Saturday, October 31, 2015

Back to regularly scheduled programming: Lists, Parts the Fourth and Fifth

In anticipation of Simon and Ivan reuniting next weekend, from which maybe a blog post will result, and maybe not, depending on how much time we spend in a food coma doing nothing; and because it is Halloween; I am re-animating this blog, not unlike Frankenstein's monster. It may lapse into death again shortly thereafter, but for now . . . it's aliiiiiive.

In truth, I've also been inspired by two lists that I have collected recently. I was developing a love of lists when we left off, and it has not waned in the intervening . . . erm . . . years.

List the Fourth
It's a little-known fact (I'm guessing) that the village hall of Wyoming, NY contains a shockingly large natural science collection for a place with a population of 500 people in the middle of nowhere. It's a very nice middle of nowhere, and I grew up in the middle of nowhere so I know from middles-of-nowhere, but still: it was unexpected. The collection was created by one Henry Augustus Ward, a professor at the University of Rochester from 1860-1865 among other things.

This is one of those weird instances when a bunch of previously unconnected things suddenly come together and you realize the world, or at least New York State, is not very big.

The day before Matt and Adam and Rachel and I stumbled on this little museum in Wyoming, Ivan and I happened to be at the Genesee Country Museum for dinner, which is another post entirely, involving drinking maple whiskey from a flask behind an outhouse like very naughty nineteenth-century schoolboys, now enshrined as one of my most favorite memories ever. It wasn't really an outhouse but it's a better story if it's an outhouse so I choose to remember it that way. Moving right along: between dinner and dessert we went on a tour of the village, and the guide happened to point out a "Ward's box" in one of the houses. How she could remember a single historical fact with sleeves that puffed I really don't know - I would think she would have to devote 90% of her brainpower to the engineering conundrum of how to fit through the next doorway - but I'm glad she pointed out the Ward's box (we would call it a terrarium these days), because it stuck in my mind. The next day, of course, I realized it was the same Ward - in addition to being a professor, he owned a company that shipped scientific specimens all over the world. You can still get microscope slides and live butterfly pupae and whatnot from Ward's Science, and they are still based in Rochester.

So that was a funny coincidence. Then, just now when I was looking him up, I noticed that he was buried in Mt. Hope cemetery and my brain went bing bing bing! and yes, as it turns out, his is the enormous pinkish gravestone with the enormous granite boulder sitting on top of it that I have passed many times and thought, "Ugh, what an ego."

And not only that, but Matthew Vassar hired him in 1863 to create a collection for the then brand-new Vassar College. Frankly, at this point, I kind of feel like Dr. Ward is stalking me.

ANYWAY, the collection is upstairs in the stately Wyoming village hall, in a medium-sized room lined with old glass cabinets and display cases full of every kind of thing you could imagine: birds, fish, mammals, shells (except for rocks, curiously enough) (and, happily, nothing preserved in formaldehyde), all with their original labels. Everything screamed Get your scrumptiously authentic nineteenth-century natural history here! and I was very happy. I sincerely wish I had brought my camera, but in any case, I liked reading the labels one after another in all their seeming randomness. Or maybe I just like nature words. Or Latin. Probably a combination. Here is a very limited list that I jotted down:

skin of alligator
skin of crocodile
chipping sparrow
goldfinch nest
assorted unidentified eggs
northern shrike
red-bellied woodpecker
downy woodpecker
sandhill crane
hummingbird nest
blue grosbeak
blue and yellow macaw
great blue heron
saw tooth fish [Editorial note: now known as a sawfish; all they had was the saw part, which was initially confusing]
puffer fish
Rhinoceros beetle
argonautica argo (Mediterranean)
nautilus pompilious
comus gubernator (India pacific)
Cypraea annulus (Singapore)
Helicostyla collodes (Philippines)
Solarium perpectiuum (Zanzibar)
Strombus gallus (Bahamas)
Cypraea eburnea (Philippines)
Fusus distans (Pacific Ocean)
Fasciolaria trapezium (Mauritius)
Lady Amherst Pheasant (Eastern Tibet)
Simin Satyrus, Orang-utan [Editorial note: taxidermy... it doesn't last forever.]

List the Fifth, which could not be more unrelated to all the other lists 
Scene: dinner
Status: full of sushi
Present: Adam (instigator), Matt (victim), Simon (recorder)

Jennifer Aniston as herself
April . . . O'Neil?
Gale Weathers
Courteney Cox
Schand'ler [Editorial note: the spelling was specified for me; motivation unclear]
Anton for short
Is it really not Antoinette?
Are you sure?
Mega . . . ?
Oh, it's Monica.

Saturday, March 01, 2014

Still Not Art

Boston-- still not artistic. 

Monday, February 17, 2014

Not Art

Driving back from Home Depot yesterday someone had scrawled "THIS IS NOT A BANKSY" on the back of a road work sign. Thank you for the clarification on the art scene here, Boston. 

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Tea Pirate

One of the nicest things about this apartment is the presence of Tea Pirate.  Yes, his belly is full of tea.  Originally I thought the red stuff tucked in his belt was a cup of tea being poured into his pocket.  It is not-- it's a revolver.  Yes, I know, that does make more sense-- clearly the pirate should be more concerned with defending the tea in his belly than pouring cups of it into his pockets.  Anyway, as far as I can tell he's always on his best behavior and has never tried to shoot me as I fish around for an earl grey.  Keep up the good work, Tea Pirate.

Monday, June 03, 2013

Concerning History, Biography, and Richard Holmes

I've probably mentioned Richard Holmes on this blog more than any other writer except possibly Dorothy Dunnett. His Age of Wonder was magnificent, and pretty crucial to me forming a specific interest in the Enlightenment, and also pretty crucial to my novel, in an indirect but also direct way, not to be vague or anything.

Richard Holmes is not really an historian, as you might think from reading that book. He's a biographer, which, I've come to realize, is really an art of its own, and a calling. For him, at least. He has the ability to invest himself so deeply in the past that he once bounced a check because he dated it 1772. One time he got so involved in a biographical subject's insanity that he nearly went nuts himself. He's a method biographer, so to speak.

(It is my duty to point out that going nuts when writing anything long is simply the nature of writing anything long, but it really doesn't help if you're writing about your subject's irreversible descent into madness and subsequent suicide.)

(Further aside: the subject in question was Gerard de Nerval, who sometimes went for a walk with a lobster on a leash. He was quoted by a friend as saying this: "Why should a lobster be any more ridiculous than a dog? Or a cat, or a gazelle, or a lion, or any other animal that one chooses to take for a walk? I have a liking for lobsters. They are peaceful, serious creatures. They know the secrets of the sea, they don't bark, and they don't gnaw upon one's monadic privacy like dogs do. And Goethe had an aversion to dogs, and he wasn't mad." While I agree, that does not mean Nerval wasn't mad. He was.)

But back to my story. Over the past week and a half, I read one of Holmes's rather old books, Footsteps: Adventures of a Romantic Biographer. When I say "old" I mean it was published in 1982, which means I just unintentionally made an ageist crack about myself. Well, some mornings are better than others. Point is, this book was so good kept my attention on an airplane, which usually requires something light like a mystery novel. True story: I always think I'm going to die on airplanes (it's a part of flying that I have learned to accept), and one time before a flight I checked out a book called Death of a Minor Character because I thought it would be amusing if I died in a plane crash reading that book. Worth it! Someday when I do die, please look at what I have checked out from the library because it might be funny. Checking out that book merely for its title was a stroke of luck, actually, because it turned out I really liked it, and went on to read more by the same author, including one of the single most frightening books I have ever read in my life, which just goes to show that there are a lot of really good books that deserve to be read that are probably being discarded by libraries because no one is checking them out. Which implies that there are also a lot of seriously underrated authors, because fame begets fame even when people have stopped deserving it MICHAEL CHABON GET IT TOGETHER but I would never name names.

Anyway, Richard Holmes seems to have been born to biograph, as it were, and I was as fascinated by his take on biography as I was by the people he covered in this book (R. L. Stevenson's twelve-day trek through the French countryside, Mary Wollstonecraft in during the French Revolution, Shelley and the origin of his mysterious "Napoleonic charge," and of course the unfortunate Nerval -- in case you wanted to know). In fact, this entire post has been in aid of setting up this quote from the book. Holmes has been talking about making friends in Paris and finding an identity apart from the identities of the people he's been writing about:

"It taught me at least two things. First, that the past is not simply "out there", an objective history to be researched or forgotten, at will; but that it lives most vividly in all of us, deep inside, and needs constantly to be given expression and interpretation. And second, that the lives of great artists and poets and writers are not, after all, so extraordinary by comparison with everyone else. Once known, in any detail and any scope, every life is something extraordinary, full of particular drama and tension and surprise, often containing unimagined degrees of suffering or heroism, and invariably touching extreme moments of triumph and despair, though frequently unexpressed. The difference lies in the extent to which one is eventually recorded, and the other is eventually forgotten."

This is what I love about Richard Holmes: how he offers up these often obscure histories unabashed, convinced of their importance, with every expectation that they will be met with like-minded interest simply because they deserve to be; and how his biographies take into account the reality of how complex it is to be alive and always has been. I rarely catch him condescending to his subjects, as if they were quaint relics of bygone times; if anything, in this book, he over-identifies with them, taking their struggles almost too much to heart. I was worried for the young Richard Holmes as he literally followed Stevenson's footsteps through France -- that he wouldn't find the personal connection with Stevenson that he was looking for and would be so disappointed he'd throw himself off a bridge or something. But it's through biography that he eventually made the connection, between himself and Stevenson, and Stevenson and me, and me and him. And that, it seems to me, is how you make history live: by investing yourself in it and then sharing the dividends. Holmes is a master at this (and so, for that matter, is Dorothy Dunnett).

One last note: if you ever want someone to write a biography about you, leave a paper trail. It is apparently a grievous disappointment to your biographers if you don't write letters. Please feel free to address them to me. I'll keep them safe in the vegetable drawer of my fridge. As a side benefit, this will also save the United States Postal Service.

Monday, May 20, 2013

Jeanne Baret

Friends and relatives, I would like to tell you about Jeanne Baret. I just finished a book about her that has been haunting me for probably two years, and it was every bit as fascinating as I thought it would be.

Jeanne Baret was the first woman known to have circumnavigated the world. That alone is a feat, but the circumstances it even more remarkable. For one thing, she was born a peasant in the French countryside in 1740. Remember in A Tale of Two Cities when the Marquis runs over that little boy in his cart, and all he does is toss a couple of coins to the boy's father and go off to have some hot chocolate? That's how much French society cared about peasants. Their average life expectancy was 26, and literacy rates for women were 10%. (Men, at 20%, did not fare significantly better.) By all rights, Jeanne Baret should have worked herself into the grave before the age of 30 and been forgotten.

Other than a sheet of herbal remedies that may or may not have actually been written by her, Baret survives solely in others' accounts. A few of the men on the expedition kept journals, and practically everything known about her experiences on the voyage comes from their accounts. All of these men, and many later historians, subscribed to the still-popular notion that ambitious women are whores. The book that I read, The Discovery of Jeanne Baret, is a thoroughly feminist take on Baret's life that I found, for the most part, convincing.

The key to Baret's achievements was her field of expertise: botany. She was an herb woman, which means she knew more about botany and its medical uses than many well-educated men. She was employed by a botanist named Philibert Commerson to teach him all she knew, and, as is the way of things, she ended up pregnant. Commerson does not come off at all well in this book: he appears selfish, cowardly, and callous. And not a little stupid. It's hard to imagine Baret and Commerson having a happy relationship; they stayed together, but one wonders if it was only because, once they embarked on this adventure, they didn't have much choice.

When Commerson was hired to participate as a botanist in a French expedition around the world, the French government told him to hire an assistant. Baret was the obvious choice, but it was against the law for women to travel on naval vessels. Instead of letting a little thing like that stop them, Commerson and Baret entered into a ruse in which Baret was to be passed off as a man for some two years in the company of 300 sailors. Why they expected this to work, no one will ever know. It didn't take long for questions to arise, which prompted Baret to tell everyone she was a eunuch. Perhaps that staved off more questions for a while, or perhaps everyone simply said, "Uh huh, sure." It seems likely that although it wasn't openly discussed, it was obvious to everyone that she was a woman -- otherwise, there would have been less need for her to carry a brace of pistols with her everywhere she went.

By all accounts, Baret performed the strenuous work of hiking, climbing, and lugging heavy boxes and plant presses here to there with rather extraordinary energy and ability. Commerson had a leg injury that was an ongoing and kind of gross issue, so Baret seems to have done a great deal of physically difficult work for him. She may even have been the one who discovered bougainvillea (named for Bougainville, the captain of the expedition). She also endured, along with the rest of the crew, several terrible tropical storms, and survived for a time on leather and rats when the food ran out. Unlike the rest of the crew, she suffered condescension, harassment, and, as indirectly evidenced by a disturbingly jovial passage in one account, gang rape.

This is not a triumphant story by any means. Baret accomplished an incredible thing, but it was costly. After being formally "discovered" and subsequently assaulted, she kept to her cabin did no botany at all until she and Commerson were let off in Mauritius, where Commerson had once again finagled a new job. There she gave birth to a second child. Her first child, born in Paris before the voyage, was probably Commerson's. For unknown reasons, the child was given to a foundling hospital and died at a young age. Her second child may well have resulted from rape, and was left with a caretaker in Mauritius. While Commerson had an elevated position and benefactor in Mauritius, Baret was a servant, living in servant's quarters. For only a small percentage of their time together did she she and Commerson set up house together, with all their specimens. And then Commerson finally died from what sounded like complications from his incessantly suppurating leg wound. Since they were not married, Baret was left with absolutely nothing. The government even seized all of the specimens she and Commerson had collected. She was in Commerson's will, but in order to claim her money, she had to get back to Paris.

It's sort of unclear what happened to her for a while, but it appears she was a barmaid for a time. About a year and a half after Commerson's death, she married a naval officer and returned to France. That was 1774. By the age of 34, she had crossed the Atlantic, crossed the equator, been to Rio de Janeiro and Montevideo, and passed through the Strait of Magellan. She crossed the Pacific, visiting Tahiti, New Guinea, and Madagascar, and lived for on Mauritius for seven years. She and Commerson had collected six thousand specimens during their travels.

Although hardly anyone knew what Baret accomplished, she didn't go entirely unrecognized. Commerson named one (ONE) plant after her, which was renamed later by someone else. And she joined Caroline Herschel in being one of very few eighteenth-century women paid for scientific work: several years after she returned to France, someone petitioned the government to give her the same pension that invalid servicemen received, citing her "exemplary" behavior. She lived to be 67.

The book itself has some flaws, the main one being that the author includes a lot of speculation that isn't as well-grounded as I'd like. But she makes good arguments, and the amount of research she must have done is astounding. She even found evidence of a man bearing Baret's pseudonym living on Mauritius thirty years after she would have left her son there -- the uncovering of that small fact seems extraordinary to me. And I especially liked this bit from the introduction:

"Bougainville thought Baret's example [of a globe-trotting female] was not likely to be contagious because of the physical privations and brutality she experienced. But Bougainville overlooked the allure of the idea she embodies: that one human being, irrespective of the hand dealt by fortune, can have as much curiosity about the world as another. And that, like race and class, gender should pose no barrier to satisfying that curiosity and discovering how far it may take you."

I've basically told you the whole story, but should you want the details (there are lots more interesting things I didn't mention), I would certainly recommend Glynis Ridley's The Discovery of Jeanne Baret.

Monday, May 06, 2013

Lists, Part IV: Late Additions to Mr. Peale's Museum

The fourth and as far as I know final installment in my series of lists has to do with one Charles Willson Peale. This is Mr. Peale, sporting a fashionable pair of forehead goggles:


The canny-eyed Peale was a portrait-painter until 1794, when he decided to go into the museum business. After the Revolution, there was a new enthusiasm for education and civic virtue that Peale wanted to reinforce; his museum would "educate and teach virtue to the public by demonstrating the benevolence of the Creator and the order, harmony, and beauty of His creation." As you will see, he accomplished this by packing into this museum every interesting and oddball thing he could get his hands on. He was so dedicated to displaying every facet of the creator's creation that he even wanted to display the embalmed bodies of public figures (posthumously, of course), but had to settle for portraits instead. The popularity of the museum meant it received contributions from all over the world. No description could be better than what you'll read below, but here's a painting of Peale lifting the veil so you can peek into an exhibition:


I happened upon an article about the museum not too long before I went to Philadelphia myself last October. The one thing I would have killed to see was this famous museum, but alas, its contents were sold off about twenty years after Peale's death in 1827. Government support probably would have preserved it, but in spite of his many efforts, he could never the government to agree on that. He had the bad luck to have started his museum when the government was still figuring out what it was and was not allowed to do. Jefferson said he supported the idea of nationalizing the museum, but he didn't think Congress had the power to do so -- or at least, he didn't think they'd think they did. So in the end, Peale's collections went to P. T. Barnum, and most of it was destroyed by fire.

Evidently there's some debate over whether Peale was a forerunner of P. T. Barnum or of the Smithsonian -- whether he was a showman or a man of science. It's silly to suggest he had to be a forerunner of one or the other, and that he couldn't have been a forerunner of both, or neither. Which brings me to this purpose of this post: the list. When the Historian Esq. and I were in Philly, we went (of course) to see Ben Franklin's printing office and bindery.


In demonstrating the presses, they print a lot of random stuff -- sayings and advertisements and articles from early American papers -- and post them on the walls. That is how we spotted this beauty of a list: "Late [that is, recent] Additions to Mr. Peale's Museum." This thing is like a found poem. It is so strange, and wonderful, and revealing as to what eighteenth-century people thought was notable. Was Peale a scientist or a showman? It's impossible to tell. Sometimes the natural world is so weird there's no need to choose.

Unfortunately, the list at the printers was from such an old demonstration that it was no longer for sale, but Historian Esq. pointed out with his customary genius that the library would certainly have this article in a database. And so it did. And so I present to you this final list. Enjoy.


A fine specimen of Petrified Wood, found in the State of Delaware : Presented by Jonathan B. Smith, Esq.

A pair of Horns of the American Rein-Deer : Presented by Mr. Shingle.

A white Hare, of which species some numbers have appeared in this and the neighbouring northern States within four years past; before that period unknown : Presented by the Hon. Thomas Jefferson.

An Otahitian dress, consisting of a long cloak, and a cap made of feathers, and very elegant; being a present to the president of the United States by some gentlemen of Boston, adventurers in the first voyage made from thence to Nootka Sound and the Otahitian islands; now deposited in the Museum for preservation and safe-keeping for the president.

Chinese ladies shoes, measuring in length 5 4-10 inches : Presented by Mr. Pritchard.

The Nautilus-shell, uncoated and ornamented. A pair of Chinese ladies shoes, made to fit the wife of a native of that country, who supplied the ship (Sampson) with necessaries when at China, and the Podada bird, commonly called the sea-pidgeon : Presented by Mr. Jacob Betteron.
Birds nests, very costly, which, made into a soup, is much esteemed in China, and throughout all the Indies. “When it is reported, that in the Indies people eat birds-nests, there is no man but must wonder at it;--nay, many think they are imposed upon, because it appears to them quite repugnant to nature, or at least very little acceptable to the palate. But they are reckoned good, light, and wholesome food, very proper for sick people. They are so well dressed with other good ingredients, that they prove an excellent dish to those who do not know what it is. As the materials with which they are made come from fish, they are not unsalubrius.”--Postlethwait Dictionary.

A kitten with two heads, in spirits : Presented by Dr. ------------

Two snake-skins, from the island of Trinidad, one measuring in length 7 feet four inches, and the other 13 feet 8 inches : Presented by Mr. Samuel Hazlehurst.

Shells, which are used instead of glass in the windows of the houses of the inhabitants of Malabar : Presented by capt. Howell.

A large flying fish, measuring from the mouth to the extremity of its tail 18 inches : Presented by Mrs. Earl.

A large porcupine fish, measuring 16 ½ inches in length, and two feet three inches circumference, independent of spines : Presented by capt. Howell.

Coisimond, (alive) a very good-humoured, playful animal, from South America : Presented by Mr. Lee.
The ring-tail monkey : Presented by Mr. J. Graham.

A calcarious stone, weighing 21 ½ ounces, taken out of the bladder of a horse : Presented by Mr. Dunkin.

An arrow, which was used against the Americans in the battle of the 4th of November 1791, near the Miami towns : Presented by Dr. Brown

A live rattle-snake : Presented by Dr. Gibbons.
N.B. This is secured in a strong case, with a wired and glass front, and may be viewed in perfect to the spectators, and it is also kept in a room distinct from the museum, so that those who have aversions to such animals need not see it.

That brilliant insect the diamond beatle, from the Brazils, is placed in the museum, with convenient magnifiers for viewing it to advantage.

A large sea-pen : Presented by Mrs. Branton (Willington)

A pair of humming-birds, preserved in a glass case : Presented by Mr. Myers

A pair of ground paroquets, very small and beautiful, from the Streights of Sundy. A Chinese lanthorn. Some incense matches, which are used in the temples in China, and a pair of Turkish knives, in a case, neat and curious : Presented by Mr. Plumstead.

Some improvement in the arrangement of the articles are made. A Gross, for receiving the marine subjects, and a number of rare birds are added.