Abstract Eccentricity, audacity, and indefatigability are characteristic of so many figures in photography's brief history that we have come to expect photographers to be peculiar by nature. Alexander Alland's colourful account of Jessie Tarbox Beals' life reinforces our expectations. Had it not been for the rising popularity of the popular camera in the late 1880s, Jessie Tarbox might have spent her life as a school teacher. Once she began to photograph, however—practising first on her students, who called her the ‘picture taken lady’—there was no turning back. Photographing more diversely in style and subject matter than her female contemporaries, and with no use for the soft-focus painterly style of the time, she and her 8 × 10 camera pursued every image that could be sold. Indeed, this profit motive distinguished her from her more art-oriented female peers, and placed her firmly in the tradition of an all-male field: photo-journalism. She trained her new husband Alfred Beah in darkroom basics, and there he remained, while she climbed trees and 20-ft ladders, stole aboard balloons, and sneaked her camera through courtroom-door transoms to find a unique and saleable angle. Although her exuberant life exemplified the tenets of the suffragettes, she was no joiner and no fighter for any social causes. She was, above all else, a pragmatic business woman: ‘the ability to hustle . . . is the most necessary qualification. . . . Thank God I had abnormal strength. Mere feminine, delicate, Dresden China type of women, get nowhere in business or professional life. . . . If a woman is to make headway with men she must be truly masculine.’ No doubt her husband Alfred would have attested to this. While he processed and printed, as many as 5000 plates in six months, she mixed with the lights of literature, the arts, and high society, and photographed four Presidents. She covered the Jacksonville fire, immigrants at Ellis Island, N.Y. tenement slums, and prison life; never limiting her subject matter, she photographed the corpse of a burned baby, action pictures of birds and cats, negroes in the south, pastoral country scenes and, towards the end of her life, elegant gardens and interiors. She often kept a dozen or more appointments in one day, travelling by bicycle or on foot, with 50 pounds of camera, plates and tripod and, with Alfred's support, could deliver proofs the same day. After a day spent pursuing President Theodore Roosevelt from dawn to dusk (having made 32 pictures of him), he exclaimed: ‘Good Lord . . . where in the world does that woman get all her plates?’
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