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Automobile of migrant cherry pickers
Wife of migrant fruit picker
Wife of migrant fruit worker
Migrant fruit workers during slack season in between cherries and berries
Fruit tramp
Old barn used as bunkhouse for migrant fruit pickers from the South (this grower employs only unmarried Negroes)
Camp of migrant fruit workers in field on outskirts of town
Camp of migrant fruit workers
Family of migrant fruit workers camped along railroad tracks
Boy picking strawberries
Picking strawberries
Strawberry picker
Young strawberry picker
Migrant strawberry picker
Children of migrant cherry pickers
Child of migrant cherry pickers
Child of migrant berry pickers
Migrant farm workers
Family of migratory workers from Texas in roadside camp
Migrant woman from Arkansas in roadside camp
Migrant woman from Arkansas in roadside camp
Migrant child from Arkansas in roadside camp
Cabins rented for one dollar and seventy-five cents a week by migratory fruit pickers and packing house workers
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?
William Blake: On Another's Sorrow, from Songs of Innocence, 1789
3 comments:
its like time makes ours a whole different planet but always the same species. same grief- different scenes.
Portrait photography always makes me think of loss. It is just moment frozen in time.
In light of what we were saying the other day, Tom, did you know that Thomas Guinzburg died earlier today?
Of course, I am presuming you knew him quite well.
gamefaced and Ray,
Amen, amen.
Same species, same grief, loss upon loss, each frozen in time, the planet going on somehow, more or less regardless.
(By the by Ray, my ten years with the Paris Review were voluntary absentee labor, from England, France, California... somewhat on sufferance, one might say. Mr. Guinzburg is not to be blamed. At any rate one hopes his passing was peaceful, and is encouraged to think it might have been, if only by the report that he was listening to a golf tournament at the time the angel arrived.)
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