Category Archives: personal

Back to Basics

21 Monday Dec 2015

Posted by in personal, Philosophy

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Landscape with Rising Sun, December 1, 1828, 8:30 a.m. Artist: Joseph Michael Gandy (British, London 1771–1843 London) Date: 1828 Medium: Watercolor over graphite on white wove paper Dimensions: sheet: 4 3/16 x 6 3/4 in. (10.6 x 17.1 cm) Classification: Drawings Credit Line: Harry G. Sperling Fund, 2005 Accession Number: 2006.46

Landscape with Rising Sun, December 1, 1828, 8:30 a.m. Watercolor by Joseph Michael Gandy. Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2006.46

Despite the assertions of Mr Eliot, I find December to be the cruelest month. In each of the past five years, December has brought me drama if not disaster, usually on a grand scale. After the immediate crises passed, I tried to figure out what I could learn, really, from the things that happened.

Scandinavian tradition puts the start of Jul at the solstice, and here we are: at the moment when it’s traditional to stop the spinning world to consider where we are, where we want to be, and what we really want. (Hint: It’s not a toaster.)

I write a lot about authenticity, and after The Noble Train, I thought about how authenticity isn’t just in what we wear, or carry, or eat, or how a day is run: it’s also in who we are. The way some of us are made, we cannot be other than who we are. It’s akin to the real thing: you know when it’s right, and it matters.

Finding the real and the true isn’t easy– brass ladles, shawls, love, yourself– it takes time to develop a good eye, and honesty often hurts.

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Taking apart the things you’ve made isn’t easy, but sometimes that’s the only way to get them right. Mr Hiwell learned that setting linings and making mittens. Sometimes the things you must take apart aren’t tangible, but are concepts, organizations, or beliefs. That work is much harder than undoing and redoing a sleeve seam or taking apart and recutting a box lid, or frogging a stocking.

If you’re a consistent reader, you know I won’t tell you what to wear, or carry, or eat. I’m much more interested in helping people figure out what questions to ask than I am in giving answers. It’s what we don’t know, and the assumptions we overturn as we learn more, that makes living history– and living– worthwhile to me.

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So while I don’t encourage you to reduce your actual house to stone walls alone, I do encourage you to question your house of assumptions, and the why of the things you do.

Mr Hiwell Chased by a Chihuahua, and Other Minor Disasters

15 Tuesday Dec 2015

Posted by in Fail, Living History, personal, Reenacting

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Of course we can read maps. GPS has not spoilt us at all.

Of course we can read maps. GPS has not spoilt us at all.

Bored over the Thanksgiving holiday weekend and possibly jealous of images we might have seen on social media, Mr HiWell, Low Spark, and I concocted a plan. Or perhaps I made a suggestion that seemed like a good idea at the time. Screen caps of message threads indicate that I probably was the root of the evil of getting up early Saturday morning to put on historical clothing and take a multi-mile walk.

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We know it was at least seven miles, and may have been nine…we went off the trail in a couple of places. But the lads are going to Trenton, and need to get in some walking time, and now that it’s shotgun deer season, the number of places we can safely hike are fewer. There’s no blaze orange in broadcloth– yet.

And this wasn't the squeeziest photo op.

And this wasn’t the squeeziest photo op.

The walk began harmlessly enough, through corn fields and brush. We forded a stream the easy way (I suggested fording a la the 40th but the lads opted for the bridge.) The Sakonnet Greenway Trail maintained by the Aquidneck Land Trust is pretty mellow. Flat (unusual here), relatively free of traffic noises, and used by dogwalkers, it seemed safe. Then we met the golfers as the trail skirts the edge of the Newport National Golf Course. We were too nice and said yes, they could have photos with us. Of course, they had clubs and we didn’t.

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We could have ridden in style.

When we went off trail to loop up to East Main Road, we encountered many homeowners and many barking dogs. When we told one woman we were off to a Paul Revere and the Raiders tribute band concert, she noted that “the kicks get harder to come by.” Further on up the road, two boxers charged the fence that enclosed their yard, startling us– but the real danger came from the chihuahua that charged up the road after us, barking madly. The children’s rhyme about “the beggars have come to town” seemed all to relevant.

The Kitty Who Walked Alone

The Kitty Who Walked Alone

By the end of the walk, there were many references to Captain Sobel and Currrahee, though I thought more of Rudyard Kipling’s The Cat That Walked By Himself.

But when he has done that, and between times, and when the moon gets up and night comes, he is the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to him. Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods or up the Wet Wild Trees or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone.

Once More, with Feeling

10 Thursday Dec 2015

Posted by in Living History, personal

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Ajax and Cassandra, Oil on canvas, 1806. Johann Heinrich Wilhelm Tischbein [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Großherzogliches Schloss Eutin

Mansplaining. It’s a thing. I’ve written about it before. (Dude, I’m pretty sure I know you are.) Better writers than I have tackled the topic in auspicious titles like The Atlantic.

When I write about specific experiences at Fort Ti, or Eastfield, or about “The Hobby” generally, that writing does not mean that I didn’t enjoy myself at events or sites*, or think they’re not doing a good job. It doesn’t mean I’m going to quit the hobby, or that I hate men. It means I’ve taken issue with specific patterns of behaviour that affect not just me but others in the hobby- and sometimes issues that don’t affect me directly, but are serious and need to be addressed. 

Woodcut illustration of Cassandra’s prophecy of the fall of Troy (at left) and her death (at right). Giovanni Boccaccio’s De mulieribus claris. Penn Libraries. Inc B-720

To address the comments here, I have to say that I understand Sharon’s point, and I fully expect officers to treat me as if I am invisible during military reenactments. I’m calling out after-hours socializing behaviour. Still doesn’t mean I didn’t have a good time, doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy all the conversations I have, but I note the fiercely gender-binary nature of discussions and call them out. I’ll call out the talking over and interrupting, too. I get that at home from a 17-year-old. I get that at work from men I supervise– with the exception of those who served in the military, thank you very much.

I don’t find civilian reenacting a completely mansplaining-free zone, either. It’s better, sure, but this is a societal issue, not a camp- or hobby-specific issue.

And, to Drunktailor, yes, you’re about half-right. The older organizations, the Big Three, the classic units, have more deeply ingrained habits. But when I see younger men and newer organizations perpetuating behaviour patterns I’ve seen from the guys they say they don’t want to be like, I think it’s worth calling out. There is a generational shift, on that you and I agree. But one can become the thing one hates most, or at least adopt some of their patterns, if you don’t examine, and then break, the mold completely.

Further, I believe the young women in living history today will not tolerate nearly as much as I did, and do, in their personal or work lives. They’ve grown up fully in the time of Title IX. 

Organizational change is hard. Societal change is hard. It starts with individuals. Listen. Women being talked over have talent, knowledge, and skills that can help move living history forward both professionally and avocationally. They have research, sewing, organizational and management skills that can vastly improve visitor and reenactor experiences. 

Fail to listen at your peril. I’ve said it before: Adapt or die.

*And if you ever wonder whether or not I did enjoy an event or site, feel free to ask me about it– or anything else! kittycalash (at) gmail (dot) com. Thanks for playing!

The Real Thing

31 Monday Aug 2015

Posted by in Art Rant, personal, Philosophy

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Talking with a friend about authenticity and realness, I remembered the moment when I really understood the power of the real thing.¹

Meret Oppenheim Object Paris, 1936 Museum of Modern Art, NY. 130.1946.a-c

Meret Oppenheim
Object
Paris, 1936
Museum of Modern Art, NY. 130.1946.a-c

Longer ago than I care to admit, I went to MoMA with my dad, and saw, up as close as you could get to a glass case, Meret Oppenheim’s fur lined tea cup, Object, or Luncheon in Fur. 

I’d seen slides, and illustrations in books, but only when I saw the object did I really understand what it was about. Unfortunately, even having seen Duchamp’s “Bride Stripped Bare” in person, I still don’t get that piece. Such is life.

So what is it about the fur-lined tea cup in person that makes it so different? What is it about Jacob Lawrence’s Migration series that makes it different? Or Pollock, for that matter? Why is the real thing so ineluctable?

JACOB LAWRENCE (1917–2000) The Migration of the Negro, Panel no. 1, 1940-1941. The Phillips Collection, Acquired 1942 © The Estate of Gwendolyn Knight Lawrence / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.


JACOB LAWRENCE (1917–2000)
The Migration of the Negro, Panel no. 1, 1940-1941. The Phillips Collection, Acquired 1942 © The Estate of Gwendolyn Knight Lawrence / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

I don’t know, really; what I do know is that it matters. I’ve held a transparency of The Migration of the Negro, Panel no. 1, in my hand before, and it’s not as good as seeing the marks Lawrence put down in gouache. I’ve held a Robert Capa print in my hand, marked on the back with publication notes from the 1940s and it still gives me goosebumps to think of it, to think of him in the water off Normandy on D-Day. Existential ambiguity of the wrecked emulsion be damned: those images, held in your hand, are more moving than you can imagine from seeing them published in Life or any monograph.

FRANCE. Normandy. June 6th, 1944. US troops assault Omaha Beach during the D-Day landings.

FRANCE. Normandy. June 6th, 1944. US troops assault Omaha Beach during the D-Day landings.BOB194404CW00003/ICP586(PAR121451)© Robert Capa © International Center of Photography/Magnum Photos

I’ve had people say to me recently that “it doesn’t matter,” that no body will know if they’re wearing 1774-1783 clothes at a 1790 event, and I disagree strongly and thoroughly. It does matter. The mattering is the whole reason museums exist. It’s why we go to see our favorite music performed instead of sitting home with Victrola or iPod listening to the crackle of Bessie Smith² or album-produced Billy Bragg. Listening at home puts us at a remove, polishes the roughness and steps back from immediacy.

To say that the image in the book or the not-really-right clothes are the same at the real thing does a disservice to ourselves and to the public. Are we really suggesting that audiences for art or history are that stupid? Or that we are so unmoved ourselves that it just doesn’t matter?

I’m too old for nihilism. Bring on the real. Let’s get it right, because it does matter. I know when it’s real, and so do you.

 

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¹Sadly, this goes through my head with the phrase “the real thing.” Curse you, Douglas Coupland, for capturing my generation’s fixation on pop references.
²Yes, I know she’s dead, go with me here.

Rodentia, or, A Parable for Our Times

29 Wednesday Jul 2015

Posted by in Fail, personal, Philosophy

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Once upon a time, as most of us were, I was in high school. It was not a stellar experience for me, but it was defining. Aside from the very few people who became my friends, and whom I follow along with even now, high school was populated with people who did not particularly care for me. Then as now, détente was a reasonable, if not always achievable, hope. But for some, there was a literal breaking point: a Rubicon, if you will. It started in sophomore French class.

John James Audubon. Marsh Shrew, Plate CXXV

John James Audubon. Marsh Shrew, Plate CXXV

We had a substitute teacher one Fall Monday. Her English was not perfect, though her French was; she was a regular teacher stepping in for our regular instructor. This was a pre-lunch class, but there were three 20-minute lunch periods. My class had second lunch; this meant that about 20 minutes into French class, a bell would ring, signaling the beginning of first lunch. After another 20 minutes, a second bell would ring, signaling the end of class and the beginning of second lunch.

John James Audubon. Bridled Weasel, Plate LX

John James Audubon. Bridled Weasel, Plate LX

On our first day with the substitute, when the first bell rang, two boys convinced her that class was over, and no one contradicted them: we left at the 20-minute bell. The next day, the same boys tried the same ruse. Three quarters of the class walked out, but at least two other girls and I stayed: I raised my hand and explained that the first bell was not the end of our class period.

John James Audubon. Black Rat, Plate XXIII

John James Audubon. Black Rat, Plate XXIII

My nickname became then and stayed The Rat. My classmates taunted me and chanted The Rat in the halls. Drawings of rats were stuck to and shoved inside my locker. This lasted until graduation, when we had almost forgotten the origin of my nickname.

When I tell this story now, I don’t look for pity or sympathy: this is a pathetic Lord of the Flies played out in the grey-carpeted halls of a Chicago Gold Coast private school, where the stakes were low so the repercussions were high. This was where I learned about clothing conformity in the guise of Polo shirts, Tretorn sneakers, Levi’s 501 jeans, and Brooks Brothers shirts. I wore my classmates’ fathers’ hand-me-down shirts from the thrift shop; I wore their grandmothers’ dresses. A Rat requires some style.

John James Audubon Cat Squirrel, Plate XVII

John James Audubon. Cat Squirrel, Plate XVII

As an adult, I find that people haven’t changed all that much. The cliques still exist, and while adults don’t usually shout at you, ostracism and snubbing are deployed regularly. But I learned long ago how to be alone, or with a few true friends. Evidence always speaks for itself.