests had been made.
“No thank you- Actually-” he cut himself off, reaching down to the newspaper stand that sat on the floor next to the counter. “This too, please.” He placed today’s paper and some money beside the crackers.
“Of course.” My fingers flew across the numbers on the cash register, the feeling of each worn key so imprinted in my mind that I did not bother looking at the machine. I handed him his change with one hand as I ripped the handwritten receipt off the pad with the other, stealing a glance at the paper’s headlines.
His expression grimaced as his eyes scanned the front page. “It never seems to get any better, does it?” he mused. “Every day it’s ‘more lives lost in Vietnam’ or ‘who will blow us all to smithereens first?’ I don’t know why I even bother reading this anymore.”
I rested my forearms on the countertop again, just as I had done for his photograph. “It always seems that way, but it never lasts forever,” I began. “We thought that the Great War was never going to end, but our faith returned with Armistice Day. My husband and I were married right after, and now every year on our anniversary I remember the hope that I felt on that very first day. We had the same fears about the next war, but that one came to an end too, this time along with the birth of my grandson. There is always something new, something hopeful, to look for in times when the world seems to be imploding. That is why it is important to appreciate what is here now, and the good that is to come.”
Mr. Plowden stood pensively for a moment, then nodded with a slight grin. “That’s why I take these photographs, ma’am, to capture the beauty in the simplicity of daily life. Thank you again, for your time and for your words.”
At that point, Harold arrived to pick me up. Mr. Plowden assembled his camera and equipment, saying goodbye to me and exchanging a few words with my husband as he walked out the door. Harold stood beside me as we watched the photographer get into his car. “He only wanted saltines?” he chuckled.
Helen Nelson’s Beauty Parlor, Alta Vista, Kansas, 1991
Resilience and Beauty in Small-Town America, Narritive by Ava Pihlstrom ’26.5
As Helen Nelson’s beauty parlor owner in Alta Vista, Kansas, I find myself amidst a snapshot of my life’s work. It’s 1991, but I opened the parlor about 40 years ago. It hasn’t grown much since my first client, but much has changed. Times have been tough recently; there haven’t been many clients. The salon chair is often empty throughout the day. So, I find myself organizing and reorganizing the shelves filled with hair products, accessories, and knick-knacks. I take pride in the quaint space that I own. Although the space isn’t much, it has become a reflection of myself.
I never attended beauty school; all that I know is self-taught. What I do and what I create is my passion. I take pride in each client I see. They become more than just a client but a friend. Seeing their reaction after a complete transformation brings me the most joy. However, many of my regulars haven’t been coming in as much. Being a small business is tough, and I struggle to stay open when times are hard.
David Plowden, a photographer who captures the decline or evolution of American industries, entered the parlor one morning and asked to photograph the space. I didn’t have any clients that day, so I agreed. He said his photographs illustrate the one constant in America—change.
He showed me the photograph afterward, and I became emotional. The parlor was filled with morning light, and the beams filtered through the windows, highlighting my favorite aspects of the salon. Bottles of shampoo, conditioner, hair spray, and souvenirs from my regulars, sitting on the two shelves, glisten in the natural light. A delicately crafted flock of birds hangs above the archway to the salon chair. Those birds mean the most to me. My mother gave them to me when I opened the salon. They were the first decorations I ever hung. They represent a connection to my mother and the idea that everything changes and continues to move forward. As I enter the salon every morning, that flock of birds reminds me of my purpose and love for my work. Honestly, it’s been getting me through the recent lull.
When I looked at this photo for the first time, the worn upholstery of the salon chair reminded me of the countless clients who have sat there, each with their own story. I also smelled the freshly brewed coffee and the faint aroma of hairspray. The space doesn’t have ventilation, and I couldn’t afford to install that, so the best I can do is a fan above the salon chair. It doesn’t filter the fumes, so my nose has become acquainted with hairspray. Aside from the constant spinning of the fan, the fresh air filtering in from the windows ruffles the white curtains hanging on the archway to the salon chair. The bells attached to the curtains often ring when the wind picks up.
The photograph David captured fills me with pride and accomplishment. The salon I created is more than just a business—it’s a place where my clients and I can escape from the chaos of the outside world. My clients can indulge, and I receive the gratification of allowing that to happen.
I know the salon is empty right now, but it’s just a matter of time before my next client walks through the door. Until then, I’ll savor this moment of stillness. I’m grateful for how far I have come and the opportunity to create beauty and magic no matter the circumstances.
R. H. Birkhead, Agent M-K-T Railroad, Frederick, Oklahoma, 1968
Last Day, Narrative by Bella Morales ’26
The routine never changed much. Every morning, I’d shuffle into my work attire – white shirt, pants with a belt that, let’s be honest, is the only thing saving them from a gravity-induced disaster – and lace up my shoes. A quick spray of cologne, black coffee, no sugar – it’s sweet enough as it is. I’ve been dancing to this rhythm since my early days at the railroad station, a routine that, despite its predictability, became the backbone of my life. The years, however, have not been kind. The nimbleness of my youth? Faded away like a distant memory. Where did all my hair go? Well, that’s just another casualty of time and responsibility.
Fifty years at the same job. Wow. The realization hits me as I drive to my office for what turns out to be the last time. The familiar scent of coal and tobacco welcomes me, a fragrance that has clung to these walls for as long as my memory serves. The wood of my favorite desk and chair bears the marks of aging, just like the man who’s called this office home. The tranquility of the space is something I’ll miss the most – the solitude interrupted only by the scheduled chaos of a passing train at 3 pm. That daily wake-up call has become as essential as my morning coffee.
As I enter through the creaky white door, the scent welcomes me, wrapping me in a cocoon of familiarity. Opening the curtains by the window, I let in the muted daylight that adds a touch of warmth to the dim office. The flickering lightbulb above my desk, hanging on by a thread, that’s an exaggeration – it’s been hanging on by a wire – threatens to give up any day now.
Changing it has always been a hassle, but now it’ll collect dust for the next person who takes over my desk. My work routine starts with a series of paperwork that has become second nature over the years. Then, on my last day, an unexpected visitor enters – a photographer on a mission to capture the essence of hard-working Americans nationwide. He finds his way into my office, which he treats like a museum exhibit. “What do you want?” I ask, trying to muster a stern look. He explains his project; it’s hard to turn away someone turning so genuine. “Have at it; I got nothing better to do,” I say, taking off my glasses for a more serious appearance.
Sitting still for the photograph, I feel the weight of the moment – the official confirmation of my retirement. We chat for a while after he captures the essence of my routine with his revolutionary device, and we part ways with a memory to last a lifetime. Three months later, a surprise arrives in the mail – the developed photo, a tangible memento of that unexpected encounter. It’s a nice farewell, a quiet acknowledgment of the years spent in this office, a chapter closed but not forgotten.
Ollie Woodcock, Deckhand, Undocking Tug Julia C. Moran on Hudson River, Looking West, New York Harbor, 1975
Narrative by Finn Wimberly ’23.5
The taste of morning coffee lingers on my tongue, its warmth a comforting contrast to the fog-laden air of the harbor. The salt-soaked breeze tickles my cheeks. With it comes the familiar scent of the sea coupled with industry. Waves lap the boat’s hull while our diesel engine sparks and then begins to hum in the background.
As we prepare to push off, the coarse rope passes through my hands. In this moment, I feel truly alive, fully present in the simplicity of the labor. The deck beneath my feet pulses with the rhythm of the ocean and buzzes with the energy of the city. The sun works hard to pierce through the fog, casting a faint glow across the entirety of the harbor. I can’t help but marvel in the moment. But just as I begin to lose myself, I hear it – the sharp sound of a camera’s shutter clicking. I turn to see the photographer, his lens pointed in my direction. I can’t help but wonder what he hopes to capture in this simple scene aboard the Julia C. Moran. Why would I be the focus of such attention? Thirty-five years aboard the deck of various vessels and suddenly my trade is something to be glamorized? Is this truly something that the world, suddenly, wants to pay attention to? I can’t decide if I should feel proud or pissed off.
The photographer moves to adjust his equipment, shifting his focus from me to the skyscrapers that consume the harbor’s horizon. I watch as he frames his shot, his expression contorted, intensely concentrated. In that moment, I realize that maybe there is more to this scene than meets my untrained eye – that perhaps through his lens, the photographer sees something that I cannot.
Captain barks, “Ollie, untie the stern!” Startled, I scramble back to work. Yet still, as I hastily coil the rope, there’s an unshakeable sense of curiosity. What does it mean to see the world through the eyes of an artist? When you peer through that lens, does it look as different as I imagine? Pushing off, I can’t help but wonder what stories his photographs will tell and how my own story fits into the larger narrative of his work.
The tugboat hums as we guide it through the harbor, the rhythmic thud of the engine provides a steady soundtrack to our journey. Combined with the distant honking of taxis and the low hum of other, passing ships, every sound seems to blend seamlessly together. Together, they create a symphony of the humanity that spans these waters. I glance around at my fellow deckhands. Their weathered faces are etched with years of experience and hard work: human evidence of the sacrifice it takes to keep the city moving. As the skyline fades into the distance behind us, I can’t help but feel a sense of pride in the work we do, knowing that each journey aboard the Julia C. Moran is a small but essential part of the larger story of this great city. It’s a humbling realization to see my labor recognized, even if just through the lens of a passing photographer.
