August 20, 2011

My house is filled with far too many objects purchased and given.  The objects that mean the most are the ones related to my family and friends.  This iron piece is unlike other objects in my house due to the fact it was found and the deep sadness in invokes in me.

It was a year after Katrina hit.  I went to Pass Christian, Mississippi in June with a group to help rebuild. The devastation was still everywhere clothes hanging in trees, front steps that led nowhere, tent cities near the cemetery and in some areas a stench from things still rotting. Many people had left the area because they were homeless and jobless but the people that did remain were thankful to have people there to try and help them.  What I felt most often from these people was they all wanted to tell their story.  It was a way in which helped them cope.  One women, who reminded me of Katherine Hepburn, was in her 80’s and told the story of sitting on the top of her stairs and watching the water come up to the middle of her staircase.  She decided to chance going down the stairs and grabbing a silver candlestick and special things that belonged to her mother off the mantel.  In doing so a floating chair hit her leg and injured it and she was hospital for months due to an infection.

I found this piece of fencing when clearing a lot with a wonderful ocean view. It made me wonder about the family and their stories, who before Katrina, lived in the house on the beach where the fleur-de-lis fence securely surrounded them.

We all have stories that form our history and who we are.  I left Mississippi being thankful and grateful to be able to go home.  I will never forget the people and the stories told to me and the many one’s I imagined from the experience.

-Gifted Object

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January 5, 2011

Two months ago I received a very special submission to this project: a fascinating and rare book, “Twenty-Six Ghosts,” and a 21-page letter (see the above photo). The articulate letter was hand-written on composition paper, the ink varying color over the course of the pages. I read it in one sitting, and I felt as if I was reading a short story in a modern anthology of ghost stories. It was very psychological and as as the writer said herself “open to interpretation.” Here are a few fragments from the letter, the rest I will leave up to your imagination. 

“This particular volume of 36 Ghosts seems to have been part of all kinds of coincidences during the course of its most secret life —, a life which, when I obtained the book I was dying to learn more about. It seemed sort of like the key to understanding several things in my life that were just complete unknowns, and that were causing me to be plagued by a lot of unresolved issues that seemed to be effecting so many aspects of my life. Many of the issues connected with this book are still unresolved, but I think I am coming to a point where I am able to move beyond all that, to resolved the unresolvable, so to speak. It is time to let go. But let me start at the beginning…”

“He went away, unexpectedly and mysteriously, and all he left behind was 36 Ghosts. And there’s me, #11 - the raging serpent lady seeking her revenge. At least that is the way I feel sometimes. Other times I’m just sad to have lost someone I connected with so well.”

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January 4, 2011

I received a lovely letter in the mail along with “two bits of nostalgic ephemera” for my collection. The following is an excerpt from Virginia’s letter:

…There are lots of emotional ties to so much! Handwriting on a card can tug at the heart. Bill’s Mama had a very distinctive handwriting and I still have padded mailing envelopes with that familiar writing on them! (I do recycle such mailers, but those particular ones tend to remain.) Does this give you insight into why some relatively normal persons hang onto stuff? I have trouble emptying my closet of some remaining garments that I sewed. I used to give them to a good friend, my size, but she has moved to Texas. Oh, and there are advertising items from my Daddy’s business in Atlanta. So many things are reminders. I don’t get all teary and emotional, but there are things that tug at the heart . .  . 


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November 27, 2010

- Photograph Courtesy of Karen Kirchhoff

My grandmother recently died.  Verna had lived with her husband in the same house for over 50 years. When she died at 92, emptying the house was a huge project for her children.  They discovered Verna was quite the hoarder.  Amongst shoeboxes full of letters dating as far back as 1945 (sometimes envelopes without even a letter inside), there were receipts from the dairy farm, sewing store, and old bills.  She stowed many an old magazine under her bed and had dozens of sewing patterns from the decades of her craft… After the many days of sorting and divvying, my mother sent me a few boxes with select belongings of grandma’s.  My mother, being a woman of her own mysterious ways sometimes not to be understood, sent me a few items that had no practical application: like threaded bobbins to a sewing machine 4 states and 22 hours away.  I nearly threw them out, but it seemed so tragic and almost offensive to dispense of them with grandma so recently transformed into ash and atmosphere.  There was a romantic, mysterious aura to these newly displaced and reclaimed objects.  The bobbins are sleek and shiny encircled by unexplained layers of different colored thread—packed tightly like rock stratum— suggesting the archeology of her attire.  Various other sewing tools accompany: old needles piercing their original, quaint and tiny envelope packages; hand knitted laces torn from a garment; a sewing machine foot and screw; wooden tubes that once housed new needles.  These items wonderfully embody Verna and have captured and frozen a history of her motions: wrapping, pinning, uncapping, tightening, unlatching, her hands flowing forward, drawing back like the tides.  Pinching a needle, she wove her ever-aging hand to and fro directing the orchestra.  These are the miniature instruments and stage of her life: the whir of the sewing machine dredging up yards and yards of gold.

- Gifted Object and story from Shinara

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November 9, 2010

“My Bronze Bells”

I have been a minimalist in varying degrees since childhood.  I still, however, hold on to a few items.  The image some of these items create for me is not a pleasant one, and I question the need/desire to hold on to them.  My childhood was far from a happy one and, in fact, I do not have very many memories, which could be considered very good or very bad.  I have two older brothers and my parents owned a soda manufacturing business.  When I was born, their first girl and last baby, they gave me away to a couple they knew very little about (the male was their extract salesman).  I really can’t say the exact age I was when this transaction took place, but I ended up staying with this couple in another state not too far away, until I was 10 years old.  From as far back as I can remember, this was against my wishes.  After many crying spells and stiff upper lips, my parents finally agreed to let me come back home.  Helen, the female part of this couple, gave me a set of six bronze bells when I left, along with the thought that I was killing De, the male in this scenario, by leaving.  She told me that when I first came to live with them, I was a baby and they had no toys and nothing to entertain me.  She had fashioned the bells into a crib mobile of sorts by binding them together with green yarn and hanging them across the area in which they kept me.  I have kept these bells for over 40 years, a fact that completely flies in the face of my minimalism philosophy, yet I have never been able to let them go.  Thank you for the inspiration.  I have taken a picture of my ready to purge bells, and continue to keep a stiff upper lip.

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November 2, 2010

Four years ago at about 8am one rainy day in April, I was struck by a livery van on 9th Avenue at 26th Street in Manhattan.  It was a gray and slushy morning. A perfect day to off set my favorite bright red umbrella!  I had the right of way and entered the cross walk paying little attention to anything, except my feet in the rain puddles.  Then came the smack, the ground, the wetness, and the addled state of mind.  The van stopped, I got up instantly, clutching my umbrella and handbag, and walked, without a word toward the auto repair shop on the corner.  The mechanics took down the driver’s license plate number and information. I wondered if I was ok, as did everyone at the scene. I took inventory of my parts: torn pants, sore leg, sore elbow, wet clothes, faint voice. I didn’t hit my head but the ambulance was called anyway and I went to the emergency room. Within an hour I was sent home with some aspirin and the reassurance that I would be fine. I recall being somewhat relieved having only to recover from the psychological repercussions of the accident. 

 The torn clothes are long gone, the bruises too. The broken umbrella and my fading memory are the only remaining vestiges of the accident. Sometimes I think healing is just a form of forgetting. I guess I’ve kept the broken umbrella in order to remember, like tying a string around your finger.

-Addie Juell

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November 2, 2010

From the time I was conceived through her passing, my mother clothes shopped for me as sport.  She loved to go to the big department stores and find designer markdowns of 40, 50, 70 percent. The older I got the more tension the purchases created, or more accurately, they reflected and reinforced longstanding tensions about how little she understood my taste. The pale blue sweater is symbolic of the game she used to play, however unconsciously, in which expressed her affection through actions that were deeply undermining. In my twenty something commitment to an all-black wardrobe, pastels made me feel very self-conscious and matronly (still do). But for some reason I have never been able to let go of this one, I even wore it a few times (4? 5?) over the 12 years since she sent it to me. My attachment to this particular sweater - and the ambivalence that runs through the threading -is somehow my version of acceptance.  Still, as she’d say, it’s cashmere, which I don’t otherwise own.   

 -Randi


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June 8, 2010

I gave a lot of thought to what you wrote regarding objects of sentimental value. I find myself a rather boring person because I feel I’m not really attached to “things.” I’m not a collector in that sense nor do I have a real passion for anything in particular except my family. Mind you, I appreciate the world around me immensely and the wonderful “things” in it both naturally and man-made and truly enjoy them but on the other hand I’m not attached to them in a physical way where I can’t live or part from them. I just appreciate every day I am here and the sun that warms me. After the death of my parents I have a deeper appreciation of how fortunate and blessed I am to have my family and friends.

Before my mother passed away, she gave me a beautiful bracelet that my dad had given to her and a gold cross with tiny pearls that her father had given to her which she wore on her wedding day over 62 years ago. I was so touched to have them. Since her death, I wore the gold bracelet every day. However, one day I lost the gold bracelet and cried my eyes out. The following week, I lost the gold cross. I was even more upset! I knew my mom would have said it is only a material thing – it’s what you hold in your heart that counts. A few weeks later I found the gold cross in a slit in my pocketbook. The chain was missing but the cross somehow fell into my bag as it fell off my neck. I knew it was a sign from my mother. She has been with me in ways I can’t describe. My mother was a very devout person who had a deep strong faith, a gentle heart and a quiet guidance. She believed if you have faith miracles happen. If you have dreams, you pursue them. However, dreams may shatter or not live up to what you want but she also knew that life is but a dream – and God is forever. That being said, I’ve enclosed rosary beads. A day never went by when she didn’t pray the rosary. She believed in the power of prayer. I carry a set of rosary beads with me always. Beads of hope. When my father died at age 94, she placed her worn rosary beads in his coffin.

I’ve also enclosed two old photographs. I do cherish them. I often think if my home was destroyed and I lost everything as I have seen others lose theirs in floods, tsunamis, fires, mudslides, tornadoes, earthquakes, how would I really feel? Beyond devastated! My photographs besides my family would be the only thing I could never replace. A picture is worth a thousand words. I do hold dear all my photographs – they have the most sentimental value for they tell stories and remind us of lives come and gone. There is an old Africa saying, “Every time an old person dies, a library burns.”

-Nicky 

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June 6, 2010

My aunt got this one together with a few more similar ones at the flea market when she visited me in New York, although this was my favorite one of them. I wore it for years. Mostly for my waitress job and it is now totally associated with this job. I always got lots of compliments on this necklace by costumers and it made me feel pretty because it had a nostalgic charm. At least if I had to be a waitress I wanted to feel somewhat good about myself. I got huge tips without even trying hard - but after doing it for years I couldn’t stop feeling like a slave. Really, this job was just a small step up from being a prostitute. But it paid really well and I had to do it only one night a week - so I never left. After I had worked there for seven years, this woman our boss owed money to decided to be our manager. Before we had never had a manager before because the waitresses and bartenders were perfectly able to mange the place themselves. It ran smoothly and incredibly well, except on those occasions when our coke-head boss decided to take matters in his own hands. He was famous for coming in bare-foot during the night and taking all the money from the bar for the “deli-bill” or “laundry” only to disappear for a week at a time after that. If all the money the restaurant made hadn’t gone up his nose he would have been a millionaire. Really tragic. So this new manager was quite mean and hated me as she hated everyone…but I wasn’t particularly friendly back to her - so I got fired. It hurt my feelings after having worked there for so long - but at the same time something in me knew that I was lucky because I may never had quit myself. This job had given me the security of making enough money without relying on selling my paintings, and it had been a trap. The month I was fired I started to live off my work. Even though this necklace has brought me lots of money it feels like it is from an old time that I grew out of.

- Gifted Object

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May 10, 2010

The Mandolin

This beautiful mandolin hung on the wall in my mother-in-law’s house.  It hasn’t been played in decades – it’s been an ornament.

My mother-in-law, M., died before I met my husband, now ex-husband.  This means a great deal to me about the issues that family and I had.  I had a very difficult, volatile and abusive marriage, which I stayed in for years.  During the separation and divorce I realized I’d spent my life savings and gone into debt for the sake of my child, child custody, and of surviving with my sanity.  But downsizing, dealing with household clutter, and the collections of beautiful and interesting possessions that I had and loved became one big huge mess.  It was eventually overwhelming – too much, it had all snowballed, and I was miserable.

I had hoped that I would have a small collection of musical instruments, beautiful, antique, whatever.  But when I came to see that somehow my issues with keeping too many things amounted to being in a rut instead of getting my groove back, I kept looking at M.’s mandolin.  I toyed with getting rid of it, eventually deciding it needed to go.  While I still didn’t seem to have time to explore and understand the connection between my divorce, my broken dreams for that marriage, being part of that family, and many related broken dreams, I knew the connection was there.

The mandolin represents those earlier dreams and wishes, the connection with M. and my former husband, and the way I got overburdened trying to process it all.  It’s easier to part with this mandolin now that I ever dreamed. It’s easier at least in part to contribute the mandolin to something, to a goal, to art, than to simply let go.

- Gifted Object #2 

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March 3, 2010

Three coffee cups arrived in the mail a few weeks ago. They are sitting on my counter now, in a state of purgatory, waiting for their new life. Here is an excerpt from the letter that arrived with this generous donation:

The 2 matching cups were a gift from my mother when I lived in Alhambra…they are just large enough to fit a hand “egg” beater inside. You can either heat the milk on the stove or in the microwave, fill the cut ½ full, add your cocoa, sugar and vanilla, beat the lumps out add more hot mil and viola! Perfect cocoa.

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March 3, 2010

I have had this little figure on the shelf in my living room for a very long time and I have always felt that it filled that space with warmth. I honestly don’t remember where it came from or who gave it to me, but I always look at it now and gain when I pass or go into that room. What I always liked most about it was that it looked like it was playing the drum. I feel like I’m ready to part with it and I do hope that someone else will enjoy it as much as I have.

- Anonymous Gifter

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March 3, 2010

A wedding dress arrived in the mail on February 24th. It feels like there is another person in my apartment now. I have many fantasies about a possible new life for this object. Here is an excerpt from the incredible letter that arrived with the dress:

I was worn for six hours and stored in an attic above a home that became her attic for twenty-six years

Why was it kept for all those years?

Its home, a smothering, miserable, cruel place for all those years

And why was that young girl, who is now a mature woman, so willing to part with that dress and veil?

The girl is no longer young, innocent, nor daydreams for the future

Like the dress stored in a smothering, miserable, cruel place …

So became the marriage

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January 26, 2010

On January 26th in the midst of a huge snowstorm, my doorbell rang and low and behold another object was delivered: a beautiful sherry bottle. If I saw this at a flea market I would buy it. The letter was quite long and like Proust’s Madeleine, this bottle unleashed a wealth of emotions and personal stories. The donator wrote about her family heritage and their silver business, giving away her silver, claiming the bottle after her mother’s death, the drinking patterns in her family, Paul Anka’s song “Sherry Baby,” almost giving the bottle to her friend Sherry, and even donating it to an auction only to buy it herself (there were no other bids!). Here is one of my favorite parts:

I must admit, I did carry it around with me today, as I am packing it up. I held it fondly. Okay, I cradled and stroked it. I know it recalls for me those long-gone days when my mom and dad, aunt and uncle, Granny and Granddad were still alive, when our family gatherings included sips of sherry and a lot of other alcohol, delicious food and that entrancing feeling of a family whose members all love each other, celebrating.

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