vol. 1, no. 5
April, 1996

Helios

writing with light at the Clements Library

In the order of nature, families are dispersed, by death or other causes; friends are severed; and the "old familiar faces" are no longer seen in our daily haunts. By heliography, our loved ones, dead or distant, our friends and acquaintances, however far removed, are retained within daily and hourly vision. To what extent domestic and social affections and sentiments are conserved and perpetuated by these "shadows" of the loved and valued originals, every one may judgeÉ In this competi-tious and selfish world of ours, whatever tends to vivify and strengthen the social feelings should be hailed as a benediction.1

What could be more commonplace than a picture of a brother and sister? The boy sits with his sketch book open to a pleasant drawing of a home, while the girl dangles a photograph of her father in her lap. Both stare into the lens with an intensity peculiar to children their age; both are riveted still. When this daguerreotype (Fig. 1) arrived at the Clements in 1994, an isolated fragment from the past, we knew little about these children. Their future, their lives, their homes, even their names were never recorded, and if not for this single, slender bit of evidence, they would have been completely lost to history. But photographs possess an unparalleled ability to weave a narrative, even when the words have been expunged. In this image, we see the world of the past confront the present: the art of drawing encounters the starkly modern daguerreotype, just as the father encounters his children. Here, the home is yoked with the brilliant image of the father through the bodies of his children, arm in arm, creating a chain of emotion linking parent, child, and home. Despite its commonplace nature, its utter mundanity, few other forms of historical evidence are capable of such succinct statements about emotional lives as the photograph.

And the story continues, with a tragic subplot hidden to most modern viewers. This daguerreotype was taken to commemorate the man whose photograph the girl so casually dangles. This gentle image is an example of American memorial photography, images made to honor the dead, to keep them "within daily and hourly vision," as the photographer Marcus A. Root observed, drawing the family circle tighter against the barriers of distance or time, or death.

By the early 1850s, when this image was made -- scarcely a decade after photography was introduced to the United States -- families had already begun to place great emotional investment in the photograph. The very care lavished on the presentation of the daguerreotype speaks of its importance, enclosed, as it is, in an exquisitely crafted case, lined with a velvet cushion, and framed with a baroque system of glass and mattes. The daguerreotype becomes a space carefully marked off for remembrance, a precious object presenting a vision of the dead or distant, its mirror-like surface allowing the face of the viewer to reflect across the face of the beloved. In the future, when the little girl returns to look at her daguerreotype, she will undo the clasps that shut the case, and looking at the image, will see her face in its surface; she will see herself looking onto a past suspended in time, caught within the chain of love between father and daughter and son. The daguerreotype stops time and in doing so, vivifies and strengthens "the social feelings." It becomes, as several critics noted at the time, a "mirror with a memory."

Uniquely, photography made such connections possible, and as a result, it carved a deep mark into American culture. Photographs held the dead close at home and brought the distant nearer, but they also created ideas about American culture and history, about our politics, wars, our cities and people, and even about the physical shape of our landscape. Photography instructed the American eye and helped to construct ideas about our cultures. It is no coincidence that when imagining the Civil War, many of us conjure up the gray and mangled bodies littering Mathew Brady's Gettysburg, while others, more romantic, envision the technicolor gore of Gone with the Wind -- but always, film is the medium. This ability to create reality from nothing more tangible than a few rays of light and a few cents of silver means that the interpretations of the war that came from the cameras of Brady, Gardner, or Russell have become our interpretations. We cannot imagine the Old West without the raw-boned Snake Indians of Charles Carter (Fig. 2) or the canyons of Timothy O'Sullivan, and much of what current Americans understand about life in the slums of the Lower East Side of New York, or about the Gay 'Nineties comes through the photographic image.

It was the increasing recognition of the cultural, documentary, and intellectual importance of the photograph that led the Clements to establish a Photographs Division in the summer of 1991. Artistic photography, we reasoned, was already thoroughly collected by our colleagues at the Museum of Art, but in surveying the scene, it seemed that few libraries concerned themselves with documenting the cultural significance of the photograph in the daily lives of Americans, and in the life of the average American mind.

At the very least, we felt the ability to capture detail with the camera would serve researchers well. Notoriously, historians face the need to unravel aspects of daily life that were considered too routine or too commonplace for comment. While many people will write about their great loves, or a great fire, or a visit by a great foreign dignitary, how many of us find time to describe what we see when we awake in the morning, how our kitchens are organized, our chickens cackle, or how we tied our ties? Such silences leave historians grasping for any key to unlock the common in common knowledge or the sense in common sense; and photographs that fill in the flesh, offer a skeleton key to unlocking American culture.

"The sun is no respecter of persons or things," said Oliver Wendell Holmes of photography, it records everything equally. Where a painter depicts "masses," the photograph "spares us nothing," according to Holmes, "all must be there, every stick, straw, scratch, as faithfully as the dome of St. Peter's, or the summit of Mont Blanc, or the ever-moving stillness of Niagara." Such intricate renderings of the world enable us to examine lives in a way that no other medium can -- to glimpse what most people in the past did most of the time, what they saw, and the creative aspect of photography provides insight into what they imagined. What better way than the photograph to compare the parlor of a posh New York City apartment (Fig. 3), with its stuffy art, stuffed chairs, and stuffed peacock, with the sparse parlor of an Oklahoma homesteader (Fig. 4), where a fully loaded gun rack is framed by a genteel array of photographs and a surprisingly large assemblage of books, including, propped up on the bed, a copy of Current Literature? What better way to see how Americans spent their leisure hours -- whether boating or bicycling -- or how they worked -- in shops or yards, or even on the beach (Fig. 5-8). The rise of the American taste for leisure, for strenuous physical activity, and changes in the status of the American worker are all caught in the camera's eye.

What is more, the uncanny ability of the photograph to capture emotion enables us to peer into the inner workings of the heart in its most intimate, most common spaces. Can we imagine the flood of comfort, or anguish, that must have washed over the man whose deceased brother floats as a spirit in the emulsion of his portrait (Fig. 9)? Can we imagine his thoughts upon receiving such seemingly incontrovertible proof of the existence of eternal life and eternal love? In a photograph, as Holmes noted, "the mind feels its way into the very depths of the picture."

Daguerreotypes and Duplicates

The first twenty years of American photography were dominated by the daguerreotype, a photographic process that has never been surpassed in its ability to render detail, and seldom in its emotional power. The "grain" of a daguerreotype is finer than in modern photographs, and the images are therefore of such crystalline exactitude that, in the case of one example from the Clements' collections, a skylight can clearly be seen reflected in the eye of the sitter. Clarity, however, is only one of the cardinal daguerreian virtues: while the intellect of the process lies in precision, its heart is uniqueness. The image in a daguerreotype is produced directly onto a silverized copper plate, and unless rephotographed, there can be no second copy. Daguerreotypes are thus the perfect vehicle for representing the individual, for capturing the inexplicable singularities that distinguish one person from all others. Like a locket of hair or a well-worn ring, the daguerreotype is an icon, a true relic of the person represented, and the uniqueness of the image only heightens its power and the emotional investment placed in it. They are true images of the loved one, faithful representations, and unique creations in themselves. Through this medium alone, an otherwise ordinary portrait of an African-American woman becomes an intense study of the singularity of expression and being (Fig. 10).

The daguerreian emphasis on individuality made it singularly suited to American tastes, and to be sure, Americans were acknowledged internationally as masters of the art. Yet while even the smallest towns boasted daguerreian studios, the fullest impact of photography on American culture awaited the advent of practical paper photography, where a limitless number of prints could be made from a single negative, and the nation could be bathed in a rising tide of identical images. There is something fitting about a society experiencing the pangs of industrialization simultaneously experiencing the shift from a photographic process based upon individuality to one in which identical images could be mechanically produced in thousands. This transition signaled an important moment in which the meanings of "original" and "individual" were permanently altered. Paper photography became the perfect medium for an industrial age.

The earliest paper photographs in the Clements collections -- which include some of the earliest produced in America -- were taken in Philadelphia between 1850 and 1855. Philadelphians such as F. deBourg Richards, James McClees, and the Langenheim brothers pioneered the salted paper print as an alternative to the daguerreotype. In the short run, their success was decidedly mixed. Although views of the natural wonders of the country had long been popular fare for consumers, at least in painting, Richards and the Langenheims more often turned their cameras to man-made marvels such as the Philadelphia water works (Fig. 11). Through their lenses, the photograph became as much a promoter as a product of technology, and their pictures constructed an image of America as the hub of the world market of scientific and industrial achievement. Commerce, science, and industry, not nature, became subjects worthy of artistic attention, the subjects of the appreciative gaze.

The success of this ideological venture hinged upon the widely held belief that photographs offer direct and always faithful renderings of their subjects. Seeing, after all, is believing. Popular confidence in the veracity of the photograph was a tremendous source of mythopoetic power, and photographs rapidly became a vehicle for the production of "objective truth" about America. Books such as The Last Men of the American Revolution (Fig. 12) or The Homes of American Statesmen (Fig. 13) offered visions of America that provided a comforting sense of coherence and continuity with the past, a sense that was much needed in a country in which economic and geographic dislocation affected nearly every citizen.

The national vision offered in these photographs is one shorn of sharp edges -- an easy, palatable, celebratory past in which the photograph provides the critical proof of the stories. The home of John Hancock, it seems, could be found on any street, and any good, democratic American could see that the Hancocks opened their windows on a hot, sunny day, just like the rest of us. Most of all, the photograph suggested that the great Hancock family was still very much there, a part of our nation. Similarly, the superannuated Revolutionary War veteran, Daniel Waldo could be imagined as the neighbor of any American, suggesting that heroism flourished in even the most obscure towns. Clutching his fife, Waldo seems an ordinary man with deep roots in our common past, a true relic of the heroic days who has ever since lived an exemplary life of temperance, piety, and public service. The fife, paralleling Waldo's rigid spine, seems to suggest that it is the Revolution that provides the dignity in his bearing, the fibre in his being. His homely profile, showing every year and crease, lifts us all to the hero's level. Tragically, while Elias Hillard was preparing the biography of Waldo that accompanied this photograph, the old veteran died. Hillard points out, however, that Waldo left behind a lock of hair and a photograph, proof positive of a personal encounter with history. In a different way, the ambrotype protrait of a young American, Lewis Parmalee, taken in Scotland to celebrate the Fourth of July, 1857 (Fig. 14), offers an interpretation of young America in the 1850s. This photograph creates a venue for Parmalee to express his confidence in his manhood and his nation, even while posing in a country with which we nearly went to war, even with our flag pinned over his heart.

Papering over the cracks: the Civil War and after

The Civil War was a turning point in the history of American photography and is one of the best documented areas of the Clements' collections. In the late 1850s, the introduction of wet plate collodion negatives and albumen printing paper created an easier, cheaper, and clearer alternative to salted paper prints, and once the technology became available, an explosive growth in the circulation of paper photographs followed. The success of Mathew Brady's photographs of wartime slaughter hinged on their ability to bring graphic representations of current events directly into the parlor, every parlor, and the photographic claim to complete authenticity, unmediated by the artist, was again critical to their reception. It is now well known that Brady, Gardner, and other Civil War photographers manipulated some of their subjects to create "more effective" scenes, but the sense that these photographs are almost scientifically accurate can never be fully erased.

Yet, without the ability to reproduce photographs in large numbers, Brady's images could never have had the impact that they did. A daguerreotype of a battlefield, however grisly, could never hope to reach the audience that mass-produced images could, and while the intrinsic singularity of the daguerreotype image might heighten the pathos of the scene, it would blunt the generality of the experience. Mammoth paper prints of the war might reproduce some of the grandeur of the daguerreian image, but it was the ready circulation of little cartes de visite and stereocards that made the conflict and carnage common to all.

The Clements' pursuit of Civil War photography began in earnest in 1974 with James S. Schoff's gift of a stunning collection of photographs from the Mathew Brady studio (including all of Brady's most important scenes of the battlefields at Antietam, Gettysburg, and Cold Harbor), along with a pristine copy of Alexander Gardner's classic Photographic Sketch-book of the Civil War, (one of the two most important Civil War photographic books), and several hundred photographs of Civil War generals, soldiers, and politicians. Since that time, John Dann has been particularly aggressive in his collecting, tripling the number of cartes de visite, acquiring the other monument of Civil War photography, George N. Barnard's Photographic Views of the Sherman Campaign, and rounding out the holdings with a growing number of views of Civil War railroads by A. J. Russell, John Moran's survey of the Chestnut Hill Hospital, and a unique sample book used by the "official" photographer of the Gettysburg battlefield in the 1880s and 90s, W. H. Tipton. Tipton's folio-sized album was used to hawk views of the battlefield, monument dedication ceremonies, and veterans' reunions, and it provides an insightful view of the decades during which the history of the war was being rewritten in a new mood of sectional reconciliation and during which it was most actively memorialized. On other fronts, the Library has turned particular attention to documenting the fall of Richmond to Union forces in April, 1865, acquiring an extensive collection of views by the Philadelphia firm of Levy and Cohen and an apparently unique twelve-panel panorama of the ruins of Richmond and Manchester, still smoking (Fig. 15).

The Civil War seems to have been a turning point, as well, in the use of photography by the state. The persuasive power of the photograph and the ability to broadcast images through mass reproduction made paper photography peculiarly suited to use in law enforcement, where photography was adopted both to record evidence at trials and to identify criminals (Fig. 16). It would be easy, in looking at the image of a wagon near New Bedford, Masssachusetts (Fig. 17), to miss the pair of feet peeking out from beneath the boxes -- the feet of a murdered man -- but the ability of the photograph to freeze the moment allows for the careful and leisured examination of all details. Mugshots and photo-illustrated wanted posters and notices of missing persons also entered into common circulation after the Civil War, made possible by mass production.

Paper photography, however, is as ideal at representing commonality as the daguerreotype at representing singularity. For many officials, the value of paper photography lay in its ability to diagnose criminal tendencies from physical appearance: if sufficient numbers of photographs could be gathered of every criminal type, it would become possible scientifically to deduce the physical and facial features that characterize criminals as a class. The phrenological belief that bumps on the skull or oddly shaped earlobes were evidence of criminal tend-encies was widely held, even into the 1930s (or 1990s), and in this respect, the mugshot can be said to be more than merely a record of an antisocial individual, it is proof of the exis-tence of a criminal "type."

Like the police, social reformers grasped photography as a means of expressing ideas about the relationship of biology and behavior to social problems, including the origins and perpetuation of poverty, violence, or intemperance. Trekking into the tenements of the Lower East Side to document living conditions among the poor, reformers like H. F. Senftner captured images that illustrate their conception of the problem of poverty, but also the social benefits that came from the reformers' charity (Fig. 18). Senftner's view of a back stoop on Mangin Street, situated on the edge of a neighborhood teeming with Jewish immigrants, blends a concern with the health and well being of the poor with an assurance that middle class values ought to extend over these immigrant lives, and a suspicion that biology might limit the possible solutions. Jacob Riis, a contemporary of Senftner's, was more direct in his approach, often bursting unannounced into tenements late at night to photograph the sleeping residents unaware. Riis was apparently unaware that his subjects might take a dim view of his intrusion. Little wonder, then, that photography has often been considered invasive or controlling (Fig. 19). Becoming a subject of the camera means submitting, to some degree, to the vision of the photographer, becoming a passive subject for interpretation.

The natural landscape of the country, particularly the arid expanses of the West, also provided a conveniently blank canvas for the projection of social desires. Each of the great geological surveys of the post-Civil War years hired photographers, many of whom had trained under Brady and Gardner. The Hayden and Wheeler surveys, especially, helped to create and fuel a national taste for the sort of colorful scenery that confirmed our power and potential as a nation, and that underwrote ideas about the mastery of white America over nature and other races -- themes that can be seen repeated in colonial photography from around the world (Fig. 20). In Nevada, Carleton Watkins, one of the most prolific western photographers, offered an unwittingly wry view of the mining town of Virginia City, where commerce seems literally to meld with the landscape, the mountains become mines, and the buildings bullion (Fig. 21). The Clements' collections are rich in these interpreters of the West, with outstanding examples of the work of Timothy O'Sullivan, Charles R. Savage, A.J. Russell, and Charles W. Carter, and an extraordinary two volume set of albums containing over 75 western views by Watkins.

Although lesser known than the great photographers of the West, the artists who focused on the urban landscape were equally important in creating and consolidating a national sense of identity during the expansive years of the late century. One might expect that urban photography reveled in the noise and panicked bustle of the Gilded Age city -- it did -- but many photographers delved thematically into the interplay between nature and the city. The almost pastoral feel of Baltimore Harbor in 1870 (Fig. 22) reverberates through J.O. Barnaby's goat-grazed Brooklyn lot in 1896 (Fig. 23), and through the quiet view of North Adams, Massachusetts (Fig. 24). The past and present are yoked in such images, inextricably bound together in a fantasy of continuity and preservation, offering reassurance that change did not mean loss of identity. Brooklyn could still contain pockets of the pastoral past, for instance, where goats and grass could hold off the encroachment of the blacktop. In North Adams, the sleek and modern railroad intersects the picturesque New England village, but hardly seems to disturb a blade of grass in the process. Perhaps the small "Keep Off the Grass" sign is a double entendre.

In urban photography, as in land-scape, the Clements has established considerable depth in its collections, focusing both on outdoor views and views of house interiors and domestic space as sensitive indicators of American self-perceptions. An unusually rich example is the collection of cyanotypes and silver prints taken by Henry M. Wheeler, a local historian from Worcester, Massachusetts. At the turn of the century, Wheeler thoroughly surveyed the early colonial houses, buildings, and landmarks of eastern Massachusetts, to document the tenuous persistence of the past, threatened by the encroachment of the city (Fig. 25). Wheeler's obsessive project, resulting in several hundred images taken over 15 years, suggests how important the feeling of connectedness with our colonial and Revolutionary roots had become to a sense of national identity, and suggests, too, how many Americans felt their lives imperiled by the changes affecting our society. Photographic surveys like Wheeler's ensured that the buildings, and an important piece of American memory and identity, would never be lost.

Chroniclers of the American landscape sold their work piece-meal from galleries, but many opted for a different route, dear to the heart of the Clements -- the book. Publishers were quick to recognize the value of photography for providing cheap illustration, and the cachet of modern science and the power to convince made the photograph an especially prized addition to any book. The first American book illustrated with photographs, The Homes of American Statesmen (1854), was followed by at least 350 photo-illustrated titles over the next 40 years, though sometimes, as in The Scenery of Ithaca and the Head Waters of the Cayuga Lake (Ithaca, 1866), publishers issued two versions of the same book, one with photographs, another with engravings.

The age of the photo-illustrated book, however, was short, due to the development of even cheaper technologies for illustration. To circumvent the laborious printing process, publishers devised means to use photography in the preparation of lithographic plates for mechanized printing, a goal since the dawn of photography. A startling profusion of photomechanical processes competed in the last half of the 19th century -- woodburytypes, albertypes, heliotypes, photogravures, rotogravures, collotypes, and carbon prints -- and with the arrival in 1885 of the cheapest process of all, the half-tone, photomechanical reproduction finally supplanted the pasted-in albumen print.

The Clements' collection of photo-illustrated books contains over 100 examples printed between 1854 and 1900, plus key examples of some of the major photomechanical processes. While the collections are still being formed, we have already acquired a few of the cornerstones needed to establish any great collection, including not only the Gardner and Barnard books on the Civil War, but Isaac Newton Kerlin's The Mind Unveiled (Philadelphia, 1858), a study of children at the Pennsylvania Training School for Feeble-Minded Children; Jacob Stillman's The Horse in Motion (Boston, 1882), illustrated with heliotypes by Eadweard Muybridge; and William W. Heartsill's Fourteen Hundred and 91 Days in the Confederate Army (Marshall, Texas, 1876), a journal and regimental history written by a veteran of W.P. Lane's Texas Rangers. The most unusual items in the Clements' collection may be the photo-illustrated city directories, including ones for San Diego, Utica, Mexico City, Lynn, Massachusetts, and, the prize, an unpublished prospectus from West Texas. What greater evidence of civic commitment and industry than an elaborate directory, spruced up with a photograph or two -- proof positive, as we might say, of community pride.

The demise of the photo-illustrated book neatly coincided with the rise of amateur photography, the area that has become the true heart of the Clements' collecting activity. Practical amateur photography was a relatively late arrival, beginning only with the introduction in 1888 of Kodak's simplified point and shoot camera. Kodak opened the door for non-professionals by selling pre-loaded cameras and offering to process the film, relieving the need for amateurs to build a darkroom or learn the messy chemistry and craft involved in making prints. Americans could actively create an interpretation of their own experiences, and the result was the flowering of the family photograph album. Photography, and not just photographs, entered into common circulation.

For some of us, thoughts of the family album bring back memories of long summer nights listening to Aunt Edna make turnips bleed with boredom at stories of her cousins from Kansas. For historians, however, family albums teem with information on the relationships of parent and child or husband and wife, with ideas about home, and work, about the nation. These are precisely the sorts of "common knowledge" that escapes many writers, but precisely the strength of a photographic assemblage like the family album. The boredom that an Aunt Edna can squeeze from any story is more than compensated for by the realization that here, finally, American families controlled the means to interpret their lives in a legible format to which historians have access. Many albums from the early 20th century contain a mixture of photographs taken by members of the family, such as the picture of Ethel Barnard and her infant daughter, Helen, in 1901 (Fig. 26) or the picture of Helen's son, 24 years later (Fig. 27), combined with photos purchased from professionals (Fig. 28). The beauty of amateur photography was the ability to produce views, as well as select them, allowing a more richly textured documentation of life.

The Clements currently houses over 200 photograph albums, ranging in date from the 1850s through the 1960s, including some that were expertly produced and some that are the products of the roughest amateurs. A spectacular album of the California homes of Kate and Robert C. Johnson, masterminded in 1880 by the great San Francisco photographer, Eadweard Muybridge, can be found on the same shelf as an album of crude snapshots of depression-era New York -- burlesque houses, spaghetti shops, and all. The loving family photographs of the Scott and Benton families of Oswego, New York, are just one shelf over (Fig. 29). We have taken a particular interest in photographs and albums that document the interiors of houses, since these contain so much information on material culture, standards of living, and popular taste, and humble vacation albums assume a pride of place in our collections because of the insight they provide into ideas about leisure and work, landscape, and other cultures. While there may seem to be a similarity of style between albums, regardless of who took the pictures, or where, or even when, a closer comparison reveals some of the density and complexity of relationships that can be found in any family. Even the most commonplace album has an important place at the Library.

The Clements now finds itself at an unusual moment -- a well-established Library entering into new and uncharted collecting territory. The Photographs Division, focusing on domestic photography and the cultural impact of the photograph, is defining its future as it goes, building on a firm base, but along new avenues. We join Marcus A. Root in the belief that photography sings its own praises, writes its own story. We believe, with him, that "whatever tends to vivify and strengthen the social feel-ings should be hailed as a benediction."

-- Robt S. Cox

Curator of Manuscripts and Photographs

CALENDAR OF EVENTS

In Memoriam

William Clements Finkenstaedt, 70, grandson of the Library's founder William L. Clements, died on March 23, 1996 in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. Mr. Finkenstaedt served the Library both as a member of the Committee of Management and the Associates Board of Governors.

Born in Grosse Pointe, Mr. Finkenstaedt received bachelor's and master's degrees in engineering from Princeton University. He served in World War II with the U.S. Army Air Corps. Mr. Finkenstaedt, a former president of Evans Products Company, retired in the late 1980s after more than 30 years with the industrial and transportation supply firm. He was past president of the Country Club of Detroit and a member of the U.S. Seniors Golf Association.

Surviving are his wife, Christine Caulkins Finkenstaedt; a daughter, Eliza Hillhouse; four sons, George, William Jr., Henry and Timothy; seven grandchildren; a sister; and two brothers. Memorial contributions may be made to the Clements Library.

Price Visiting Research Fellowships

1996 Price Visiting Research Fellowships were awarded to

Natasha Larimer, University of Wisconsin, Madison;
Dr. Andrew J. O'Shaughnessy, University of Wisconsin, Oshkosh; and
Dr. Judith Van Buskirk, New York University.

Applications for 1997 fellowships should be made between October 1 and December 20, 1996. Awards will be announced in January, 1997. For further information phone (313) 764-2347, FAX (313) 747-0716.

Keep In Mind

The Clements Library is very interested in building its photograph collections. Perhaps you have a box of old daguerreotypes, ambrotypes, tintypes, or card photographs, or maybe a family album recording a trip to Ontario in 1928 or service in the armed forces in World War II, or simply the family growing up. If they are no longer of interest to your family, or if you fear that they may not be given proper care, the Clements might be an ideal permanent home. We arrange for appraisals of donated material, and gifts qualify as charitable contributions to the University of Michigan. What better place could there be for long term care for these photographs. Please contact the Graphics Curator, (734) 764-2347, FAX (734) 647-0716, photographs.clements@umich.edu

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