Blended Nation/Mike Tauber and Pamela Singh

The husband-and-wife team of photographer Mike Tauber and co-producer Pamela Singh were intrigued by the post-Sept. 11 climate of anxiety and racism. Years later, the election of a bi-racial president would bring the topic of racial identity to the forefront of national conversation. Tune into the series to learn more. On Sunday's show, Hansen will also speak with Cheryl Quintana Leader, one of the subjects in the book, who is part Caucasian, Mexican, and Aztec Indian. See more photos on Mike Tauber's Web site.

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If Louis Daguerre could see Canon's Mark II, his head would explode. Cameras have come a long way since 1839, and Smithsonian's National Museum of American History currently has a display of 22 cameras to celebrate the camera's evolution. From the earliest daguerreotypes to view cameras to early digital models, the exhibit shows off just a fraction of the holdings in the Photographic History Collection. View the photos here, but check out the Flickr site to learn more about the cameras.

Smithsonian has made great efforts to develop (pun intended) its photography collection over the past few years. It has an incredible reservoir of first-edition prints, primitive photographic ephemera, equipment and oddities. So expect more to come! And for more pre-digital history, check out this darkroom exhibition at the National Gallery of Art.

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Photographer Pam Spaulding took the concept of the long-term assignment to an extreme -- spending more than 30 years photographing the McGarvey family of Anchorage, Ky.

Working for the Louisville Courier-Journal, Spaulding originally planned to photograph the young John and Judy McGarvey for a year after the birth of their first child, thinking the project about new parents would end after the newspaper published the images. But after that first year, Judy McGarvey didn't realize the project was over -- so she kept calling, and Spaulding kept going back. The project grew to span the growth of their three children, David, Morgan and Sara, as well the important moments, both joyful and frustrating, of the family over the years.

At a recent lecture at the National Geographic Society in Washington, Spaulding presented work from her new book, An American Family: Three Decades with the McGarveys. Quiet and soft-spoken, Spaulding was holding back tears as the first slide graced the screen. She wasn't the only one. Audible sniffles filled the room as Spaulding showed the audience images of a young Judy McGarvey learning to mother newborn David, of father John snuggling with a distraught Morgan, and of daughter Sara buying her high school prom dress.

The images of the McGarveys elicited such emotion because by compacting 30 years into an hour presentation, Spaulding underscored the fragility of life, the importance of family, the joy in the small moments, and how quickly it can all pass by.

"I was in no hurry, I didn't care, I didn't expect it to be published," she said when reached later by phone. "I wouldn't have kept going back if it didn't meet some need, personally and professionally. This work gave meaning to my photography, and when you have that, you can always keep going."

After the lecture, the whole McGarvey family, minus David, took the stage to answer questions from National Geographic photographer Sam Abell, who had inspired Spaulding to keep shooting the project even after her original one-year assignment was over. When he asked the family members what it was like to have a photographer shooting them constantly, one theme emerged -- because Spaulding had been around since their birth, the kids never thought it was odd that she was always there. She had simply become part of the family.

"On a personal level the McGarveys have meant so much to me," said Spaulding. "Judy is a great mother, and by observing her, I learned how to be a great mother as well. I saw that they did things just for fun, and that was a pretty foreign idea to me because all I grew up knowing how to do was work."

Adding to the emotion of the evening, Spaulding's own daughters Alicia and Lauren surprised their mother by driving from Kentucky for the lecture. It was the first time they had seen the scope of her work, and realized how close their mother was to the McGarveys.

"I was afraid that no one would be interested in a family of people who were normal," she said. "We see so many dysfunctional families, but there are a lot of successful families out there too."

Spaulding's images seem to reflect her personality -- the photographs are not flashy or sensational, she doesn't use any tricks. Instead, the moments are subtle and quiet, calm and beautiful, reflecting the classic moments of an American family. We see the kids' birthdays, from their first to their 21st. We see them in school plays, on vacation, and saying goodbye to the family dog. But mostly what we see is life unfolding, quietly, gracefully, one moment at a time.

An American Family by Pam Spaulding/National Geographic

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In the early 1990s, The New York Times sent a list of questions to Sub Pop records in Seattle. The paper wanted to know more about the elusive West Coast "grunge" scene and asked for a lexicon of grunge terminology. Mocking the reporter, Megan Jasper, a Sub Pop employee (and now vice president of the label), made up a bunch of nonsense words on the spot, mostly out of boredom. (For example, according to Jasper, "swingin' on the flippity-flop" was grunge speak for "hanging out.") Her attitude was emblematic of a counterculture that simply didn't care.

The grunge scene was a medley of wayward youth, largely left to its own devices. And it was documented heavily by now-renowned photographer Michael Lavine. At the time, he fit right in, although his meticulous attention to detail and technique was slightly at odds with the reckless nature of his subjects. Regardless, Lavine was there to capture the heyday of a very distinct musical culture.

Unlike some of his musical cohorts, Lavine was able to parlay his grunge time into a long-term, successful career beyond the counterculture. His photos from the '80s and '90s grunge scene now form the content of a new book, aptly named Grunge, with an introduction by none other than Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth. Shredded jeans, plaid flannel and lots of hair: This may not be conventional beauty, but Lavine's photos are still nice to look at. In some ways, the grunge look is back and more beautiful than ever: Go to any indie music venue and behold the sea of plaid. But if Kurt Cobain had seen scruffy lumberjack shirts in the windows of Macy's, he probably would have laughed.

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Oddly enough, the season "fall" may be inaccurately named. According to NPR's Robert Krulwich, leaves don't fall; they're pushed. Check out this science story: Why Leaves Really Fall Off Trees.

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In the 1950's, photography was hardly considered art. If you wanted to be taken seriously as a photographer, you snapped mountains and models -- not your neighbors. It also helped to be white. But Roy DeCarava, turned all of that on its head. He died this week at the age of 89. Listen to the NPR story, or this Fresh Air interview.

DeCarava was born in Harlem in 1919 to a single Jamaican mother. He had plenty of odd jobs before he picked up a camera. He was a shoe shiner, a newspaper salesman and an ice hauler. But his natural artistic gifts eventually led him to art school, where he began as a painter. It wasn't long before the lens replaced the brush.

In 1952, DeCarava applied for the prestigious Guggenheim Fellowship. He was the first black photographer to receive the grant, and he used it to photograph Harlem. The photos from this period eventually became the contents of a book. The Sweet Flypaper Of Life was made in collaboration with Harlem Renaissance writer Langston Hughes. It showed Harlem as a mix of quiet ordinary moments, everyday struggles and tiny triumphs.

DeCarava continued to photograph throughout his life, most notably the New York jazz scene. He captured all the greats; the musical genre suited his improvisational style and democratic eye. But the most important thing to DeCarava was that the old woman next door deserved a photograph just as much as John Coltrane. The black man on the stoop merited a frame as much as the white supermodel.

According to Ron Carter, legendary jazz bassist, DeCarava had a sixth sense. "My impression of his photographs is that he sees the music," Carter said in an NPR interview. DeCarava saw the music in jazz performances -- but also in kids playing in the street, in a young woman staring out her window, in men on park benches. He saw the music and the beauty in black Harlem, and he showed that face to America.

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The Prix Pictet rewards photography that focuses on large-scale environmental issues -- photography with a large-scale communicative impact. Each year the contest is themed; "water" was the prompt last year, and this year it was "earth." Twelve finalists were recognized in July, but Kander's series, "Yangtze, The Long River," took the prize. Learn more on the Prix Pictet Web site.

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"The first five minutes of any run always feels like a bad idea," said occasional NPR contributor Greg Miller over the phone. "Same thing with photographing." He was explaining the self-doubt that crept up on him during the first few weeks of his Guggenheim Fellowship, which he had chosen to spend not in a distinguished European city or dangerous developing country but in Nashville, Tenn.

It was a bold move to devote this coveted fellowship to a place so seemingly prosaic and borderline kitschy (I'm allowed to say that; it's my hometown). But it's Miller's hometown, too, and he had his work cut out for him. In the past, Miller explained, he'd been daunted by the prospect of photographing something so familiar. But after several years away from home, he decided it was time to go back and explore.

When asked what he was looking for, he said, "It's a memory, in a way." In the series Nashville, you won't see any photos of honky-tonk bars or country stars. Rather, there's a typical suburban street, a couple gone fishin', his grandmother's house after a storm. The series, which is currently on display at the Cheekwood museum's Temporary Contemporary gallery in Nashville, feels like a dreamlike, somewhat melancholy walk down memory lane.

What is it about this place, and these photos, that is distinct from the rest of Miller's work? "It's a feeling I've been depriving myself of," he said after deliberating. "It's a feeling of belonging." Like many photographers, Miller moved to the Big Apple without looking back. Now he's finally looking back and exploring the idea of "home."

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Among the many things that would be taken to the grave in ancient Egypt were pets and sacred animals. Some even had shrines of their own. That way, the deceased could be joined by their beloved in the afterlife. Over the past two centuries, archaeologists have uncovered thousands of animal mummies, and through them learned a great deal about Egyptian culture. Learn more by reading the article, and view more photos on ngm.com.

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As children we learn that owls are wise, but who knew they could be this cute:

So adorable, that one is willing to accept the truth from bird photographer and naturalist Paul Bannick: that despite their massive eyes and aristocratic beaks, owls aren't actually that smart.

"Ravens and crows are probably smarter," he offers over the phone.

Regardless, Bannick, who has spent years tracking down all 19 species of owls in their various states of life, is as enamored as it gets. And apparently so is the Picture Show. Noticing, a few weeks ago, that we'd coincidentally featured projects involving owls two days in a row (here and here), we decided to dedicate a post entirely to those glorious head-whipping carnivores. It was easy because Bannick just came out with a book, The Owl and the Woodpecker, aimed at raising awareness about the iconic birds' importance as environmental indicators.

Bannick's photos highlight the humanness of these (mostly) nocturnal creatures. Ultimately, the book feels less nature document than portrait series; each birds' face and stance captivatingly distinctive.

How does one go about tracking down dozens of owls? With a full-time day job and only one year to put the book together, the key for Bannick was research and patience.

In search of the great gray owl, for example, Bannick planted himself in the snow of the boreal forest for so many hours that his limbs went numb.

"I couldn't feel my fingers. When it flew by, I had to use my whole hand to pull the shutter," he recalls.

Chasing a bird does not make for a good photo -- so anticipating its behavior in this way was necessary.

Bannick's images don't have the glossy, polished feel of some nature photography -- and that is intentional. A environmental purist, he doesn't believe in using flash (despite photographing nocturnal birds) or doing much of anything in Photoshop.

The message when you change a photo, he laments, "is that you have to improve nature" and he prefers to leave it as is.

You can see more of Bannick's work and listen to the sounds owls make, here.

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I recently had the luck of finding a small community art center darkroom where I can spend Tuesday nights sealed away from the buzz of the real world. Only a darkroom can afford that sort of intimate seclusion -- where even cell phone light could be catastrophic. Things could go awry at any given step, so it requires constant attention, deliberation and patience. "Are you crazy?" my father the darkroom apostate asks, perplexed by my decision to master the darkroom as he makes strides with a digital camera.

I eschew these paternal inquiries -- vive la darkroom ! So although I was happy to discover a new exhibition at the National Gallery of Art -- "In the Darkroom: Photographic Processes before the Digital Age" -- it also struck a melancholy chord.

The exhibition is a random collection of works, from an Alfred Stieglitz carbon print, to a gelatin silver print by Robert Frank, to an Andy Warhol Polaroid. It seems to be a historical introduction to the darkroom -- to the many, many elaborate processes that have evolved over the past century or two -- for those who may never step foot in one. But also, sadly, and perhaps prematurely, it seems like a eulogy for a dying art. I, for one, don't plan on stopping my Tuesday night ritual anytime soon. And I can only hope that there are enough of us vampires out there to preserve and perpetuate the darkroom.

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Johnny Cash gives the camera "the bird." John Lennon sports a New York City tank top on a high-rise rooftop. Kurt Cobain clutches his hair and weeps backstage. On the album cover of London Calling, Paul Simonon of the Clash famously raises his guitar on stage to smash it. These are the iconic photographs that have created our vision of rock 'n' roll. We know the rockers, but who took the photos?

Jim Marshall, Bob Gruen, Ian Tilton and Pennie Smith are their names, respectively. They are four of more than a hundred photographers featured in a new book: Who Shot Rock & Roll: A Photographic History 1955-Present. From a gyrating Elvis in 1955 right up to the big-haired Amy Winehouse -- from early pop rock to the British Invasion, from punk to New Wave -- the book covers not only some of the most iconic rock moments, but also the stories behind them.

The musical genre has evolved dramatically since Elvis, and so has the photographic genre. In the beginning, there were very few "rock photographers." And the few that existed had no problem getting into shows and photographing throughout the entire performance. Nowadays, a photographer is lucky to get in, and even luckier to be able to shoot during more than one song. Tilton explained in an e-mail:

When I was taking live pictures at big gigs in the '80s and early '90s, we were able to photograph the whole set. Then in the mid-90s, someone said, "You can do the first 3 songs only." ... Now the first 3 songs are useless -- the band hasn't gotten into their stride; they aren't even sweating! And that's what great live rock 'n' roll photography is all about: atmosphere and sweat and the band getting "lost in music." That's never gonna be at the beginning of a set. It's always near the end! Do you think I would have gotten those classic photos of Kurt Cobain smashing his guitar in the first 3 numbers?

Written by photographic historian Gail Buckland, the book is one of the first to tell the story of rock 'n' roll with an emphasis on those who fashioned its image. What would rock be without that photo of the Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, or of Elton John doing a handstand on his piano? Photography didn't create rock, but it certainly helped create our vision of it.

The photos will be on display at the Brooklyn Museum in New York from Oct. 30 through Jan. 31.

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