Portret van Gerrit Snijder, Aagje Noorder en hun kinderen Possibly 1910

This photograph captures Gerrit Snijder, Aagje Noorder, and their children with a camera, by Hieronymus David Fraenkel. It’s printed in a tight palette of grays, almost like a charcoal drawing, but instead of smudging and blending, the tones are built up with tiny grains of silver. Looking closely, it's like the image is made of dust, an accumulation of particles that coalesce to form the subjects. It reminds me that photographs are more than just snapshots; they’re objects, built up slowly, layer by layer. The surface isn't smooth, but textured, like a canvas that’s been primed and worked over. There’s a certain stiffness to it, a formality that comes with early photography. I keep coming back to the little girl, posed slightly off-center. She’s looking right at us, pulling us into the frame, but her expression is guarded, almost wary. She feels like an anchor for the whole composition. Fraenkel's work, like that of his contemporary, Gertrude Käsebier, uses photography to evoke the emotional tone of painting, where what's left unsaid can be as important as what is.