Tag Archives: Culture

A List and Links

Having been nominated for a Versatile Blogger award last week by the gracious author of Moving in Time, to whom I extend my gratitude, I want to follow the rules of the award by: 1) revealing 7 things about myself and; 2) recommending 15 blogs which I admire.

The first task:

1. I am the very last person in the world who does not have a cell phone.

2. I’m a terrible clotheshound who can’t seem to break the habit.

3. Doris Day movies make me happy.

4. Contrary is one of my favorite words.

5. I detest eggs:  I have to run from the room if anyone is breaking one or cooking one.

6. Also succulent plants:  they really give me the creeps.

7. I dislike the color blue (except turquoise).

And the second.  It should go without saying that I admire all the blogs on my blogroll and check in with them regularly.  So for this task, I’m choosing blogs that I have not linked or referenced before, including several that are relatively new to the web.  This seems to be in keeping with the spirit of the award.  All of the blogs below are either very creative, very well-researched, or very fresh, original and earnest–another one of my favorite words–in some way. So, here is my rather random list of links:

Secret Gardener.  Beautiful images here–and words.

Blanket and Bone.  A lovely eye; my idea of a design blog.

Absinthefiend. A new blog about absinthe–need I say more?

Restaurant-ing through History.  Looking at history through the perspective of restaurants;  a nice window into the recent past.

Got Medieval. This is a very well-established, popular blog, but I haven’t shared it before so I am now.

 The Quack Doctor. Again, a blog  that has been around for a while, but as the popular history of medicine is a bit obscure, well worth sharing.

Joie de VivreA strong sense of place, in this case Ireland.

Spitalfields Life:  A strong sense of place, in this case East London.

Desideratum:  The blog as a work of art.

Animalarium:  The best animal images anywhere.

The Passion of Former Days: a great site for old photographs.

Tattered and Lostone of several great ephemera sites.

The Bygone Object:  we’ve been on a big public history push at SSU, and this academic blog has helped me to focus my thinking about the field and its endeavors.

Lostpastrememberedmuch, much more than a food blog; all sorts of context, and great images.

Piewacket: a nice photography and design blog (and I love the movie which is I assume is the source of its name:  Bell, Book and Candle).

 


Green Men

A succession of green men for St. Patrick’s Day, beginning with several of the most celebrated medieval “foliate heads” in Britain from the parish churches of Sutton Benger, Wiltshire and Winchelsea, East Sussex.  As you can see, these grotesques are not green in color but they are definitely green in spirit:  representing nature, fertility, the life cycle, and memory.  A very common motif of medieval architecture across Europe, I have always felt that the presence of the Green Man in sacred spaces also represents the assimilation of Christianity and pre-Christian cultures.

Green Men from Wiltshire and Sussex, from a comprehensive gallery of images at “The Enigma of the Green Man” site.

The omnipresent Green Man has a few cousins in medieval culture, including the “wild man” or “wild woodman”, sometimes referred to as the “wodewose” as in this great scene from Jean Froissart’s Chroniques d’Angleterre, titled the “Dance of the Wodewoses”.  In the seventeenth century, the wild/green man appears playing with fireworks in John Bate’s Mysteries of Art and Nature (1635), which is a bit menacing, given that this is the century of the Gunpowder Plot.  And after that, he evolves into “Jack in the Green”, the central focus of May Day festivities across Britain. Below are some May Day, or Jack-in-the-Green Day celebrants in Bristol and from one of my very favorite blogs, terrain.  I wish we had this custom in the United States.

British Library MS Harley 4380, folio 1, 15th Century


There has to be a connection between the Green Man and the other famous green man of medieval English heritage, Robin Hood, but I’m not sure what it is (besides the pub sign below).  There are both outside of civilization, in the woods, but still moral guides.  And then of course there is the green knight of Sir Gawain fame:  how does he relate?  This is not my field; I can only speculate.  He’s beyond the realm of outlawry and in the realm of otherworldly–like the Green Man.

Robin Hood illustrations from the Robert Copland edition of 1550 and the Louis Rhead edition of 1912; the headless Green Knight in F.J.H. Darton’s Wonder Book of Old Romances (1912) and a Ken Orvidas illustration in the New York Times.

I am well into this post and I haven’t even mentioned the man whose day it is:  St. Patrick.  This is defensible because St. Patrick is not really a “green man”; he’s the antithesis of the green man really.  Before the early modern era, he is never depicted in green because that would make him too wild, I think.  He is a conqueror of the wild (the non-Christian) rather than a wearer of the green.  Green might be nearby (in the form of shamrocks or the snakes he supposedly drove out) but he is not green.

P. Gally print of St. Patrick the Apostle of the Irish, 1806, British Museum.


The only exception that I could find is this much earlier image of Patrick below, from John Mandeville’s Voyage d’outre mer (1451):  he is standing on a patch of green surrounded by devils and souls in purgatory, and underneath his bishop’s robe he is clearly wearing a green tunic.  Green has become Christian, it seems, and perhaps a little bit of early Irish nationalism.

British Library Royal MS 17B XLIII, folio 132v, Fifteenth Century.

Once you get into the modern era, there are a lot of directions in which to follow the green man.  The medieval motif gets revived in late nineteenth-century urban architecture, so that occasionally you will see him among the surface embellishment of neo-Romanesque multistory buildings:  modern skyscrapers.  There’s a whole book about The Green Man in New York City by Asher Derman. I tried to find some green men in Salem, but there are none:  perhaps in Boston where the Richardson Romanesque is more prevalent.  And then you can go into the popular culture fantasy direction, where there are the little green men of science fiction and the super-heroic Green Hornet and Green Lantern. Green men are everywhere, even telling us when to cross the street.

I think I’ll finish up close to where I began, with the woodsy green man. The work below, Hidden Green Men by Bryony Drew, is one of the entries in this year’s Victoria & Albert Illustration Awards.  There are supposedly eight green men in this picture (a mix of illustration, photography and photoshop), but I have yet to find them all. Green men are ever-elusive.



Herrick’s Holiday

February 2:  whether it is Candlemass in the past or Groundhog Day in the present, people are craving change and hope at this time of year.  I think it is interesting how the very secular Groundhog Day replaced a Christian holy day which probably replaced an earlier pagan festival day.  In the end, the weather and the season are the constant variables, and people’s desire for Spring, in every era.  One thing is for sure:  you must take your Christmas decorations down by Candlemass/Groundhog Day:  Valentine’s Day is just too late.  This has been determined by custom and expressed best, I think, by the seventeenth-century English poet Robert Herrick (1591-1674).

Herrick’s major work was Hesperides; or the Works both Human and Divine of Robert Herrick, published in 1648 in the midst of the English Civil War but revealing no sense of a troubled time.  It is full of little odes and ditties, to women (Julia, Chloris, Anthea, Electra; most are judged fictional by scholars), flowers, and the changing seasons.  Herrick seems to exemplify the gather ye rosebuds while ye may mentality that he first expressed.  He also provides a guide to seasonal decorating in his poem Ceremonies for Candlemasse Eve:

                                   Down with the Rosemary and Bays, Down with the Mistletoe; Instead of  Holly, no up-raise the Box (for show.)

                                   The Holly hitherto did sway; Let Box now domineer; Until the dancing Easter-day, or Easter’s eve appear.

                                    Then youthful Box which now has grace, Your house to renew; Grown old, surrender must his place, Unto the crisped Yew.

                                               When Yew is out, then Birch comes in, and many flowers beside:  Both of a fresh and fragrant kin To honour Whitsuntide.

                                    Green rushes then, and sweetest bents, with cooler Oaken boughs; Come in for comely ornaments, To re-adorn the house. Thus times do shift; each thing his turn do’s hold; new things succeed, as former things grow old.

Times do shift, and former things grow old.  I’m sure that Herrick poems were quite old in the eighteenth century, but they seem to have experienced a revival in the Victorian and Edwardian eras, resulting in the production of  some beautiful editions of his collected works.  I have one illustrated by Edwin Abbey and published by Harper Brothers in 1882.

The 1903 edition issued by the Elscot Press (in only 260 copies) looks really beautiful too; the first page contains Herrick’s philosophy of life and poetry:  Times trans-shifting.

A more timely greeting for the Day:



Picturing History

I am one week into the spring semester, just catching my breath.  This is an unusual semester for me, as I am not teaching very much because I’m serving as interim chair while our regular chair is on sabbatical.  Being a professor is largely an independent existence; you interact with lots of people, obviously, but you are in charge of your work.  Being the chair of an academic department is completely different; you must be accountable, and accessible, to everyone:  students, faculty, administration. At least that’s my one-week impression.

This new position does afford me the opportunity to learn more about the scholarship and teaching methods of my colleagues in the History Department.  Too often it seems like we’re running on parallel tracks, but now I’m off the track, in the stands (or in a roofbox?  No, that’s the Dean.  Whatever, I have an overview).  For example, in order to get together a presentation representing our Department for an upcoming Admissions event, I asked all my colleagues to forward me their favorite historical images, those which represented their period or topic particularly well, those that were very useful for teaching purposes, or those that they simply loved.  Here are some of my favorites, starting with my own, and then proceeding in chronological order.

Elizabeth Receiving the Dutch Ambassadors, circa 1585.  Anonymous artist of the German School, Museumslandschaft Hessen Kassel

I love this painting  for many reasons:  Elizabeth, her material surroundings, the casual poses of her courtiers.  I always thought that is was by an anonymous English artist rather than a German one, and used it in class to demonstrate the relative cultural backwardness of England in the late Renaissance, when Italian artists were moving on to Mannerism.  Still, I find its relative primitiveness charming, even intimate.  The texture and material details are great (the carpet that looks like Pottery Barn jute; the ladies-in-waiting reclining in the corner), and I’ll spare you all the political and religious history that I can link to this image.

Portrait of Elizabeth Freake and Daughter Mary, circa 1670.  Attributed to the “Boston Limner”, Worcester Art Museum.

The Freake portrait is the offering of one of our colonial historians, Tad Baker.  Elizabeth was the wife of a wealthy Boston merchant and she is demonstrating her wealth with the richness of her apparel; she is a serious Puritan lady but not a dowdy one!  So interesting to see her hemline, raised to reveal the embroidered underskirt beneath.  Her very stiff daughter was apparently once a fan, according to the x-rays, so she did choose to emphasize family over embellishment in the long run.  New England Puritans are so stereotyped; you need personal details, stories, and images to bring them to life in the classroom.  Elizabeth was soon to be a widow; Tad tells me that shortly after this painting was made her husband John’s ship blew up in Boston Harbor.

Jumping forward into glaring modernity…………..

Joseph Stella, Battle of Lights, Coney Island, 1913.  Yale University Art Gallery.

This is the first of three works offered up by three of the department’s 20th century historians.  Brad Austin uses the Stella painting, one of the earliest American “Futurist” works, to illustrate the experience of industrialization and urbanization.  Bright lights, big city; exhilarating and confusing. Its setting, Coney Island, can also represent the contemporary commercialization of leisure and recreation, an important twentieth-century trend.  It took me a while to make out the roller coasters!


Jacob Lawrence, The Migration of the Negro, Panel no. 1, 1940-41.  The Phillips Collection.

From Jamie Wilson, who specializes in twentieth-century African-American history, a very historical work:  the first panel in a series of 60 representing the “Great Migration” of southern African-Americans to the North in search of  better opportunities and lives (apparently this trend is reversing now).  It’s immediately accessible and historical in both public and personal ways.  Lawrence’s family had experienced this migration, and he wanted to remember and document it: “It was… so much a part of my life. I became conscious of these things when I was eight or nine years old, and this consciousness remained, and this is what you see in the Migrations.”

Havana Mural, 1995

Finally (actually, I could go on, but I think I should do a part two at another time), a photograph from our Latin American historian, Avi Chomsky, taken by her while in Havana in 1995, a rather anxious time after the fall of the Soviet Bloc which Cubans refer to as the “Special Period”.  The mural is a popular expression of the economic anxiety of this time and place, and Avi has used it not only as a teaching image but also as the cover of her most recent book, A History of the Cuban Revolution (2010).



The Gerry-Mander

This month marks the bicentennial anniversary of the first appearance of a monster that is still with us today:  the Gerry-Mander, first published in a Salem broadside in January of 1812. Very Scary.

                                       Library of Congress

The background for the appearance of the Gerry-Mander (a play on salamander) is the Massachusetts State Senate Election of 1812.  The two political parties at the time, the Jeffersonian Republicans and Federalists, were deeply divided:  politically, culturally, socially.  Here in Salem, members of the opposing parties didn’t even talk to each other, and they had erected separate assembly houses in the previous decade so they certainly didn’t dance with each other either.  The Jeffersonian Republicans pushed through the Massachusetts Legislature a bill creating electoral districts which gave them a distinct advantage in the upcoming election and Governor Gerry (somewhat reluctantly) signed the bill into law.  In protest, the Federalists hired engraver Elkanah Tisdale to create a caricature of the new Essex district, and thus the “Gerry-Mander” was born.  He (or she?) appeared in several Massachusetts newspapers (including the Boston Gazette) over the next few months, and reappeared regularly across the US–in different incarnations– over the next 200 years.  Governor Gerry went on to become James Madison’s Vice-President.

A cropped version, and one with the carved-out Essex County towns filled in.


Salem’s “Japanese House”

Ample evidence exists to demonstrate the varied connections between Salem and Japan, both in the past and the present.  Just last week, my next-door neighbor was hosting a group of Japanese filmmakers, here in town to shoot the childhood home and environment of Salem native and Japanese cultural minister Ernest Fenollosa (1858-1907).  The Peabody Essex Museum has wonderful Japanese collections and a beautiful Japanese garden, no doubt due, in large part, to the advocacy of its long-term director, Edward Sylvester Morse (1838-1925).  Morse was also responsible, in a way, for another tangible symbol of the Salem-Japan connection:  the so-called “Japanese House”  on Laurel Street.

This house was designed by the prominent and prolific Boston architectural firm Andrews, Jacques and Rantoul for a young man named Bunkio Matsuki (1867-1940), who arrived in Salem as a teenager, accompanied by a friend and armed with his acquaintance with Morse, whom he had met during one of the latter’s earlier trips to Japan.  Matsuki knocked on the front door of Morse’s house (which is located right next door to the Japanese house; I’ll write about it in a future post once I figure out a bit more about its equally distinctive architectural style) and began a new life in Salem:  graduating from Salem High School, setting up an import business, marrying his landlord’s daughter, and ultimately building his distinct house in 1893.  Below is a photograph from the 1903 publication Prominent Americans interested in Japan and Prominent Japanese in America, and an advertisement for Matsuki’s shop in Boston from the same year.

I imagine that the architects at Andrews, Jacques and Rantoul must have relied on Morse’s 1888 book Japanese Homes and their Surroundings for their design of the Matsuki house, as it is full of plans and detailed drawings.  I know that a Japanese carpenter was employed for its construction; even though he trained to be a Buddhist monk back in Japan, Matsuki was apparently from a family of craftsmen, whose contacts would serve him well over his long career.  His roles as a cross-cultural ambassador, entrepreneur and preservationist of sorts is highlighted in this 1903 auction notice from the New York Times, describing objects which belong to Mr. Bunkio Matsuki, a descendant of the Tategawa family of artist-artisans and builders of temples, who has had the advantage of being a Japanese and a lover of curios.  He has been able to collect objects from dismantled temples and those which were reorganized when an attempt was made from governmental sources to change the religion of Japan.  The Boxer troubles in China have also thrown things his way, and the result is a very curious and interesting lot of things.

The house yesterday, during our first serious snow.


Steam Power

I’ve been doing some research on Salem manufacturers in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries for an upcoming fundraising event at the Salem Athenaeum with a steampunk theme (lots more on this later) and am a bit overwhelmed:  there were so many.  America was certainly a country of makers a century ago; now it seems like we’re mostly sellers. Anyway, since I’m taking the steam in steampunk literally I have found myself focusing on all sort of machinery makers in general and the Locke Regulator Company of Salem in particular.  This company, founded by two New Hampshire brothers, Nathaniel and Alpheus Locke, who came down to Salem to make their fortune, grew from a back-of-the-barn operation in the 1870s and 80s to big business after its incorporation in 1902.  The large Locke factory, pictured on the first piece of “industrial ephemera” below (from 1910), was located on the banks of the North River in Salem, now the site of a junkyard and a car wash.  According to the claims of the last advertisement below, by 1913 the Company was the largest Manufacturers of Steam Vehicle Parts & Fittings in America.

The Company experimented with automobile manufacture in the first decade of the twentieth century (that’s another dynamic industry at this time; it seems like every town or city of a certain size had several small automobile makers within its midst), building a little “runabout” called the Puritan, but I think they must have soon realized that their future was in parts.

a 1902 Puritan steamer from the Early American Automobiles website; Locke shears from the same year.

The Locke Regulator Company appears to have been a family business, both before and after its incorporation and period of dynamic growth.  Alpheus retired from the business  in the 1890s, but Nathaniel continued on, with his brother-in-law, son, and son-in-law all working for the company at one time or anotherTheir factory was in North Salem, as were their residences, primarily on or in the vicinity of Dearborn Street, very close to the threatened homestead of another prominent family that I wrote about in my previous post.  The Ropes family and the various Lockes were neighbors, and perhaps friends.  At the turn of the last century, Nathaniel and his wife Sophronia were living on one side of Dearborn Street, in a “new” house built for them in 1874, while their son Albert was living almost just across the street, in an even newer (and bigger) house built for his family in 1896.

Dearborn Street just before World War One; the Albert N. Locke House yesterday.



Bits of Holly History

It occurred to me that holly–the traditional symbol of Christmas and Winter–is often paired with something and seldom presented on its own.  The “holly and the ivy” is the best example, but there are many others, like this stylized little image of holly and a lyre on the cover of a Christmas concert program from 1898.  I found the program in a dusty box of sheet music at a yard sale a couple of years ago, and opened it just the other day.

That same day I also checked in with the blog of the Met’s Cloisters Museum, The Medieval Garden Enclosed, to find the “holly girls” decorating the museum’s arches with holly.  So beautiful!  I have both interior and exterior arched doorways and several flourishing holly bushes–I wonder if I could do this next year?  Probably not, but at least I can think about it.

Holly is often pictured in the margins of medieval manuscripts (usually with ivy, its companion plant) and seems to have had many associations and virtues, all positive.  With its bright red berries blooming in December, it represents light, warmth and hope, joy and goodwill.  It has always been a protective plant:  against poisons and demons, even lightning.  With the coming of Christianity, it came to be associated both with the Virgin Mary and the blood (berries) of Christ.  In the early modern era, the holly tree was prominently linked with the ars nova of printing, notably on the title age of Leonhart Fuchs’ De historia stirpium commentarii insignes (“New Herbal”, 1542-43).  The title-page device of Basel printer Michael Isengrin features a holly tree with a printing-house platen amongst its branches,representing its increasing secular symbolism.

And here are two more holly herbal images from Elizabeth Blackwell’s Curious Herbal  (1739) and Francois Andre Michaux’s North American Sylva (1819).  Blackwell illustrated her own book, while Michaux called upon one of the most famous botanical illustrators of his day, Pierre Redoute.

In the nineteenth century, the holly becomes the stereotypical holiday plant through advances in lithography and the emergence of the dynamic greeting-card industry, which produced millions of holly-embellished holiday cards.  But there were other images of the plant out there too:  elaborate theatrical costumes, ceramics, cigarette cards.  The collection of the Victoria & Albert Museum encompasses a large collection of costumes from the London theater, including these two creations by “Wilhelm” (William Charles Pitcher) for productions in the 1890s:  Holly personified, with Mistletoe and alone.  From the same era and collection is the Minton “Four Season” tile, with holly representing winter.

And then there were so many cards: cigarette cards for advertising, Christmas and New Year’s cards for “greeting”.  The first card below, issued by the Duke’s cigarette company in the 1890s, is part of a “Language of Flowers” series, which associated holly with “foresight”.  The second and third are British and from the 1920s, illustrating the uses of the (hard) holly wood (chess sets and teapot handles, apparently) and the boy scout “holly patrol” badge.  How the holly has “evolved”:  from the blood of Christ to the boy scouts!

And finally two greeting cards, both from the vast collection at the New York Public Library Digital Gallery like the cigarette cards above:  a simple New Year’s Day card from the turn of the last century and a birthday card of similar vintage on which holly is paired with something I’ve never seen before:  turquoise?


Juleneg

I don’t have a drop of Scandinavian blood in my veins, but I really love the northern European custom of Juleneg, in which a wheat sheaf is attached to a roof gable or adjacent pole or tree at Christmas time.  Elves or fairies are often pictured affixing these “Christmas bundles”– holiday feasts for the birds.  The wheat sheaf is so symbolic; for us it tends to symbolize the harvest, but it can also represent sustenance through the winter and hope fulfilled:  what better Christmas message?  I think we should adopt the Juleneg custom, especially here in Salem, where wheat sheaves have the additional connection to Samuel McIntire, the architect of our beautiful Federal city.

Wheat Sheaves for Christmas:  a Juleneg card from 1911, a McIntire mantle and pin from the PEM shop, the cover of a Federal-era snuffbox, and proofs for chromolithographic Christmas cards from Prang of Boston, 1880s (New York Public Library Digital Gallery).


The Christmas Dance at Hamilton Hall

Hamilton Hall was built as an assembly house in 1805 by Samuel McIntire and it retains this essential function over 200 years later.  It has been the setting for festive fetes for important people (the Marquis de Lafayette, Nathaniel Bowditch, Andrew Jackson), debutante assemblies, lectures, forums and exhibitions, and the annual Christmas Dance.  I believe that the Christmas Dance began just after World War II, along with another annual event, the Hamilton Hall Lecture Series, but it retains traditions that herald back to earlier assemblies:  patronesses, ushers, curtseys, a lethal bourbon punch, and a “Grand March” at the end of the evening.  I never miss it.

Mary Harrod Northend (1850-1926), author, photographer, and descendant of several old Massachusetts families, recounts many Hamilton Hall traditions in her book Memories of Old Salem (1917) and Colonial Homes and their Furnishings (1912).  Like her contemporaries Wallace Nutting and Alice Morse Earle, Northend had a rather sentimental view of  the “ye olde” colonial past, Salem’s past, and her past, but her books and photographs are still charming.

I went over and took some pictures of the empty Hamilton Hall, well before the caterers and dancers arrived.  There’s something about an empty “party” hall, especially this particular one with its interesting acoustics and spring dance floor, that is compelling, even romantic.  As you can see, the Hall has an elegant but somewhat spare interior, which was disdained by the Victorian ladies of Northend’s Memories, who were always embellishing it with flowers and oak leaf garlands and swags. The gilt mirrors, which are always referred to as the Russian mirrors, were an addition of that time, along with the lighting.

The second-floor ballroom.

The Lafayette Room, with the Marquis over the mantle.

More mirrors in the Supper Room on the third floor.

Hours later, the food and attendees were assembled in the Hall, the latter not quite as orderly as in one of Northend’s photographs, despite their participation in the Grand March.