The Photographic Unit of the Farm Security Administration / Office of War Information took thousands of photographs during the decade from 1935 – 1945. They reflected all aspects of American life in the period, not just work, but the online collection (of over 160,000 photographs) has a ‘search by subject’ facility. The collection includes, for example, Dorothea Lange’s well-known pictures of a migrant worker family’s living conditions.

The New Deal Administration provided much of its relief to the nation’s unemployed in the form of work relief. The New Deal Network has an extensive collection of photographs, searchable by subject or by agency responsible, as well as other primary source material.

Some of the public work schemes allowed white-collar workers, or those in the creative arts, to use their existing skills. Graphic designers were employed to produce ‘public information’ posters, some directly relating to the world of work. There is a detailed index by subject.

The Federal Writers Project for unemployed writers carried out a number of projects with reference to the world of work. For example, they conducted interviews with ‘ordinary’ Americans to capture their life histories, including information on education, qualifications and work. For an account of the Federal Writers’ Project, and a sample of the life histories they collected, see this online collection.

The same project also interviewed many elderly African-Americans who had been born into slavery, thus offering an important window into the experiences of enforced labour.

The Farm Security Administration ran a number of camps for migrant workers, many of whom were attracted to California in the hope of obtaining seasonal work in agriculture. There is an online collection of various sources describing the daily experience of residents of these camps.

Arriving at the Port of Felixstowe

A few weeks ago, I went in search of fish at Felixstowe (on the Suffolk coast, UK), took a wrong turn and found myself trying to drive into the Port. In the few minutes it took to ask for directions at the security gate (where the men were very friendly and helpful), several lorries came and went, apparently disappearing into the unending stretch of the Port ahead of me. What goes on in all that space? I wondered, so a couple of weeks later, my friend and I joined the ‘ship-spotters’ at the Landguard Terminal viewing area. I had no idea what a pleasure that could be! You can watch the ships arrive into port (with the help of a marine pilot and tugs), ‘park’ (a process which looks especially tricky), and after a few hours, leave again with a different cargo (or with empty boxes given the discrepancy between imports and exports in the UK). It’s hard to grasp the sheer expanse of the site from any vantage point on the ground – at close to 200 hectares, it’s the size of about 185 football pitches. Still, after driving along the perimeter fence for about 10 minutes and seeing little other than containers (and not a single person!), I did get a sense of this space of the physical redistribution of goods in ‘a flow of dispersion-concentration-dispersion’ (Mark Harvey et al, 2002: 202–5).

It’s worth giving some details about the Port itself to begin to understand its significance, locally and globally. Privately owned by the Hutchison Port Holdings Group, according to the Port of Felixstowe website, Felixstowe is the largest and busiest container port in the UK, amongst the largest in Europe, and ranked 33 by container traffic in the World Port Ranking (2008). In one year, it handles over 3 million TEUs (Twenty-foot Equivalent Units – containers are either 20 or 40 feet long), 4000 ships, and over 40% of the UK’s import and export trade. It’s hard to overstate the impact of containerisation which transformed cargo shipping in the second half of the 20th Century (Levinson, 2006). Felixstowe, with its offer of deep water next to the quay (up to 15m maintained by dredging) and its location close to the open sea, was just right for a container terminal (built in 1966). It usurped Liverpool, London and other urban ports in the UK, as those sites were less convenient and couldn’t handle the size of these new ships. (See Ports of Call for memories of the communities surrounding the Royal Docks in London.)

Transport connections

The minimal cost of transporting goods in containers means that it’s not only cheaper to produce a flat-screen TV in China, it’s cheaper to move it half way around the world to the UK coast than to deliver it from South to North within Britain for example (BBC4, 2010). The spatial arrangements of these complex global distribution networks reflect the current logic of commodity production and consumption where distance is no obstacle since space is overcome by time (David Harvey, 1992). The success of keeping things moving also relies on a broader infrastructure of rail and road and at Felixstowe, some rail lines are owned by the Port connecting with those of other Train Operating Companies in order that boxes can be directly loaded onto trucks or trains. So in addition to shipping lines, the whole process requires rails companies, forwarding and line agents, and logistics and distribution companies.

The history of containerisation is however also a history of the demise of the dockworker, a painful transition whereby metal boxes and software replaced the dockers’ hook and their physical labour. As Marc Levinson puts it,

‘The container made shipping cheap, and by doing so changed the shape of the world economy. The armies of will-paid, ill-treated workers who once made their livings loading and unloading ships in every port are no more, their tight-knit waterfront communities now just memories.’ (2006: 2)

In BBC4’s ‘The Box that Changed Britain’ which aired earlier this month, we see a single person overseeing a computer-allocated process of unloading and reloading by crane, doing what tens of thousands of men (and it is all men in these stories) previously did. This dramatic reduction of labour is also mirrored by the handful of men who now work on the massive container ships themselves.

Another representation of contemporary dock work can be seen in The Wire. Moving freight in containers that generally don’t get opened is a widely recognised opportunity for the informal economy – both in The Wire and in the real life presence of the UK Border Agency at Felixstowe with its designated spaces to examine the contents of the containers. The boxes are all uniquely coded, but at the same time, anonymised and opaque. In the police investigation into irregular practices in Baltimore in the second series of The Wire, it is the computer representation of their movement in space that finally reveals the ‘disappearance’ of boxes and their goods. Albeit a fictionalised depiction, it presents the understanding and practice of the work of managing the physical distribution of goods to the viewer as mediated by how it’s depicted on the computer screen.

Waiting containers

The current Port of Felixstowe is quite a setup, with around 40 shipping lines operating from the site. Open for business 24 hours a day, (almost) every day (see the sailing schedule here), there is a workforce of close to 3000. The range of what they do is striking: there’s lots of engineering of course, plus systems development and planning, rail operations, yard control and stevedoring. And the Port has its own dedicated police, fire and ambulance services. On the Port website (from which this information is taken), the list of ‘ancillary services’ also indicates the variety of associated work activities which wouldn’t happen without it – chauffeurs, marine surveyors and ship repairs, financial services, IT, and many more, plus of course all the domestic labour that must remain flexible to support a 24 hour operation. And the primary activity they are all there to carry out or support is to move things around. That’s really the thing that struck me most; the enormous amount of stuff there is in this ‘holding space’ — and one that many commercial organisations effectively use as a de facto mobile storage facility — that marks the landscape with its presence.

References
1. BBC4 ‘The Box that Changed Britain’, 9 May 2010: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00scpzn.
2. Harvey, D. (1992) The Limits to Capital, Basil Blackwell (Oxford) and University of Chicago.
3. Harvey, M., S. Quilley and H. Beynon (2002) Exploring the Tomato, Transformations of Nature, Society and Economy, Edward Elgar.
4. Levinson, M. (2006) The Box: How the shipping container made the world smaller and the world economy bigger, Princeton University Press.

Since then, it’s fair to say that Sheppey has struggled. Although new industry has been established, Sheppey ranks highly on ‘indices of deprivation’ (health, poverty etc). It was hit badly in the 1980s recession, and the situation is mixed today. The steel mill remains a significant employer, as do the three prisons, but the local economy is now dominated by the import business – of cars and fresh produce. Overall, the picture is volatile with a high percentage of people employed in relatively vulnerable industries. Educational attainment is well below the average for the South East. And life expectancy is several years lower in some parts of Sheppey than it is in other areas in the borough of Swale and the South East more widely.

When Ray Pahl carried out research on Sheppey in the late 1970s and 1980s – published in what became a seminal sociological text, Divisions of Labour (1984) – he drew attention to social polarisation between households. Some combinations of work (paid and unpaid, formal and informal) allowed people to ‘get by’ effectively; others did not. There is ongoing concern that current developments (e.g. housing rather than jobs-led regeneration) may further reinforce social divisions across Sheppey.

The Living and Working on Sheppey project explores the recent history and changes in working lives on Sheppey in the last decades of the 20^th Century and into the 21^st. The project, funded by the Higher Education Funding Council for England through its South East Coastal Communities Programme, is a combination of new research and secondary analysis of Pahl’s earlier data. A first strand is based on interviews conducted by local people with older members of the community about their memories of Blue Town (Sheerness) and the naval dockyard before its closure in 1960 and their experiences of changing times since. A second strand invited young people about to leave school to write essays in which they imagine what their futures will hold in terms of work and family life, a repetition of an exercise undertaken by Pahl 30 years ago.

A montage of Blue Town High Street by TEA

The project team includes Dawn Lyon, Peter Hatton, Tim Strangleman, and Clive Arundell (University of Kent), Graham Crow (University of Southampton), Jenny Hurkett and Alice Young (Blue Town Heritage Centre), the UK Data Archive, the artists group TEA, and Ray Pahl as consultant. The contribution of the artists group TEA is the creation of a short film of a ‘walk’ along Blue Town High Street based on a model constructed from archives, the ‘reality’ in 2010, and imagination — a montage of past, present, and future (as in the image above).

A workshop on Saturday 12 June 2010 at the Blue Town Heritage Centre will present the work of the project and invite comment and discussion about it. This event is free of charge but places are limited and registration is required. Anyone interested in attending – or if you would like any other information about the project – please contact Alice Young, Project Coordinator, Blue Town Heritage Centre, 69 High Street, Blue Town, Sheerness, Kent ME12 1RW; telephone: 01795 662981; email: seccproject@hotmail.com.

References

Pahl, R.E. (1984) Divisions of Labour, Oxford: Basil Blackwell.

My friend called me last Saturday,

‘let’s meet in Hennes’, she said.

I agreed. I thought I’d just have a look and not say anything to her. But I couldn’t help myself (story of my life).

‘I’m not buying anything here, after all those people died’.

That made it impossible for my friend to even try anything on (I think she might go back without me; and I will confess to her now I was wearing something I’d bought in H&M last year the next time we met).

I’ve read Naila Kabeer’s (2000)The Power to Choose, and was persuaded so well by her arguments against reading Bangladeshi working women as cultural dopes, stepping blindly into exploitative paid work whilst carrying the burden of housework and facing down challenges to their reputations as good women. Kabeer’s incorporation of how culture is “woven into the content of desire itself” (2000: 328) is persuasive. Women chose paid work outside the home and still counted as good, they liked working in a clean place for good wages far more than labouring in a field, and took pleasure in contributing to meeting their family’s desire for more income.

Kabeer gives the garment workers agency and voice. They are not an innately malleable, grateful, reserve army of nimble fingered knitters; they are not victims of a disorganized capitalism where feminism and neoliberalism combine to turn “a sow’s ear into a silk purse by elaborating a new romance of female advancement and gender justice” (Fraser, 2009). For Fraser, the normalisation of the dual income family working for low wages in insecure employment marks a failure of feminism, for (without realising it) privileging choice no matter what.

When War on Want describe sickening factory conditions and I read of these injuries and deaths, this is damage, and Fraser’s is the line that persuades me. As I don’t want my consumption practices to cause harm, that means no to H&M. In turn that means job losses, either because political pressure on H&M makes them choose a new subcontractor (one less famous for its working conditions), or because of the fall in demand caused by my bleeding, liberal, western heart. This is damage too. I’m not adding much to an unanswerable debate other than easing my own conscience by playing out the tensions: strong conclusions are impossible when there’s only a choice between forms of damage.

References

1. Fraser, Nancy (2009) ‘Feminism, Capitalism and the Cunning of History’. New Left Review 56.
2. Kabeer, Naila (2000) The Power to Choose. Bangladeshi Women and Labour Market Decisions in London and Dhaka. London: Verso.

There was no-one else around, but it was not quiet.

They were so busy in that rusty corrugated iron shed. I could hear radio 1, and creeking, scraping and whining machinery. They were laughing. I think they mended boats; I have no understanding of what that would involve.

We don’t always notice other people’s work spaces; some are public and yet hidden, but sounds call our attention to work activity and give us clues as to what people are doing even when they cannot be seen.

Women on the Line is often described as a seminal ethnography of 1980s British sociology of work. Its republication in 2009 has attracted considerable interest, especially in the US. How would you describe the reception of the original publication of the book?

The enforced pseudonym and anonymity the first time round meant that I got very little sense of its reception. I couldn’t give any talks or publicise it at all. People wrote to Routledge asking to be put in contact with Ruth Cavendish, and they forwarded everything to me but of course I wasn’t able to reply to anything! Yet for many years afterwards I often met people who knew me, and were familiar with Women on the Line, but were unaware of the connection between us. It kept on happening right up to the appearance of the new edition published under my own name. My sense is that the book was quite widely read both in the UK and abroad, and by feminist and other activists as well as academics over the next few years, especially given the greater interest in studying and campaigning around work during the 1980s.

In terms of ‘method’, although your working at the factory was not intended as research, what do you think about the approach of ‘knowing by doing’ as a way of understanding work, in your case, quite literally working on the line – especially in a context in which the interview has come to dominate qualitative research?

Knowing by doing was certainly crucial, in the sense that my understanding of what was going on in the factory and how it affected the women would have been impossible without experiencing it myself. The ‘doing’ included not only the work itself, but also the numerous interactions with the women around me. The chatting that this involved ranged far wider than what would normally be covered in an interview, and of course I wasn’t determining the course of the conversation either. However, the interpretive ‘knowing’ part of it relied also on my pre-existing knowledge and analytical frames, and all the ‘doing’ was necessarily filtered through and mediated by what was already in my head, and my political preoccupations and questions in doing the job in the first place.

There are more photographs in the republished version of the book than in the original. Can you comment on the place of images in representations of work, and on the relationship between the written and the visual in this book.

I would have liked to include far more photos than the publishers would allow, and in colour. The black and white ones don’t really do justice to the situation and don’t come over nearly as well as the colour ones on the cover. I hope it makes a difference to readers being able to see what some of my work-mates looked like, especially those whose life stories are recounted. Similarly the spatial and physical layout of the shopfloor, and some examples of machinery should help to bring the narrative to life. There are so very few images available of the faces of women doing this kind of work (like the one of Alice who is looking straight at me taking her photo) so the more we can collect the better, especially when the women are engaged in the process rather than being objectified as ‘women workers’. However, these photos were taken during the strike/lockout, so everyone is looking more relaxed and happier than they would have done if they had actually been working!

The covers of the two editions are different. What is the story of them?

Cover of original publication, 1982

I have always disliked the cover of the first edition because it is so misleading. So many of the women came from the Caribbean or Indian subcontinent, yet the picture suggests white women only. The first version was even worse as they were all given long blonde hair. I objected and asked for black or Asian women to be represented. The concession was to give one of them curly hair, but I think she still looks white. Routledge wouldn’t budge further. The portrayal of the line was also misleading showing the women facing it rather than at right angles to it, so contradicting my description of how the spatial layout affected social and physical interaction.

Cover of republication, 2009

So of course I am much happier with the cover of the new edition, which I chose and which uses two of my own photos taken in the factory back in 1977. I was surprised how well the original negatives scanned in especially as it was only a little instamatic camera. In fact these are much better quality than the original prints. So that’s a lesson to keep old negs in a safe place! Now we have older black women on the cover, as well as a very young Irish worker, suggesting the age and ethnic composition, and you can see the line, and all the clutter. The ‘product’ is also clearly visible, and of course this would not have been possible in the 1982 edition.

Left leg

Glue and silicon, paint and varnish, grout and wood-filler. Traces on his clothes. The trousers especially tell the story of my friend’s most recent jobs. There was that shower to fix urgently in Hackney one night last week, and the bathroom to sort out after a would-be plumber with too many tools and too few skills had been let loose in Hampstead. At the ongoing job in South London, he’s supposed to be doing the plumbing and not general building work, but it’s hard to keep the boundaries firm once on-site and when the other guy is not so confident. And working on his own place in the meantime means more varnish and paint than usual.

Right leg

The photos show the sides of his trousers, where his hands reach his upper leg. The marks on them are more than evidence of what got spilt or dropped. They indicate gestures of work. And how the right side (yes, he’s right-handed) takes the strain. And how if you’re going to do stuff like this, where you can’t help yourself wiping the residue of the materials that fix and cover and generally hold things together in houses and bathrooms, well you wouldn’t want to have the wrong trousers for the job.

In the early seventies, before the advent of Human Resources, Health and Safety and union-bashing Tory governments, there was work aplenty in Essex for anyone who could present themselves at the Colchester Odeon at 7am. At that time, a bona fide existence for us hippies, school drop-outs and squatters revolved mainly around smoking dope and doing as little work as possible. The words work and ethic never appeared in the same sentence. There was a lot of labouring work around for those who could be bothered, some of it ‘casual’ or ‘off the cards’, i.e. cash and tax free. In fact if you were a bloke with long hair just about the only work you could get was labouring. (It was difficult to rent a flat too and I was also turned down by the Technical College for refusing to get a hair-cut.) The railway job was relatively well paid — £40 a week take home as long as you did a weekend shift. To put this in perspective: the car I bought as a result of this employment cost £15, and the insurance, £40. Driving lessons were £3.50 at the BSM and my total outlay to get a driving licence was £73.

So one morning, I found myself waiting at the cinema with a few others. This was recruitment at its most informal. No-one spoke to me and I didn’t know where I was going or what I was going there to do. A ropey-looking bus full of grim-faced old men smoking roll-ups pulled up and I got on, sat down and rolled a cigarette too. I was feeling slightly out of place as a seventeen-year-old, bespectacled, middle-class ex-public schoolboy.

We were a track-relaying gang working for Balfour Beatty sub-contracted to British Rail, consisting of Poles (by far the best workers), Irish and locals from Suffolk and Essex. I have never since met such tough men. The work consisted of wielding implements such as pickaxes, shovels, sledge-hammers, six-foot crowbars, scythes and large forks. Track that has been in situ for ten years or so cannot just be lifted out since the stones that the track is laid on (known to us affectionately as slag) set solid after a while so it all has to be dug out. Most people find digging the garden quite hard work. Multiply that by ten.

To begin the process of relaying track the gang would spread out over a section, three beds  to a man. A ‘bed’ was the area between the sleepers. If we wanted to be more precise we used the terms four foot and six foot, - the four foot being the area between the running rails and the six foot the area between pairs of tracks. (The term four foot comes from the standard railway gauge of four feet, eight and a half inches). To dig out your beds you had to stand on a sleeper, then raise your fork high above the slag and smash it down just next to the sleeper. It would take a few goes to get to any depth at all; if and when you did, you could lever the fork against the sleeper to remove (hopefully) a decent amount of slag which you’d then chuck to one side. If you missed the slag and hit the sleeper a huge, jarring shock would be transmitted up your arm. We sometimes used pickaxes to loosen the slag but most just relied on brute force and a fork. Once you had removed some slag you could then use a foot on your fork and your entire body weight to attack the slag from less of an angle. Once you had finished excavating your beds you could have a smoke for five minutes or so before moving on to the next section.

Every now and then, the arrival of a train would be heralded by a blast on a kind of tin bugle by a one-armed man who then shouted either ‘up road’ or ‘down road’ depending on the train’s direction of travel (up being towards London and down away from London). We would stand by the side of the track until the train had passed. Once a fast train took the lid of our oversize tea-can with it which could well have resulted in an Odd-Job-style decapitation. Train toilets emptied straight onto the track at that time and we often admired the results or in some cases were sprayed. Other diversions included executing myxomatosis-infected rabbits with shovels and merciless piss-taking. Generally the Poles were the quietest, the Irish the most philosophical and the locals the most garrulous — most of their opening conversational gambits consisted of the words: ‘I tell you what…’

During the six months or so that I worked there, I saw new blokes start almost every day; some lasted an hour or so and most just one day. Absenteeism was commonplace and generally tolerated. Inactivity was not. I once made the mistake of sitting down for a breather. Luckily an old bloke called Fred advised me: ‘you can have a smoke but don’t sit down otherwise he’ll be on to you’. He being the foreman or ganger. All I remember about him is that he was Welsh and used to hold his dick with an unusual reverse grip when pissing by the side of the track. Funnily enough the sunken area to the side of the track was known as the cess.

In addition to digging stuff out, we would also pack slag under sleepers to bring the track up to the right level – a process known as tamping. This involved jacking up the track and ramming the stones home with a shovel. When we were done, or if a train was coming, the jacks would be released, the only warning being a shout. You had to learn not to have your feet under a sleeper when this happened unless you wanted a couple of tons of steel and concrete dropping on your toes. Another process was lining. Twenty men with six-foot crowbars, ten to each rail, would dig the bars in and lever against the track to push it in whatever direction was required according to a man sighting down the rail from a distance. To synchronise the pulls there would be a rhythmic shout: hey — hup hup hup, the hups being when you pulled.

The clacketty clack rhythm of train wheels hitting the joints between sections of rail bolted together with plates has largely disappeared with the advent of long-welded rails. As in all engineering of this type, expansion is a factor that needs to be catered for and in this case we used a process known as de-stressing. It was pronounced distressing which gave the activity a certain poignancy. To de-stress a section of track (usually about a quarter of a mile long), we would unclip the rails from the sleepers, cut out a small piece (about nine inches long) and stretch the remaining rail with a hand-operated hydraulic gizmo before re-clipping. The clips were sprung S–shaped steel affairs which could be removed quite easily with a well-aimed blow from a sledge hammer. I say well-aimed because you needed to have your foot on top of the clip when hitting it to keep it from shooting off. Replacing them however was much more difficult. Being sprung they had to be hit very hard and in exactly the right place, otherwise a kilo of steel would go flying off usually into your shins or worse, into someone else’s. This job was always done at night of course which didn’t help. We had a variety of lights though including Tilley lamps (run on pressurised paraffin) and lengths of cable with bulbs every few feet — as seen in miniature on your Christmas tree.

Although there were machines to do all these tasks, they were generally only available for weekend engineering works when there was a deadline to meet. That often meant very long shifts starting at midnight on Saturday and going right through until the following afternoon. The weekday work was a picnic compared to the weekend as we could stop for rain and smokes and cups of tea were brought to the track in the huge white enamel can. Weekends we worked in all weathers and snatched breaks only if the work was going well.

Night-work was conducted with a sense of urgency in an eerie half-light. Mostly there was no conversation, just gangers shouting orders. Weird-looking machines with sirens that sounded like air-raid warnings would appear for tamping and lining and there were others that ran on the adjacent track with cranes that brought lengths of rail. If there was no adjacent track we would erect temporary rails supported by devices known as pots to allow a machine to deliver rails. In the absence of machinery, we did everything by hand. It took four men to carry a sleeper with devices known as dogs and many more were required to move rails — either with dogs or crowbars. One night we moved eighteen pairs of long rails from one side of a track to the other using crowbars. It took all night with much hey-hupping. There was another huge machine which had a kind of conveyor belt that excavated under the track and dumped the resulting mixture of earth and slag on the embankment. We would spend days moving this stuff with shovels to clear up the mess.

New slag was delivered in hoppers and we had to turn a kind of steering wheel to let the stuff out (hopefully in the right place to save too much shovelling later on) then jump off and run round to the next un-manned hopper. I once jumped off onto the adjacent track right in front of an oncoming train. A slow one, luckily. No sympathy to be had though — just a bollocking.

There were no toilets or washing facilities of any kind and the only safety equipment I had was a dirty orange vest. I enjoyed my sandwiches though — and the fags, and even the disgusting tea made with Carnation tinned milk.

Further reading

Coleman, T. (1965) The Railway Navvies: A History of the Men Who Built the Railways. Hutchinson.

It came from a friend of mine who used to work as a navvy.[1] One of the most demanding things they had to do was to stretch the rail. It’s important to make sure there’s no give left in the rail to prevent it from expanding then buckling in the summer heat. You get less than 10 inches from a quarter of a mile of track, but still, that’s enough to realise the malleability of it. At the same time, the stubbornness of the piece that was left over, cut off, and is now in my house, makes it hard to believe it could be anything other than rock-solid.

Sitting here now, what it reminds me of is the sheer physicality of the work that goes into maintaining the track; and the sheer materiality of the track. Of just how much work continues to be done in the world through the strength of bodies and hands. And how much stuff there is around us that’s discarded material itself produced through work.

I was walking through New Cross in South East London recently when I saw these photos of fire-fighters’ hands. They were fixed to the railings outside the fire station, as a kind of heroic celebration it seemed to me — and with just cause — of the work that fire-fighters do.

But there’s something odd about these images too. Fire-fighters certainly use their hands, but they’re known for their all-round fitness, and for their team-work. In these photos, there is a single pair of hands and nothing else shown to be working. Aside from the obvious phallic reading of what’s happening with the hose, the images can be read as reducing the body — and work — to the hands. In them, fire-fighters become their hands — a point made in a different context by Janet Zandy in her book Hands: Physical Labor, Class and Cultural Work (2004: xiii; see also Sennett, 2008: 174).

It turns out that these images were part of a local art project sponsored by the New Deal for Communities regeneration programme in 2005, and undertaken by Artmongers. A series of images of hands ‘in theatrical positions’ was used to bring beauty to a construction site hoarding and to humanise public space (http://www.artmongers.com/participatory.html). I don’t know the rest of the story, but I’m guessing the fire-fighters liked these pictures and somehow or other they ended up outside the fire station. But it makes me wonder why they would want this representation of what they do on public display, and how it is that they see their own work.

References
1. Zandy, J. (2004) Hands: Physical Labor, Class and Cultural Work. New Jersey: Rutgers University Press.
2. Sennett, R. (2008) The Craftsman. London: Penguin.