Since spring 2020, Molly Humphreys, a native of Shepherdstown, West Virginia, has photographed workers in and around the Berkeley Medical Center (BMC) and, in the process, has created a rich mosaic of the complex realities of health care in Martinsburg, West Virginia. Specializing in portraiture, Humphreys had never worked in the health care space—that is, until I invited her to partner in Healthcare is Human, a project I developed to document my experience as an internal medicine doctor working on the frontline of the COVID-19 pandemic. Humphreys’ photographs have since created powerful narratives that counter the often-recycled negative stereotypes of who lives and works in Appalachia, tropes so common that their harms are often left unquestioned.
Humphreys’ career has been devoted to portrait photography and, because of this practice, she has developed a fine-tuned sensitivity about what makes individuals who they are. Her work captivated me for years; her subjects practically glowed in natural light, each examined with sensitivity and care. She possesses an uncanny ability to tell complex stories with singular, memorable images. Since my invitation in 2020, Humphreys has photographed a wide variety of workers, authentically showcasing an array of skin colors, eyes, hair, age, jobs, titles, and roles within health care. And while Humphreys explores many themes in her work, I find her photos of women to be especially refreshing and compelling.
One particular photo that I can’t stop thinking about is of Laura Shade, who was working at the time as the unit clerk on the sixth floor of the BMC. Laura wears a surgical mask, and Humphreys captures the delicate stitching that runs along the top edge—a detail that speaks to the precision nature of the personal protective equipment we relied on during COVID-19. Hazel eyes are framed underneath white-blond hair, which is captured in crisp detail. Wispy and golden, with single strands visible, Humphreys uses Laura’s hair to set the photograph in motion, though she is standing in a generic door frame—one that is blurry but still evokes a health care context.
The sleeve of a white blouse, one with a royal blue floral pattern, casts a shadow, and it is here that we see a tattoo of Medusa, who is silent and still in a monochromatic blue. Despite being the center of the frame, it is not obvious what Laura is thinking, and even with close viewing, there is no definitive answer about whether she is smiling, frowning, or something else entirely. Medusa gazes into the distance while Laura stares back at the viewer and, in the process, shares a rich internal life—one that poses more questions than it answers.
Humphreys shows a capable woman who, given the height of the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020, is brave. Smartly dressed, with a hospital ID visible, the viewer is presented an intelligent woman—one who performs an important job. Beautiful feminine features are captured in radiant light, but they play supporting roles, a complex portrayal delicately assembled by a master artist. In totality, Laura is the exact opposite of the one-dimensional caricatures of Appalachian women that have been cultural currency for decades.
In 1964, a series of shocking photos called “The Valley of Poverty” in LIFE magazine prompted many Americans to believe that Appalachia was a natural disaster. These images from eastern Kentucky by photographer John Dominis were a kind of “poverty porn” and, with the wildly popular TV show The Beverly Hillbillies, which ran from 1962 to 1971, formed a one-two cultural punch in the face to Appalachia. Many Americans did not have to ponder rural women too deeply as they were presented as poor, backwards, tribal, and of low intelligence. Meanwhile, well-dressed suburban American housewives watched on their new television sets as Neil Armstrong landed on the moon in July 1969. Appalachian women suffered further at the hands of the hyper-sexualized portrayal of Daisy Duke of The Dukes of Hazzard, a television show that ran from 1979 to 1985. Daisy’s only agency in Hazzard County was standing on the side of the road in a bikini when she was not serving beer to men in a bar called The Boar’s Nest. The Dukes’ cultural influence was absorbed by an entire generation, aided by its never-ending life once it became cable television reruns.
Humphreys’ photographs depict women working as ambulance drivers, cafeteria workers, pharmacy technicians, ER nurses, doctors, social workers, diabetic educators, physical therapists, administrators, and so many others. Many of these women perform “traditional” roles centered around caregiving and nurturing, like nursing and social work. But so many others perform physical labor in kitchens, facilities, maintenance, driving equipment, lifting, and triaging patients in the field—the kind of physical labor that women are not often properly credited with doing.
The Laura Shade photo is an excellent example of how Humphreys’ photographs are intimate, captivating, and haunting—visual stories of sacrifice, grief, pain, service, and bravery. It illustrates how, at the height of the pandemic, masks were ubiquitous, leaving eyelashes and eyebrows to fill the frame, and facial expressions were hidden, so emotional context requires close viewing. Laura, like many other Humphreys subjects, stands under harsh hospital lights; bits of ephemera are visible in the background, and tiny details say this is West Virginia—but it could, honestly, be anywhere in rural America. And that’s the point. This was anywhere. This was also, at the same time, everywhere. Photographs like Humphreys’ make it everything, everywhere, all at once—in a single image, the kind that makes you wonder what, exactly, Laura is thinking.
This is the first in a series of articles about Molly Humphreys’ impact on health care. You can see more of her work by searching social media for Healthcare is Human and Piccadilly Posh Photography.
Ryan McCarthy is an internal medicine physician.
