Tag Archives: 1930s

In 2011 I posted a page from a photo album, with a series of booth images, of a woman named Esther. I love the photos in that post! In 2019, writer and blogger Elizabeth Gauffreau loved Esther so much, that she was inspired to write about her. Her story was first published on Open: Journal of Arts and Letters in July this year. It is a beautiful and poignant exploration of what Esther’s life might have been.

Please enjoy reading –

Esther on eBay


Here we find Rodney trolling the antique shops of northern New England. Up and down the Granite State he goes in his shiny black pickup truck with chrome-plated dual exhaust. Rodney is not alone in what he seeks, and competition for buyers on eBay is fierce. Only the stunningly beautiful, the unbearably homely, the deranged, the demented, or the defective will get the attention of eBay buyers forced to be discriminating by indiscriminate sellers.

Today Rodney and his shiny black pickup truck are traveling east on Route 2 into Vermont. He drives right on past any place that looks the least bit upscale, the type of place featuring hulking French armoires that never should have emigrated and spindly chairs that eschew being sat upon. He is after the places that declare themselves antique shops in an effort to mislead, the true nature of their wares being all kinds of weird shit he can’t imagine any sane person ever thinking he could sell: empty Pez dispensers, jars of buttons, dirty crocheted doilies, dusty peacock feathers, dented tea kettles, souvenir shot glasses, stuffed animals with the mange who also have the misfortune to be missing their eyes.

Before long, Rodney comes upon a place that looks promising, a small building with a large overhang and plate glass windows. Annie’s Attic would have been a filling station in the days when Henry Ford offered any color the customer wanted, as long as it was black. Rodney maneuvers his shiny black pickup truck under the overhang and puts it in Park.

He hops down from his truck and goes for the door. When he pushes it open, a shop bell tinkles. He looks this way and that, spots the elderly proprietor seated behind a massive desk sorting receipts. When she looks up, Rodney gives her an upward nod in greeting, playing it cool. The elderly proprietor gives him a downward nod and goes back to her receipts.

Venturing into the shop proper, Rodney finds that the seas of crap he must navigate are heavy indeed: enough vintage bric-a-brac to overrun a small city, stacks of discarded books, cracked leather pocketbooks, antique coffee grinders, vintage egg beaters, misshapen ladies’ hats, rusted tools of no discernible function, and on and on with no horizon in sight.

However, Rodney is resolute. With the thoroughness of a tax auditor, he systematically examines one assemblage of crap and moves onto the next until at last he finds what he’s been looking for. On the bottom shelf of a bookcase next to a stack of Life magazines featuring outed Hollywood heartthrobs of yesteryear is a pile of antique photographs, each in its own protective sleeve with a wee price tag affixed to it.

Rodney begins his examination of the photographs, assessing each one for its eBay potential. He quickly sets aside the generic Victorian infants in fussy white dresses staring despondently at the camera and their equally despondent older selves. He also rejects the usual parade of portly Victorian gentlemen, some mustachioed, some bewhiskered, all smug. Unless one comes with a newspaper provenance as a serial killer of some kind, these gentlemen generate no interest. Into the “no” pile go the anonymous bridal parties and the great-great-grannies with no teeth slumped in front of derelict homesteads. Rodney holds back a few of the larger photographs, groups of defiant school children, multigenerational families with receding chins, but upon closer examination, these won’t fit the bill either. It’s time to move on.

As Rodney begins making his way back to the entrance of Annie’s Attic, he spies what looks like a slim black photograph album on a table piled with costume jewelry. When he opens the album, looking up at him coquettishly is a middle-aged woman in a veiled hat. She is unbearably homely. On the inside cover of the album in white ink is a name and a year: Esther Nusbaum, 1937. Rodney slowly turns the pages of the album. Centered on each page is a different photograph of the same woman. She is unbearably homely, she is making a damned fool of herself, and she has a name. Rodney will sell Esther on eBay.



Esther shelves the last of the abandoned books: novels unfairly judged by their covers, a local history with print too fine for fading eyes, Encyclopedias Britannica scattered by careless school children. It is time to go home. She puts on her coat and hat, takes one last look around the reading room, and turns out the lights. She has a casserole to get to. She locks the front door and hurries down the broad granite steps to the street. She has a casserole to get to, a table to set, a dinner to eat in watchful, hopeful silence.

Esther doesn’t mind the long walk home from the library; in fact, she rather enjoys it. When she stops at the post office to collect the afternoon mail, the postmaster always speaks to her, calling out a personal comment about the family’s mail in a preview of coming attractions from behind the counter. Invariably, someone stops her on Main Street to ask if his interlibrary loan has arrived. Esther can walk home confident in the knowledge that anyone she meets on the sidewalk will greet her by name or, if out of earshot, wave a greeting instead.

She smells the casserole as soon as she enters the house. The boys have put it in the oven as instructed. She calls up the stairwell, “I’m home, boys!” but receives no response. After taking off her coat and hat, she calls up the stairwell once again, “I’m home, boys!” but again receives no response.

She goes into the dining room and takes a clean tablecloth from the buffet. The best part of setting a table has to be shaking out the folds of a clean tablecloth and floating it over the table. Suspended for the briefest of moments, will the tablecloth settle with a minimum of adjustment and fuss? Her best tablecloths are heavy enough to fall and settle of their own accord, but the everyday ones have a tendency to skitter and slide and not know when to stop. But Esther doesn’t mind. There is a hierarchy of tablecloths, and she respects it.

She leans over the tablecloth to smooth out the wrinkles, adjusting the low side higher and the high side lower. Jim will be home soon. She goes into the kitchen and takes the casserole out of the oven. On days she works at the library, she has to rely on casseroles, which does occasionally give her pause. Just as there is a hierarchy of tablecloths, there is a hierarchy of evening meals. A casserole ranks higher than a cold plate, but far below a roast or even cube steak. Esther knows this. She also knows that there is no vast recipe library extant to provide for an infinite variety of casseroles, so she relies on cheese, hot, bubbling, nicely-browned cheese, to get her through.

Esther is still setting the table when Jim’s car pulls into the drive. She hears him enter the house and drop his keys on the stand in the front hall. “I’m in the dining room, Jim!” she calls, but he doesn’t answer. He washes his hands at the kitchen sink, she calls the boys to come to the table, and they all sit down to eat.

No one speaks to Esther at the table, not even to direct the serving of his portion. Each takes his plate from her in turn, picks up his fork, and proceeds to set a steady rhythm of fork to plate to mouth to plate. When Jim looks up from his plate, she thinks he is going to ask about her day at the library, but he just wants the bread and butter passed to him.

Esther watches the faces of her sons as they eat. Oddly enough, they are growing into quite handsome young men, favoring neither Jim nor herself. She waits for one of them to make eye contact with her. When Freddy flicks his deep brown gaze in her direction, she takes it as her cue. “What did you read in school today, son?”

“As little as possible.”

“Don’t be rude to your mother,” Jim says from the head of the table.

Esther shakes her head and smiles, but not so much that Jim will notice. Freddy was not being rude, flippant, or facetious in responding that he read as little as possible. His response was a simple statement of fact.

After supper, Jim disappears into the living room to read the paper, while Freddy and Dwight disappear upstairs to attend to their homework, leaving Esther alone to clear the table, wash the dishes, and tidy the kitchen. When she is finished, she takes off her apron and goes into the living room to spend the rest of the evening with Jim.

As soon as she sits down, he lowers the paper and says, “Esther, we need to talk.”

“Yes, Jim?”

“You know you don’t need to work. I make a good living for you and the boys.”

“Yes, Jim.”

“Don’t get me wrong. It’s a decent enough job. It’s not like you’re working in a factory or the five-and-dime. But you don’t need to work.”

“No, Jim.”

Esther waits, but when Jim doesn’t say anything further, she goes upstairs to get the novel she’s been reading. No sooner does she return to her chair and find her place in the book than Jim turns on the radio. She closes the novel and listens to the radio until it is time to go to bed.

Lying in bed next to Jim, knowing he is still awake, Esther plays over and over in her mind what she could tell him, what she would tell him, if given the chance. Jim, she would say as the cool night air from the open window traces the contours of her face, Jim, there is something reverential about a library, the light passing through the windows in visible, orderly shafts, the smell of books, of paper and glue, varnished wood, and secret cache of damp deep within the walls.  

In a library, voices are hushed, not out of fear of censure but to listen for the voices calling from all those books, beckoning you to the stacks, imploring your hand to tip the one book from its place, open it, read the first page, and become entranced. Cradling your selections in the crook of your arm, you approach the desk and whisper to me: I’d like to check these out, please, Esther.

How I love performing the ritual of the rubber stamp when you have chosen a book I have already read. Lay the book flat upon the desk, open the back cover, slide out the card, inscribe it with your name, stamp, stamp, close the back cover, look up, make eye contact, smile, our covenant complete. By the time we meet again across this desk, you and I, you, too, will have read Tender Is the Night, you, too, will have experienced love gone so terribly wrong, the mosaic of your life now scattered fragments.

The following day, Esther is on her way to the only photography studio in town, a small suite of rooms on the third floor of the Perley Block. Her hair is freshly marcelled, and she has covered it with a kerchief to protect it from the wind. She carries in a shopping bag a navy blue hat with a veil that matches the coat she is wearing, a brimmed hat she once bought on impulse and has never worn, the modest white hat she wears to church, and her fancy sweater with the dyed fur collar.

She enters the studio hesitantly, slips off her kerchief, looks this way and that. Mr. Atkinson enters the room with a smile and a pun: “Esther, my dear, you look a picture.”

“Do I?”

“You haven’t aged a day since my shutter snapped on your senior portrait.”

“Haven’t I?”

Mr. Atkinson gets right down to business, examining the contents of Esther’s shopping bag. He poses her with her coat on and adds the veiled hat, tilting it at a sophisticated angle. Let’s get you looking into the camera. Now off to the side, smile, very nice, very nice. Now, in front of the mountain backdrop. Hat off, straight ahead for me. Chin down, look up. Splendid, splendid! Let’s do the demure hat now, coat off, straight ahead for me. Hat off, tilt your head. We’ll do the last set with this lovely sweater and matching hat. Oh, don’t they match? No matter. Tilt it at a jaunty angle, more, just a little more. Perfect! Straight ahead, confident. Now off to the side, pensive. You’re doing beautifully, Esther! Now, turn for me, like this. Look over your shoulder, smile, magnificent!

“I’ll have the proofs done for you in a week, Esther. Would you like to pick them up, or shall I mail them?”

“Mail them, please, if you wouldn’t mind.”

A week later, the postmaster announces a manila envelope from Atkinson Studios. Esther takes it from his hand without comment and continues her walk home from the library as usual. She takes off her coat and hat, calls up the stairwell to the boys, and sits down at the dining room table to slide the contents from the manila envelope. She does indeed look a picture.

Included in the envelope from Atkinson Studios is a letter with instructions for ordering her prints. But Esther has no need of prints. She has her proof, spread out on the table before her, proof of the woman she was meant to be.


About the writer:
Elizabeth Gauffreau is the Director of Writing and Communication Programs at Granite State College in Concord, New Hampshire, where she is full-time faculty in English. Her first novel, Telling Sonny, has just been released by Adelaide Books.

This is a 1920s/early 1930s Photomaton branded postcard of a French photobooth photo. I wish I had the original image to show you, as it would’ve been of a much finer quality.

Our fashion conscious model is shown in one of the guided poses, from a prescribed list used by the Photomaton Corporation. In the early days of photobooth photography, the machines were installed in photography studios and operated by a trained supervisor who made sure you got that perfect shot. The original strips were of eight images. I will share one complete, uncut strip with you soon, that is, if I can find it!

On first glance this young woman looks to be on the pulse of between-the-wars fashion. She has a sharp cut bob and a cloche hat, both so typically stylish and indicative of the era. Yet there is something wrong. This is a fashion fail foto! Nothing matches. There are too many different patterns – geometric, floral, leafy. The large floppy bow is demure and feminine. To me, it works poorly with the tailored jacket and masculine collar of her shirt. Perhaps, without the addition of an artificial flower, she might’ve made this ensemble work?

I love the individual elements she has chosen. The pattern on the bow is chic and the buckle on her hat, a wonderful art deco, stylised, laurel wreath design. But again, there is no blending or matching of her accessories. Less is more, beautiful femme française. Less is more.

Germany 1930s

The way they have parted their hair, the short back and sides cuts, and the style of their Black Tie formal wear, puts these dapper gentlemen and this photo firmly in the 1930s. They remind me of the gorgeous, super talented dancer of that era Mr Frederick Austerlitz. (See photo, below)

The expression on the gentleman on the left’s face suggests to me that these two may not have been purely friends. His gaze, plus his lips pursed in a gentle and knowing smile, suggest deep familiarity with and a strong admiration of his companion. His friend’s attention is occupied by someone else outside of the booth, but his closeness to his partner is evidenced in his relaxed demeanor in the confined space of the booth.

As occasionally happened in the USA at this time, this booth was probably in the foyer of a dance venue or club of some kind. If the gentlemen looked this smart one can only imagine how wonderful the gowns and jewellery of the ladies might have been. The dance floor must’ve been a riot of moving colours and spangles!

What happened to these two during WW2? Were they in thrall to the machinations of Nazi Germany or victims of it? I hope they escaped the worst of it and lived long and prosperous lives.

Mr Frederick Austerlitz, better known as Fred Astaire.

Above are two beautiful young ladies, most probably sisters, posing on a day out with an unseen grown-up. If the collars are anything to go by, they look to be wearing the same style of white shirt. The younger child, in front, is wearing a hand knitted cardigan over the untucked shirt and her sister is wearing what looks to be a velvet jacket with a very fine line of nice shiny buttons.

Below, on a different day the elder girl again poses in a photobooth. This time she is holding up a sign. I love the slightly quizzical look on her face as she looks directly at the camera, with a slight downward tilt of her head. I am looking for help from my German speaking readers, as I have no idea what is written on the chalk slate she is holding. Maybe the language isn’t German at all? It could be a school photo but with no date on it, I doubt it. Or could it be commemorating a first day at school? If so, and if this is indeed a German photo, I would have expected her to be holding a schultüte (school cone). You can see a schultüte and read about what they are at this link.

So to my German friends, I would be very grateful if you could tell me whatever you can about these pictures.

All the photos date to around the 1930s.

This strip is another gift from my friend Ted in the USA. Since we met through our respective blogs, Ted has been very generous in his gifts of unique and interesting booth images. I’m so grateful to him and feel a flutter of joy each time I pull out the things he has given me.

Using the clothes and hairstyles as my guide, I would guess these images date to the late 1930s or early 1940s. It is quite unusual to find a strip from this era that has not been cut into individual frames. In the early years after its invention, photobooth machines were mostly situated in shops that offered other photobooth related photography services, such as enlargements, duplicates and framing. The machines were operated by an attendant who directed the poses. Once the photos were developed and dry, they were cut and placed in an envelope for presentation to the customer. There were eight photos to a strip.

You can see that these images have been taken with the help of an operator. There is none of the random squashing-in you see in later photos when the booths were unattended. The three ladies have been carefully directed to their respective positions allowing for no part of their faces to be obscured. In the first two frames the direction was to look left, the next to look right and the final one to look ahead. Whether or not they followed the instructions is another matter! I love the subtlety of the changes in each image, particularly in the eyes. They give the pictures a lovely gentle, and warm atmosphere.

There are some lovely details in the clothing and accessories worn by these three women. The woman on the right has a magnificent brooch in the form of a butterfly or bird wings at her throat. The huge buttons on her jacket look metallic in their shine. Maybe they have a gilt finish? The lady on the left is also wearing a lovely piece of jewellery in the form of a large sparkling pendant along with a matching sparkling hair clip. The ruffled collar of the lady who is sitting in the middle could be hiding some more jewels.

Below are some links to other posts that feature photos of Ted or relate to Ted in some way. Enjoy!

My Friend Ted

Two Old Birds In A Photobooth – A short story by Ted Strutz

Ted’s Photobooth Story – A real life photobooth tale

Three-Time Academy Award Winner In A Photobooth – Another strip from Ted

Germany 1930s

“Wave for daddy!”

This little boy is obviously feeling a bit overwhelmed by his encounter with a photobooth but is still relaxed enough to wave at the camera and  hold his toy gently. I guess it is possible that the wave was a precursor to a vocal plea to be let out of the strange box he had been deposited into, but I prefer to think that this was, overall, a positive experience for him.

I believe the bunny this lad is holding is made by Steiff, as it is just possible to see the trademark button in its left ear. It appears to be holding something in its paw but I cannot work out what it might be. I am also unable to find anything similar online, yet again! All ideas of what it is, are, as always, gratefully accepted.

Easter is coming, so this is the first of three rabbit themed posts I will be doing to celebrate.


When I first saw this 1930s photobooth photo from Germany, I thought this young lady was holding a Mickey Mouse stuffed doll. Closer inspection revealed the toy to be a pug dog decorated with a tiny bell on its collar. At least I think it is a pug. I cannot find anything like it online, but if you Google “German 1930s vintage stuffed toy pug” the results are wonderfully amusing!

With her head tilted forward on an angle, it is hard to determine how old this girl might be. She appears to be a teenager as she is wearing earrings and a necklace.  I don’t believe that would have been the norm for a younger child of this era.  As well, her hands look to be those of an older child. Given the dog appears to be soiled around its muzzle, from lots of kisses and snuggles, I hope, I wonder if he is a relic of her childhood? Would she have deliberately set out with an old toy to get a photo taken with it? Against my theory that it is an older possession, is the fact that its paws are clean and unworn. Maybe it was new?

The pattern of her cardigan was recently, albeit briefly, back in fashion here in Australia. I’m not a great fan of this type of geometric knit, but the sitter wears it well. She obviously loves this toy. How wonderful that she is now able to share that love with us.



In this photobooth photo from 1930s Germany, you could almost miss seeing the tiny dog swaddled in a blanket. By the size and angle of the hand, it appears to me that this slightly nervous looking girl is not the one holding the petite pup. I won’t stand by that observation, as it could simply be an illusion of perspective created by the hand’s relative proximity to the camera, but it seems to be a hand too large to belong to such a small child.

The composition of this image is striking though, no doubt, unintentional. It nicely emphasises the diminutive size of both child and canine. I also like the fact that one can see the bottom of the backdrop curtain, a feature mostly obscured in early booth photos.



I do not own these two striking portraits, unfortunately. These are scans from the website where they were sold. I was taken by the gentleman’s confident and regal bearing, so put in a bid, but lost out at the last moment.

These poses are more suited to a formal studio-composed photographic portrait, than to a five minute snap in a humble photobooth. The images date from the 1930s and were taken in Germany.

My gent is wearing a very well tailored and no doubt fashionable overcoat. His felt hat looks luxurious and expensive. I can just see him flicking the brim upwards, after having positioned the hat at just the right angle, prior to heading out into a bitter winter wind. Around his neck he is wearing what my Grandfather called an opera scarf, probably made of white silk. I imagine his breast-pocket handkerchief also to be white and made of the finest linen. His scarf is covering most of his tie but one can just discern a flattened dot pattern woven into the, doubtless silk, fabric.

He looks to be a well off and important man, who knows that image and demeanour are everything. I wonder why he chose to take these photos? Was his hat or coat new? Did he want to try a photobooth for the first time? It would have been an innovation and novelty in the 30s. No doubt he was very pleased with the results as the photos have been kept in good condition for over 80 years. I am envious of the new owner and hope that they look after the photos so that they last for at least another 80 years.

photoboothFrenchGrandma 1

This photo from France depicts possibly the oldest person I have yet found in a photobooth image. This sweet grandmotherly woman has a kindly look to her eyes. There is a serenity to her that I like very much.

Around her neck is a choker, on which hangs a framed photograph of a young man. I suppose it could be a young woman, but the lack of any visible adornment, such as a hat, jewellery or decorated collar, leads me to conclude that it is not. She is wearing a printed blouse and there is also what appears to be a brooch in the vee of her coat collar. She has an understated elegance that suggests to me that she was a woman of great style in her youth.

Assuming the choker is truly black, and not just a dark colour that appears black in a monochrome print, one can also assume her coat is black. Is she in mourning? I would say this photo was taken sometime in the 1930s. Is the young man a son who died in WW1? Maybe he is a long dead husband? At her advanced age, and in this era of higher mortality than today, she must have experienced death with a frequency that we cannot now imagine.

I feel that she has experienced life’s vicissitudes with magnanimity and a sense of adventure. What must she have thought about being ushered into a curtained, dark, tiny booth to be photographed by an invisible camera?


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