In the late 1940s, one of the Chicago newspapers held a weekly photo contest. Winning submissions would be published. Cash prizes would be awarded. Amateurs from the Midwest fanned out, cameras in hand, searching for the perfect picture -the money shot. One week the winning submission netted the photographer a page eight below the fold re-print, generous praise, full credit, and, of course, a tidy sum. The picture was a three-quarters profile black and white shot of a little girl sitting at the edge of a long bench. She wore a pair of corduroy overalls, a knit shirt, and high-topped "baby shoes." A mop of long hair tumbled down her back; all attempts to keep it out of her face had been limited to the unsuccessful barrette in her hand. Behind the bench, a green wall, its only ornament a framed document, the bottom edge of which just showed in the photo. It was the state's license for The Chicago Protestant Orphan Asylum.
The photographer stumbled across his subject by accident; quickly set up his equipment, snapped away, and was out the door before anyone told him to leave. He entered the picture in the contest and sold the rights to a charity named The Red Feather Organization. The picture had been titled "Unwanted;" the brief caption stated only that the child had been abandoned in the lobby. The photo was repeated on posters and flyers that were sent out in the hopes that the image would touch people's hearts and open their wallets.
Years later the orphanage used the picture in their website's history timeline. The child was never identified.
Subsequent publicity material touted their success in placing the child with a kind and loving family. It was, they said, a happy ending to a sad story about a little girl no one wanted.
I remember the smell of the bench.
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