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When we can take endless shots from endless angles, we start to discover dimensions of ourselves we never even knew were there.
She started taking photographs as a side hobby in 1883 (Henry would never let her go pro with it), collecting pictures of her friends and family and the politicians that flowed through her house, the ones she wasn’t really supposed to talk to all that much.
Her daughter gave it to her, a toy to stave off the solitude of aging. She made hundreds of silver albumen prints, practicing and practicing in a kind of fever dream until she had created a unique method of applying a soft, dewy focus to her portraits of British celebrities.
In front of her lens, Cameron made everyone look gauzy, beautiful, ethereal.
Sometimes it takes a hundred selfies to capture the one that rings out with recognition: this, think about Marian Hooper Adams, who went by Clover, the society doyenne of post-Civil War D. Clover and her husband, writer Henry Adams, lived across from the White House in a grand, creaky manse, where she played hostess to intellectuals and diplomats as they came through town.
In their sitting room, Henry was king, while Clover played subservient wife, as women of the time were expected to do.