Quick winter project: re-covering work as play

"The creation of something new is not accomplished by the intellect but by the play instinct acting from inner necessity. The creative mind plays with the objects it loves."   ~ Carl Jung

"Procrastination makes easy things hard, hard things harder."

~ Mason Cooley

I love this chair that I adopted and then neglected. Now I'm gonna play with it.

I bought it fifteen years ago at a garage sale of a prominent businessman for $20. It is hand-carved, and although it is not meant for comfortable sitting, I like how it looks. It could be pretty old, I haven't had an appraiser look at it. I found fabric at Calico Corners to re-cover the seat, since I didn't particularly care for the colors and pattern of the one it had. The distressed-look linen I bought conjures Louisa May Alcott or Jane Austen. Drool. For years the chair has served a fine purpose as a "bookshelf" in the bedroom, with the fabric I bought lying on the seat under the books, well protected. A chair that you don't sit on much, because it might be more for decor than function, is called an occasional chair. This one could be called a never chair.

When we rearranged the living room recently and took out the bulky dining table we almost never used, I remembered the bookshelf occasional chair. Transporting it from a dark corner of the bedroom to the warm light of the occasional room, minus the books, renewed my interest in re-covering the chair.

This was a fast, easy project (about an hour). Quite silly that it took me fifteen years to get to this and enjoy the chair. Note to self: Play with the things you love now, don't put it off.

I took the ribbon trim off the edge of the seat, exposing the staples. I didn't need to take the fabric off; I just put the new fabric right on top.

I made a muslin pattern first, then cut the linen following it. While I cut the muslin I was thinking about the muslin dresses Jane and Elizabeth Bennet wore in Pride & Prejudice. Wouldn't I have loved to be one of the Bennet sisters . . . one of the elder sisters. I also thought about the younger sisters remaking hats with new trims. I felt connected with all those Bennet girls -- re-using, recycling, remaking.

Don helped me with the staple gun, stapling the new fabric onto the wood base, because I lack wrist strength (carpal tunnel). Then I re-attached the trim with a glue gun.

Here sits the occasional chair in the corner with a Paris pen & ink, 200-year-old poetry books from my dad's collection, and a few things I inherited from Grandma Olive, herself a very good re-user and re-maker -- a re-creator): Cupid lamp, lyre table, tea box, oriental carpet, and Navajo rug.

This has been a nice Sunday activity, and it gave me something to blog about. (I know, I always have such a hard time coming up with something, don't I? Pshaw!)

And as Mr. Darcy said to Miss Elizabeth Bennet:

"Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure."

A great many things from the past give me pleasure!

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Dickens' Christmas Spirit

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Not having taken part in any of the true miseries known to man, I only know about them through words and images shared by others. The plight of the poor throughout history, and now on the very planet I inhabit, is beyond the comprehension of someone like me who lives in the best of comfort and health. As I prepared this post, I read about the Poor Laws in Britain’s history, fascinating and horrifying. (You can read a good wiki article about Britain’s Poor Laws here.) The New Poor Law of 1834, enacted a decade before Charles Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol, was a huge legislation to ensure that no one would receive relief from poverty outside the parish workhouses, which were intentionally kept miserable so that a person wouldn’t be tempted to rely on them out of indolence. Dickens himself had to work at a factory as a child, and the anguish he experienced remained with him his whole life, infusing it in his novels that are so poignantly sympathetic to the poor.

Earlier the same year that he published A Christmas Carol . . .

Dickens was keenly touched by the lot of poor children . . . In early 1843, he toured the Cornish tin mines where he saw children working in appalling conditions. The suffering he witnessed there was reinforced by a visit to the Field Lane Ragged School, one of several London schools set up for the education of the capital's half-starved, illiterate street children. Inspired by the February 1843 parliamentary report exposing the effects of the Industrial Revolution upon poor children called Second Report of the Children's Employment Commission, Dickens planned in May 1843 to publish an inexpensive political pamphlet tentatively titled, "An Appeal to the People of England, on behalf of the Poor Man's Child" but changed his mind, deferring the pamphlet's production until the end of the year. He wrote to Dr. Southwood Smith, one of four commissioners responsible for the Second Report, about his change in plans: "[Y]ou will certainly feel that a Sledge hammer has come down with twenty times the force – twenty thousand times the force – I could exert by following out my first idea." The pamphlet would become A Christmas Carol. (Copied from this wiki article)

After re-watching the 1938 film "A Christmas Carol" with Reginald Owen on the weekend, I was reminded what the magic and mystery of Christmas is. We have the Christmas energy inside us all the time, all the love we have ever encountered with family, friends and even strangers. The joy of human connection, even in the most dire of circumstances, even when we are surrounded by greed. The possibility that with the right outlook, joy is always possible, and can always be spread to another. At Christmas, we pull out our lifetime of stored love when we re-open Christmas boxes. White lights remind us of stars that have shone on every man and woman in history – the same stars. Imagine. We are all one human organism. The magic we share is available outside of Christmas! For some, it seems especially hidden at Christmas. What a shame, if we forget it after Christmas, or miss it during Christmas when it is eclipsed by commercialism.

For me, old decorations and illustrations bring out a special nostalgic feeling that makes Christmas special. I am a big fan of Arthur Rackham (good bio here), the British illustrator who was hugely successful at the turn of the 20th century known for his "depictions of gnomes, goblins, witches, and fairies, as well as his anthropomorphized trees," so I am posting five of his illustrations for the 1915 edition of A Christmas Carol, along with a few quotes from Dickens’ classic novel. Can you imagine a world without this story? Apparently the greeting “Merry Christmas” was first used after this novel. 

Bob Cratchit went down a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, 
twenty times, in honour of its being Christmas Eve.

Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown,

which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall

"If I could work my will," said Scrooge indignantly, "every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!"

"How now?" said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever

"What do you want with me?"

"There are some upon this earth of yours," returned the Spirit, "who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us and all out kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us."

The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in

restless haste and moaning as they went

Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea -- on, on -- until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore, they lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations; but every man among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas Day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. And every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember him.

Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig

The poulterers' shops were still half open, and the fruiterers' were radiant in their glory. There were great, round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish Onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish Friars, and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers' benevolence to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people's mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves; there were Norfolk Biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner.


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"It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can."


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"A merry Christmas, Bob!" said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. "A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year! I'll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob! Make up the fires, and buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit."
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What is French country?

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When I was old enough to drive, I wandered out in the Country Squire wagon, into the country some days, others to our local university town for shoes, or to Mapes furniture store. I realize this last destination is odd for a 16-year-old on her own, in frayed blue jeans, gladiator sandals, and Carole King hair. The store was half way to the university town, a stand alone building not downtown anywhere, on the four-lane thoroughfare running east and west through towns across our state's mid-section. It was a large, sprawling place, laid out in comfortably sized rooms with furniture arranged in home-like groupings. I found rest and inspiration wandering through the cool rooms, empty of people (all but one or two sales clerks who smiled and then ignored me). I breathed in color schemes and fine quality craftsmanship, the shine of mahogany, the luxury of damask, moiré and tapestry and the comfort of polished chintz. All the furniture was traditional, appealing to our conservative small rural community.

This was the era, in the early 1970s, when Colonial anything was making a big comeback, leading up to America's bicentennial in 1976. This callback to our own revolution seems to have also conjured another country's. French country provincial furniture was also all the rage, with its maple framed sofas and headboards with graceful curves and peaks. Mapes furniture store offered a couple of groupings of this style. I don't know how, but intuitively I disliked French country furniture, with a passion, and I all but ignored it. I felt it was fake, in a design sense. I knew it did not look anything like authentic country furniture in a French chateau or cottage. Where was the inspiration coming from, and how did it get here? I especially cringed at the artificial flecks of "wear" and wormholes in the wood. I knew that I would never purchase such a piece of furniture if my life depended on it. I was a fake furniture snob. I would rather own a threadbare velvet sofa from Goodwill than something created to look old.

OK, so now, as a true snob, I will talk about Paris. In 1997 my sister Nancy and I ventured out at the crack of whatever dawn a tourist with jet lag can conjure, and hopped on the Metro north to the edge of the Paris periphery, to the Paris flea market. I bought this 200-year-old French clock for Don at Marché aux Puces St-Ouen de Clignancourt, the place some believe to be the original "flea market" -- so named for the beginnings as "rag-and-bone" market stalls whose furniture was infested with bugs. It has come a long way since then, with shops that are priced way out of my league. This clock was priced at about its age: $200. Not bad, I thought.

One of the things that drew me to the clock was its obvious age and experience with critters. While the front and sides of the clock are embedded with brass marquetry, the back side has worm holes. Et voila! The early bird catches the worm.

I spent a couple of days in the French countryside back in 1975. I slept under the stars in the churchyard of the Vézelay Abbey (Basilique Ste-Madeleine) with a handful of fellow students and one rebellious professor. We awoke inside that stone wall with the one-armed cathedral at our backs (like a Sunday School child raising her arm, frozen in time), and a soft valley freckled with poppies spreading out like a calico comforter from the feet of our sleeping bags. This was after dining the night before in a simple dining room in a hostel, with plain wooden tables lined up, showing great wear, windows flung open to the sleepy sun shutting down the valley, we students, lined up in our wooden chairs under bare light bulbs overhead, one large bowl of pottery in front of us, filled first with soup, then salad, then meat and potatoes, carafes of wine centered on the tables like bouquets. Cool and warm, comforting and luxurious.

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People, by Peter Spier

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When Peter Spier wrote and illustrated People in 1980, there were over 4 billion people in the world. Now, thirty years later, there are more than six and a half billion people.

This is one of many illustrated books given to Lesley and Peter by my mom. I have a stash of them, extravagantly different-sized and worn, in the guest room book case, waiting for Lesley&Brian-children and Peter&?-children one of these days. I try so hard to be patient. At Christmas I should post from Peter Spier's book Christmas, one of our favorite items to unwrap from the Christmas tubs. It's nothing but an illustrated account of one family's Christmas experience, before, during and after. We also have Rain.

Peter Spier was born in Amsterdam, and later moved to the U.S. He is a prolific illustrator and award winner. He won the Caldecott for Noah's Ark two years before this book. For People, Spier won the Christopher award, for "affirming the highest values of the human spirit." Peter's father, Jo Spier was also an illustrator, and a Jew. Peter was interned at Villa Bouchina near Amsterdam during WWII, a holding place for Jews, and then was moved to the concentration camp Theresienstadt, also known as Terezin. Is there anything more beautiful than someone emerging from an experience like that and birthing creations like this? To still see beauty in people of all types. To be this open.

 This inscription is on the page opposite the title page.

Here are a few pages from People.

"Not nearly all of the world's people can read and

write, yet there are almost one hundred different

ways of doing it."

"But imagine how dreadfully dull this world of

ours would be if everybody would look, think, eat, 

dress, and act the same!"

"Now, isn't it wonderful that each and every one

of us is unlike any other?"

In 1980, it had been 35 years since the end of WWII, which exposed people directly and indirectly to other parts of the world. Now, thirty years since 1980, we see other places and people (some just down the road) beyond what we can hold, let alone absorb or understand.

I agree with what Menander said in the inscription. Knowing other people, from other parts of the world, and other walks of life, was a privilege I had in my home from when I was small. We had wards of the court live with us, kids who did not have safe homes of their own. Some of them brought danger to me, and loss. Into our home my parents also invited international students from China, Thailand, Korea and India to live with us or visit regularly, and we went to their houses too. I remember the overwhelming smell of curry in one tiny university apartment. Now, since I began blogging at the start of 2006, I have found friends in places that I knew little of, and as a result I know them, and myself better.

I just began reading our One Book, One Community book, Zeitoun, about a Syrian man who moved to the U.S., started a family, and lived through Katrina. Since our incoming first year students are expected to read the book, I figure it's time I read one with them this summer. One value for me reading it is that with my laptop open, I look at maps of Syria, Lebanon, Cyprus and Egypt where Zeitoun's family is from, as well as New Orelans, the coasts of Louisiana and Mississippi, wiki histories and find out a little more than I knew - about other people in the world, including my own country. You would not believe how much I don't know.

Do you think we've achieved greater acceptance of people unlike ourselves since Peter Spier's book?

Check out how Sy Safransky saved the 4th of July.

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John James Audubon

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John James Audubon

April 26, 1785-January 27, 1851

Birds. How exasperating they are! Even when I lift my camera to shoot them through the window, they scatter. Light, vulnerable and deft, they hide in the branches until the frightening woman with the black box vanishes. They must think my camera shoots bullets instead of photographs.

I told you about my single attempt to photograph birds in the meadow in winter. None appeared though I sat for an hour and a half and froze my tush, never to embark out again this season.

Not so Mr. Audubon. From the time he was a baby he felt an intimacy with birds bordering on frenzy. He spent most of his life chronicling them, often in harrowing conditions. (See field notes from his journals, below.)

The portrait, above (now where Sasha and Malia can see it daily on the west wall of the Red Room in the White House), of Audubon by John Syme shows him as he must have looked in the years 1820-1824 when he explored Mississippi, Alabama and Florida in the start of his attempt to paint all the birds of North America. One of the treasured books I inherited from my parents is Audubon's Birds of America, the greatest picture book of all time. It has 435 watercolor plates of birds painted by John, well my edition has photographs of the plates. In all, the field work and paintings took 14 years to complete for the book. Yes, the gun there means he shot birds in order to draw them. At the time of the painting of this portrait in Edinburgh by the Scottish Syme, Audubon was in the British Isles looking for a publisher for the book.

mourning doves

He intended to include paintings of eggs in his book, but they didn't make it into the final copy. (In my 1966 edition, Marshall B. Davidson included Audubon's eggs in his Introduction.) Eggs are more docile subjects, no need to shoot them. But at first glance at his drawings at the right I thought the pen scratches under them were feet!

The book has 435 hand-colored prints of over 700 North American bird species. He tried unsuccessfully to get it published in the U.S. Eventually in England it cost more than $100,000 at the time to print (over $2 million in today's money). Copper plates had to be carved, and the original edition was hand tinted and printed with the aquatint process.

cardinals

It seemed to us as if we were approaching the end of the world. The country was perfectly flat, and, so far as we could survey it, presented the same wild and scraggy aspect. . . We now and then passed through muddy pools, which reached the saddle-girths of our horses.

- from Audubon and His Journals, chapter "Spring Garden"

scrub (or Florida jay), Stellar's jay, yellow-billed magpie, Clark's nutcracker

In the morning when I arose, the country was still covered in thick fogs, so that although I could hear the plain notes of birds on shore, not an object could I see beyond the bowsprit, and the air was as close and sultry as the previous evening.

- from the chapter St. John's River, Audubon and His Journals

purple finches

The National Audubon Society was of course named after John James Audubon.

old book

Among the many things I inherited from my parents are a number of old books. My dad had books floor to ceiling in many rooms of our house.

This one, published in 1938 in England is a collection of 100 paintings on color plates.


I had never heard of this painter before, Gianbattista Moroni. The painting, above, is titled 'Portrait of a Tailor,' which is in The National Gallery in London.



Apparently my mom gave this book to my dad in 1939, before they were married (in 1941). (My brother Nelson kindly corrected the year of their marriage, which I posted wrongly as 1939 before.) My father was a Baptist minister.

He was also an artist in his own right, drawing this pen & ink of a hart, which he turned into the personalized book plate that is inside the cover of this book. This drawing was also etched into the headstone at my parents' grave (photo at bottom). His surname was Hart, and a 'hart' is another name for a deer. He loved the verse from the Psalms:

Psalm 42:1 (King James Version)
"As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God."

Click on the image above to see the detail better.