This weekend, Liane Hansen, host of Weekend Edition Sunday, will interview the authors of a new book: Blended Nation: Portraits and Interviews of Mixed-Race America. It's part of a new series called "Beyond Black and White," which will highlight the nation's changing demographics and changing attitudes about racial identity.

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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National Geographic's International Photography Contest has come to a close, and winners will be announced in early December. Here's a selection of a few submissions, but you can view more on ngm.com, or check out some winners from the past.

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By Claire O'Neill

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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By Coburn Dukehart

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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By Claire O'Neill

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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October has come and gone, as has Halloween. Only a few more weeks of colorful fall foliage remain. But at least we can enjoy fall photos year-round! Katie Barnes and Max Bittle, New Hampshire-based photographers, submitted their seasonal snapshots to The Picture Show. You should do the same by adding your photos to our group pool on Flickr!

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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By Claire O'Neill

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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National Geographic's International Photography Contest comes to a close Saturday, and winners will be announced in early December. Here's a selection of some submissions from this past week. Enter your photos, or view some winners from the past, at ngm.com.

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More people live along the banks of the Yangtze River than in the United States. One can only imagine the environmental impact of that population. Photographer Nadav Kander took an interest in this subject, and his work was recently rewarded with the Prix Pictet. The prize is relatively new but prestigious, and the first devoted to photography and sustainability.

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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By Claire O'Neill

"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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