Perverts And Predators Book

I got this book because Joshua Glenn used to edit, as he calls it in his contributor note, "the zine and journal Hermenaut." (p. 171). What is the difference between a zine and a journal? So many things I never understood! But whatever it was, Hermenaut was wonderful - although I came across it late in its run, c. 1999, I still treasure the three issues I have - never a subscriber, I bought mine at the local independent book store (yeah, long gone now). It was pop culture hip and philosophical and fun. What replaces it? N+1 - the mere thought of that "'zine" fills me with terror!

And so when I discovered, late, as always, that Joshua Glenn (with graphic designer Carol Hayes) published a book about actual stuff - no hermeneutics here - just stuff - so I got a copy right away, some 13 years after it was published.

And yet, when it showed up in the mail, I balked. Glenn's introductory essay was not as light-hearted as the old Hermenaut was - but then I suppose I'm not either.

"Elsewhere on the signification spectrum is another type of meaningful object that we also (mostly) eschewed: the aestheticized object, whether a world of fine, "bad" or outsider art, or a scavenged object repurposed as a Dada-esque readymade." (p. (11)).

"The literary theorist Miguel Tamen notes that not a few people believe that "certain properties of certain objects render those objects especially apt to mean." Must this always be an unenlightened, superstition notion? (Speaking of notions, the Fortean anthropologist Lyall Watson has revived the Victorian term notional to describe..." (p. 15).

I'm at the age where I have accepted the fact that my total ignorance of Fortean anthropology is going to remain intact to the grave. But slinking past Miguel Tamen and his "certain properties of certain objects" I soldiered on. And Glenn's introduction grew on me - as in the Hermenaut days, I trust him, his worried thoughtfulness, his erudition, his self-consciousness.

Such thoughts, such objects (or the paying-attention to such objects) are almost (?) decadent now, almost Ancien Régime It makes me wistful now, both the things and why we treasure the things. Tapping on our phones and politics have replaced stuff and thinking about stuff. So now on to the stuff:

Deb Wood Ceramic Hands (pp. 28-29): I was happy to see these two ceramic hands, cupped together, a spray of grape leaves and grapes at the wrist - my grandma had one of these in her house (d. 1973). Wood's delight with these things was delightful to read, but this made me feel very old. She found this thing in the trash, and treasures it as a bit of bizarre vaguely religious antique iconography. The reason I feel so old is that these cupped hands were all over the place when I was a kid - again, my grandma had one, and I'd say most Christian ladies over the age of 60 c. 1950-1970 had them. They are ubiquitous - an eBay search of "cupped hands" got 50 hits, with about 40 of them being duplicates (in various colors and materials) of Wood's example.

Glad she finds so much to admire, but she belabors the profane aspect of it: "I'm probably going to hell for this" is the title of her submission. Probably not, I'd guess. In fact the grapes and leaves motif leads me to wonder if this object wasn't vaguely Graeco-Roman pagan to begin with. The hands of Demeter? But it's fun to pretend to be naughty, especially given there are probably few Christian readers of this book who would protest her stance. Hipster secular humanists, mostly, probably. Or the non-denominationally baffled. Nobody's going to even ironic hell over this thing. But I was happy to see it here and glad Deb Wood likes it.

Thomas Frank, World War I French Helmet (pp. 34-35): This was my favorite object, and yet I find Frank's reason for selecting it to be lacking. And a bit obnoxious. The title goes like this: "I collect First World War artifacts, but not because I am one of these guys...who spends his weekends reenacting battles."

Well, alright then, now that he's established he's too cool for school, Frank goes make the usual grand, bland generalizations about the Great War - "the greatest-ever failure of enlightened, middle-class, Christian civilization..." The helmet, he tells us, taught lessons to its wearer ("I find it helpful to gaze upon that steel helmet and remember the lessons its wearer learned.") Well, maybe. All the World War I veterans are dead now, so I guess we'll never know. My guess is this helmet's wearer had a lot of other things on his mind (and under his helmet) c. 1917 than Christian civilizations and middle-class lessons learnt.

But I love this kind of old stuff - and as far as stuff goes, speaking as a collector, Wood's helmet is top-notch stuff. So let me riff a little - it deserves further treatment. Just look at it! It is pure belle epoch, something a French fireman or a Napoleonic cuirassier wouldn't be ashamed to wear. Look at that emblem on the front - crossed antique (even then) cannon over a baroque flaming bomb. Where the paint has worn off you can see it is made of brass, which has beautifully mellowed on this specimen. A separate crest is riveted along the top, something I doubt added much protection, but for sure functions aesthetically. Look at the paint! When the French were forced to - one imagines with reluctance - to paint these helmets, including the brass, in order to reduce glare (targets for snipers), what color did they choose? Not olive drab or gray - Horizon Blue. Isn't that a wonderful thing? Like something right off Monet's palette!

So yes, World War I brutalized the West, and the world, but Frank's lovely helmet paradoxically shows what was lost. Nowadays all soldiers the world over pretty much look alike, like camo SWAT teams so geared up they can barely move, which makes the old French helmet even more poignant. And somehow lovely despite its attendant tragedies.

Rick Rawlins: a sugar egg from childhood (pp. 54-55): Perhaps the least interesting object here - basically an old piece of stale candy that appears to be broken (I am not really sure what a "sugar egg" is). Despite the unpromising object, I found Rawlins account of this egg and why it is important to him to be the most moving bit of writing in this collection. A sad childhood tale of a birthday party missed, a friend's loss, and growing up, beautifully, briefly evoked. The contributor notes tell us Rawlins is an artist who teaches at the Art Institute of Boston. He should teach some creative writing classes too - this guy has talent.

Chris Fujiwara: For Several Years I Used to Meet a Woman for Sex (pp. 74-75): Another old Hermenaut contributor, I found this entry off-putting. It is a little box full of bobby pins. Fujiwara claims they were lost "in the throes of passion" by an old lover. There's a bit of churning about "all too human, multifariously human" but I don't think you should say "throes of passion," even ironically or meta or whatever. But Fujiwara shows, perhaps unintentionally, how objects fail and frustrate us, and so I appreciate the effort.

Carol Hayes "Thoughts" needlepoint (pp. 78-79): Quirky can be hard to pull off. Intentionally quirky or a manipulation of some sort - one of my favorite issues of Hermenaut (No. 15 The Fake Authenticity Issue, 1999) dealt with this. But sometimes an object seems non-fake authentic. Here we have a neatly framed needlepoint with a flower-embellished "THOUGHTS" in a tidy gold frame. Co-author Hayes rose to the occasion here. Her aunt made it, and it had been on the wall for years before Hayes realized how gently strange it was. I think so too - "profound expression and humble craft" might be nailing down its significance too much, but I like that she never felt comfortable asking her aunt what it means. Well played. And yes, I'd definitely hang this one up at my house.

Joshua Glenn Baudelaire's Death Mask (but not really) (pp. 88-89): Co-author Glenn did not disappoint with this creepy object:

"I've kept the death mask for a perverse reason: Because it's the sort of thing one used to notice in the background of photographs of pretentious writers working at their desks. Under the mask's influence I once spent two impoverishing years slaving over a book about Baudelaire and other thinkers. Like Walter Benjamin, whose Arcades Project started out in more or less the same way, I couldn't finish it."

Ach du! But perhaps the problem was this waxy serene-in-death face (which looks nothing like Baudelaire - not nearly enough lofty forehead) is actually John Keats, who was apparently a bit of a low-brow. There is a connection to Fanny Howe too, and Glenn concludes with this:

"Perhaps I was influenced by a passage from one of Howe's novels that I read as a teenager. The protagonist, an ex-political activists turned poet, is asked by a former comrade, "On your death bed, will you be able to say, 'I helped the poor in their struggle for justice?' Or will you only be able to quote Baudelaire?" It's an unfair question, I know. But it's one that still haunts me."

Space is a constraint in this book (comments are limited to one, small and square page), but I wish Glenn'd tell us more, why it is an unfair question to ask. Glenn is a sadder, less sturdy writer than in his old Hermenaut days. That is not necessarily a criticism. I'm still a fan.

Kristine Cortese: A rock wrapped in a pie tin (pp. 116-117): Some objects - like the sugar egg above - are all backstory. Otherwise they are really just trash. This is one of those trash objects that the editors felt compelled to include, I suppose to keep things from getting too precious or decadent or Antiques Roadshow. Cortese recounts her efforts to throw this thing away, until her husband convinces her this is The Precious Thing - "The thing you want more than anything else. And once you find it you must keep it safe." This backstory fell flat for me - ironic, hip, but little else beyond (ironic?) New Age shtick: "I've since incorporated the object into the energies of the room: fire, water, wood, earth (rock), and metal (pie tin)." I was annoyed by all of this, and unconvinced - it sounds like a fragment of off-off-Broadway dialogue from 22 years ago.

***

A couple of the contributors stole their object. Kim Cooper filched a Lilian O'Hara bookplate from O'Hara's home, preserved as an empty writer's shrine of sorts, which was opened up for Cooper by O'Hara's nephew (pp. 136-137). Perhaps more troubling, Patrick Smith walked off with two electric fence insulators from the Nazi death camp Auschwitz-Birkenau (pp. 48-49).

I disapprove of stealing stuff, but I am a bit conflicted. In both cases, these objects were essentially neglected. The Auschwitz insulators had fallen to the ground - I seem to recall reading that for current budgetary reasons, Cold War-era indifference, lack of will, whatever, that Auschwitz, preserved to commemorate the Holocaust, is in many places very poor repair. The O'Hara bookplate was in a box full of bookplates, in a house that is apparently stacked full of O'Hara's stuff, unloved, unutilized. Which doesn't excuse theft...but...

This book is about objects, and by its very existence, the objects included are to some extent saved from the fleeting, unnoticed, unfeeling world full of stuff. A thirty-year old broken piece of candy; auntie's weird needlepoint. Ephemera beautifully photographed, mulled and fretted over as in this book in a way saves this stuff from oblivion. In both cases, the insulators and the bookplate, I have to admit that as objects I probably would have never noticed them except by encountering them in the book.

The O'Hara bookplate is lovely in a funky California arts n' crafts way, and there was a whole box full of them, so I doubt anybody noticed it was missing (she should've just asked - the nephew might've given it to her). O'Hara is a fairly obscure artist - no Wikipedia page - a laconic "askART" page was the first hit I got (San Anselmo, CA, "marine artist and interior decorator" 1864-1959). So this nifty little bookplate can serve - since it is now published in this book - as a little reminder of this forgotten artist. That's always a good thing, I think. And it is a charming bit of art to boot, one of my favorite things to look at in this book.

Thefts from a historical monument so fraught with tragedy may be a different matter; I'm no ethicist, but I think that's fair to suggest. The Roman Forum, carted off one sliver at a time. We've all seen many photos of Auschwitz and the fences with their snarls of barbed wire and maybe we even noticed the insulators. But to isolate just the insulator - as done in this book - is to shrink down the horror, make it intimate, if not understandable then apprehendable in a way that even visiting the vast, terrible complex might not be able to provide (I've never been there, but I am guessing it is overwhelming). Which is to say I am glad Smith's conductors were included in this collection. But he probably ought to send them back to Poland with a note, and a copy of this book.


***

Ah, I wish I could submit these ruminations to Hermenaut in 1999...but like so many things, too late, too late. But I have to leave it to Goodreads. Sic transit gloria.

This is a fine little book. Disappointing for sure - anything dealing with our material world is going to be disappointing; perhaps this is a testament to its (non-fake) authenticity. Paying attention to our stuff is often just American avarice or even post-God despair. But perhaps such attention can be something else, and this book provides a glimpse of how this might be possible. At least it proves you don't need a big budget to own a significant thing (historic site thefts and pie pan-wrapped rocks notwithstanding).

Princeton Architectural Press printed it, and they did a handsome job. Putting the page numbers in the middle of the gutter, and only on the left hand side is taking "design" just a little too far for my taste, but this is a minor quibble. You should go buy it and provoke Glenn & Howe to publish a second volume, one in which they will solicit me to contribute. What would it be? The foot-shaped ceramic ashtray I found in an apartment in 1987 in Columbus, Ohio? The framed 16th century antiphonal sheet I found in 2006 at a Goodwill Store? The 1980 (or 1976? 1984?) Reagan for President fake straw boater made out of Styrofoam my brother-in-law gave me (fake authenticity indeed!)?