I have to admit I cannot remember where I saw the exhibition. It may have been in New York City early on, or Washington, D. C., or Chicago. I think it may have been the first art exhibition I had ever viewed first-hand. Certainly it was the first that caught my attention and implanted itself in my mind. It was the first time I realized, naive youngster that I was, how black and white photography could be considered art—art as pure as oil paintings or watercolors, as solid as statuary or architecture, as dynamic as opera or ballet.

The exhibition, put together by Edward Steichen, was called (in those days before such language was considered sexist) simply The Family of Man. Put together with 503 photographs by 273 photographers in 68 countries, right away it persuaded me visually that family and humanity are synonyms. Humankind is a global family, and every family is a microcosm of humankind.

I would always remember the piping child whose picture invited viewers into the several sections of the exhibition. There were the lovers, the weddings, the pregnancies, the nursing mothers, the playful children. Especially the playful children, many, many of them. There were the farmers (“The land is a mother that never dies”) and the reapers, the builders and the homemakers, the mines and the markets. There were celebrations, music and dancing, feasts and games, prayer and days of rest, cemeteries and funerals (“As the generation of leaves, so is that of men”). There were courts and schools, voters and assemblies, and men in the USA gathered around a cast-iron heater in a country store as I had seen so many times in my childhood.

Of the many memorable images, perhaps the ones which, for me, epitomized the exhibition best were the family portraits. Posed for the camera, putting their best face forward, in Sicily, Japan, Bechaunaland, and the USA, they looked square into my eyes, and I knew them and understood that they knew me. At least four generations of the US family were gathered around an old Franklin heater with a long, rickety stove pipe, some in rocking chairs, some seated on the woolen carpet, some leaning against one another or the wallpapered wall. Hanging above them, in old-fashioned frames, were four portraits of preceding generations, bearded and solemn. Family goes on and on.

I found the hardback book The Family of Man (Museum of Modern Art, 1955) in the library. With time to peruse it over and over again, I saw more and more. My understanding of the synonymity of family and man, which had been visual and intuitive, became conscious. I began to see community. I began to see hunger and conflict and suffering and grief in the family. I saw poverty. I saw the Warsaw Ghetto as photographed by an anonymous German.

Now the photographs that haunted me most were those taken during the Depression by photographers from the Farm Security Administration, like Dorothea Lange. Two women (on pp. 150 and 151) stared into a vacuum. Their soft flesh had been stripped away by hunger; their bodies hardened by labor; their faces lined by distress; their eyes shadowed by hopelessness.

As a young college instructor of English, not much older than most of my students, I checked the book out of the library often and used it as a stimulus for writing. A wealthy lady, older than any of us, enrolled in a creative writing class with me. Our class became a family. The lady was amused that in our church-related school we referred to each other as “brother” and “sister.” But we all realized how little we knew of brothers and sisters in the “family of man,” how little we reached out to those in need, like those Depression-era women. At the last class session, we partied a bit and shared our writings. Leaving, the lady gave me a package. It was my own copy of The Family of Man, inscribed “To: Brother _____ — the best damn teacher I have ever had! [signed] Sister Grimm, May 29, 1963.”

I have few books that I have owned longer or treasured more. Carl Sandburg, Steichen’s brother-in-law, wrote the prologue. “If the human face is the ‘masterpiece of God’ it is here then in a thousand fateful registrations. Often the faces speak what words can never say. . . . Some of them are worth a long look now and deep contemplation later.” So be it.

"The greatest photographic exhibition of all time", it says on the cover -- and it may well be true. This is a collection distilled from ten million photographs down to 503 by Edward Steichen and his staff. With a prologue by Carl Sandburg and accompanying appropriate quotes from the Bible and various philosophers, this is an exquisite book for the devotee of great photography. Many, but not the majority, of the photographs came from "Life" magazine. ( )