Roberta McKern
For The New Era
Most people want to be remembered and to remember others, especially when it comes to family.
Until the 19th century, only the well-to-do held the option of posing for painted portraits, whether as miniatures to be carried by loved ones or as figures to be hung on walls. In a reversal of fortune, today the names of the artists attract greater note than those of many of their subjects.
Think Rembrandt, Holbein and Gainsborough.
However, in the early half of the nineteenth century came the development of photography, and almost anyone could appear in a miniature, a daguerreotype. An early development of photography, named for one of the inventors, Louis Daguerre, this form debuted in 1828 and involved using small copper plates coated with fine silver and a light sensitive emulsion.
At the East Linn Museum at least 14 daguerreotypes can be found, depicting members of the Moss family, the Paddock family and possibly Hanchette family members. Alas, even if the subjects wished to be remembered, in some cases their names have been lost.
Two daguerreotypes of the Moss family can be described as special interest, for one holds three generations, grandmother, mother and father and a young daughter. Another seems to be of a husband and wife posed together.
More often, persons appeared singly.
Daguerreotypes were not cheap, costing as much as $5 each when a five dollar coin remained valuable enough to be cast in gold.
Also, often having your photograph taken could be quite uncomfortable, especially before a series of improvements was made. The subject had to sit still, perhaps for several minutes, with reflectors casting light on his or her face. To ensure immobility, a subject’s neck and head might be clasped by an iron brace. But this was considered worthwhile if a man going to war or a family headed west could carry images of their loved ones along.
If people in daguerreotypes look like they hail back to the 1840s to the 1860s, there’s a reason: That period covered the heyday of the process. Since these photos were valued, they came in velvet and leather cases with fancy pressed copper frames.
At least one of those at the museum has poignancy associated with it. One daguerreotype pictures young Ezra Paddock who died tragically after reaching this area.
It takes a leap of several decades to go from the daguerreotype to the larger portraits hung on the east and west walls in the main room of the museum, and a bigger leap in changing technologies.
The styles of portraiture on the other hand, remained very similar. By the late 1800s, better studio lighting and faster, easier methods of production made portraits more available. Enlargement meant they didn’t have to be small any more and now they could be reproduced in quantities, thanks to the use of negatives.
With daguerreotype, the only way to make a duplicate was to photograph the photograph, which wiped out many of the half tones.
When portraiture really took off, attempts to copy higher art styles fueled the greater use of either fancy studio backdrops, often depicting opulent settings, or of mistily faded backgrounds, leaving the subject’s image of major focus.
Daguerreotypes are generally set against plain backgrounds, although fancier props suggesting an upgrade of wealth regarding the subject could be called upon along with occasional backdrops. Both the earlier and the later portraits considered here were sometimes hand-tinted and traces of color remain.
You can see a striking jump from youth to old age by looking at a daguerreotype of Zela Bluford Moss as a rangy young man and then his later portrait as he appears on the east wall next to his wife, Emaline Barr Moss, where he has aged around 40 years into an oldster wearing a hat, a Van Dyck beard and spectacles.
Zela Moss, of course, was of great importance to the founding of Sweet Home, since he played a part in each of the two hamlets which eventually merged.
Mossville, at one end, carried its name from the Moss family as did Moss Butte, where Zela’s father Mack liked to hunt. Zela Moss, possibly called “Bluff,” a nickname originating from his middle name, Bluford, built the saloon and store which sported a fine set of antlers giving the second hamlet, Buckhead, its name.
Like him, others pictured nearby also operated stores, Josiah Weddle and Asher Hamilton, for example.
Obviously, these portraits rated high in importance to their subjects, for the first and second generations of pioneer husbands and wives have donned their Sunday best, the women sitting erect (due to encasing corsets). Like the earlier daguerreotypes, ornate frames frequently set off these later portraits.
Having such a large portrait of one’s self might appear ostentatious to many, but when these portraits were popular, the theory of social Darwinism prevailed.
Developed by a Victorian Englishman, Herbert Spencer, the concept hinged on a phrase Spencer had coined based on Charles Darwin’s 1859 theory of evolution, “Survival of the fittest.”
By the end of the 19th century, those who had come to a new land, new as they saw it, and had prospered according to their own efforts and diligence, felt a right to take pride in their accomplishments. Even if access to free or relatively cheap land, had been an incentive, they were the ones who pioneered settlement in the area.
They survived because they were fit. And, of course, the early settlers here had earned the right to be proud. They deserved to see themselves as patriarchs and matriarchs displayed in large, ornately framed photographs to be hung on family walls.
The Weddle family, for instance, is well-represented among the portrait collections. Josiah Weddle, the store owner, and his sons, John, Albert and George figured prominently in logging, commerce and real estate.
Alma Horner Weddle, George’s wife, became a well- regarded taxidermist. She and Fannie Hamilton Mealey both taught in schools here. Fannie had clerked, too, in the store of her father, Asher Hamilton.
Seen beside her husband, William Mealey (the “Poet of the Santiam”), Fannie looks severe in her portrait, but in the adjoining room near the display of washing machines, she comes across as lively and vivacious in an informal photo snapped of her hanging up laundry with a daughter.
Mention of her appears again at the museum, for in the same case containing the daguerreotype of Zela Moss in his youth lies the Hamilton family Bible opened to the page upon which her death was recorded, on Feb. 17, 1917. She died unexpectedly after the birth of her sixth child, a daughter given Fannie’s middle name, Rachel, who still lives in our community.
Such portraits as those of Ezra Paddock and Fannie Hamilton Mealey certainly acted as memorials to those who died too young, emphasizing a need for family members to remember them.
Because of their large size, the photographic portraits found at the museum may eventually have fallen out of favor as objects for home decor. You might imagine them being removed from a parlor wall as the parlor became the living room, to find refuge in an upstairs hallway, then a back bedroom, then a closet and, perhaps, finally in the attic. Unwieldy and ornate frames would contribute to the need for these portraits to take up space.
Though the photographs evoke forceful personalities, that too could be a liability in a room dependent on the sleek lines of modern furniture. So it is fortunate that the East Linn Museum provides the wall space needed to bring back into prominence those portrayed. Fortunate, more so, that the rest of us can view likenesses of those who settled here and who may actually have used the objects on display.
To remember these people adds liveliness to the past–but more can be said and will be, as this pondering of portraiture runs into part II.
Next month I’ll write about some others whose photos at the museum are worthy of our attention.