Just when I thought I couldn’t find anything more to complain about, I run into more reasons to grumble. At least all my nameless photos had labels detailing the identity of the photographer and the address of the studio. That, for some persistent soul, might be a toe-hold on sleuthing possibilities—time frames, neighborhood locations.
These two women’s photographs, however, offer absolutely nothing. No clues. No leads. The only thing I know for sure is that somehow they made it into the hands of Edna Tully McCaughey, who passed them along to her descendants.
So, lacking any better terms, I shall label them “The Pink Lady” and “The Blue Lady,” after the color of the cards that hold their pictures.
The Pink Lady, at first glance, seems rather austere, but on closer examination, is adorned with lace and accompanied by her fan. I would so love to find out who she is, but lacking any frame of reference, doubt that I will ever know the origin or connection of The Pink Lady to the Tully family.
The Blue Lady has a singular presentation. I can’t help but be drawn to that intense gaze, but when her eyes release me, I marvel at the unnatural contortions the pose demands of her arms.
I so long to know these women’s stories, but I guess that is a wish that was never meant to be.