Child Labor Photos by Lewis Hine | The Memory Keeper
There, he picked up the scent again, finding a document referring to Addie as Mrs. Ernest LaVigne. She and her second husband had adopted a daughter, and Addie had lived to see the birth of two more grandchildren, three great-grandchildren, and two great-great-grandchildren. In January 2006 Manning interviewed two family members. They shared with him their loving memories of a woman they’d called “Granmma Pat.” Apparently, she’d always hated the name Adeline. She’d died in 1993 at the age of 94.
Not long after the Addie Card quest, Manning cloistered himself in his home office and tried to track down some of the other Hine children. He kept it a secret from his wife at first, but once he’d found his second child–a North Carolina spinner named Minnie Carpenter–he showed her his work and the list of leads he had for other children. Manning recalls his wife looking at him tenderly and saying, “Well, I guess I’ll never see you again.”
Lewis Hine was an artist working in the medium of guilt. When he arrived in Winchendon in September 1911, he knew exactly what he was looking for. Though he prided himself on never staging a photo, he deliberately looked for images that supported his position. Hine believed that child labor was wrong. By today’s standards, that moral stand seems hardly daring, but at that time, child labor was an accepted practice. Where child-labor laws existed, they were poorly enforced, and Hine routinely found children under the age of 10 working amidst the whirling gears of American industry.
Hine is remembered as one of the pioneers of documentary photography. In his day, social reformers were just learning to appreciate the power of images. It was harder for people to condone a sin once they’d seen it for themselves, so reformers would hire photographers to produce images of working-class realities that they could then inject into the parlors of middle-class homes. Hine was one of the best.
Manning always keeps this in mind when he’s working. Though Hine is never in the photo, he’s there, behind the lens, telling a story of his own. Manning can see that story clearly in the photo of Mamie Laberge.
“I don’t know whether there’s any girl in American history who is as beautiful as this photo is,” he says. “When you look at Hine’s pictures, you say, They could be my ancestors or They could have been my kids.” Hine spent two days in Winchendon and took 40 photos there. Mamie is in 12 of them. He was fixated on her; she had a grace and an innocence that made her the perfect model. She didn’t look entirely like a victim, but she definitely wasn’t free–like a defiant princess locked in a tower. When you look at her, you don’t see someone you want to pity; you see someone you want to save.
When Manning first saw her photo, he knew he’d found his next big project. Until this point, he’d worked primarily online or over the phone. Hine had taken photographs all over the country, and Manning couldn’t afford to chase after him in person. But Winchendon was only an hour and a half from his home. He could do this one. He could see the whole story for himself.
It took Manning only a couple of hours to determine that Mamie wasn’t Woolley’s great-aunt, but by then the question was irrelevant for him. The project had grown: When Manning first drove into Winchendon in September 2008, 97 years after Hine, he brought with him all 40 photos, printed and collected in a three-ring binder on his passenger seat. He was going to find them all.
Joe Manning scans the long rows of graves in Calvary Cemetery on the southeast side of Winchendon. It’s March 2010, and the onset of spring has taken some of the bite out of the air. He paces up and down the rows in a button-down flannel shirt and an old crumpled jacket, his wrinkled blue eyes searching for one grave in particular.
Henry Smith, who as a child worked in the Glenallan Mill, is eluding him. In a predominantly French Canadian cemetery, it should be easy to pick out such an English name from the sea of Gauthiers and Morins, but Manning is having no luck.
He’s been given a tip that Smith was buried next to a LaRochelle. A friend who’s helping Manning search shouts over to him that he’s spotted a grave with that name. “Where?” he replies. The friend points to a large stone with LaRochelle carved in big block letters. “Oh, that’s Clarinda,” Manning says offhandedly, as if she were an old acquaintance. “We’re looking for a different one.”
After a year and a half working in Winchendon, Manning knows the town’s story better than most people who’ve lived there their entire lives. Overall, Winchendon is a mundane place–a small community on the New Hampshire border that few people in Massachusetts go out of their way to know. Like a lot of other New England towns, it never fully recovered after the mills closed down, and now it just persists. It’s a quiet town with a lot of old people and a lot of old buildings, and Manning is fascinated by every last one of them.
“Winchendon has a history that’s still on the lips of people who talk,” he says. “These kinds of towns interest me. I call them ‘used to be’s. You can still see a lot of what used to be. And if you can’t, you can see a parking lot, and you know that there was a ‘used to be’ in that parking lot.
“If you’re curious, you can ask someone on the street what used to be there, and there’s going to be somebody who’s going to be able to tell you that. If you don’t do that now, in 25 years there won’t be anyone left who can tell you what used to be. They’ll tell you what used to be is now. And there ain’t nothing here anymore.”
In every case he works on, Manning tracks down and interviews any living descendants of the child in the photo. More often than not, they’re the worker’s grandchildren. They remember the person in the photo only distantly, as an elderly person. They can recall family reunions in parlors and what kind of candy he or she kept in the house, but little else.
All memory eventually reaches a vanishing point, and for the children in Hine’s photos, that point is coming up fast. There’s no one left alive who remembers these children as children. There’s no one left who recalls what they were like as teenagers or as young parents. Those memories are gone forever. Manning knows all too well that he’s running out of time, because sometimes he shows up too late.