Godey's Lady's Book, 1874

Even though Louis A. Godey was the Philadelphia magazine's publisher for nearly half a century, it was Sarah Josepha Hale, its visionary editor from 1837 until 1877, who made Godey's Lady's Book a deeply ingrained part of our culture, as well as a strong voice for 19th century women across America.

Adamant about his popular ladies' journal remaining absolutely apolitical, Godey lost nearly a third of its subscribers when it failed to offer news of the Civil War. But Hale, his loyal editor, made sure she still used its pages to educate and inform. Especially to raise the awareness of women.

Godey's Lady's Book promoted women in the workplace and women in academics, offering tips on skills, such as writing techniques. Hale also put out several issues featuring only female contributors and strongly asserted in the journal and supported in her personal life the concept that women deserved to be treated equally and should be given the chance to become vital parts of American society - outside the household. 

Even the list of writers she hired to fill pages each issue reflected her desire for women to expand their opportunities by expanding minds. It reads like an English class compendium. To name a few: Edgar Allen Poe, Harriet Beecher StoweNathaniel Hawthorne, Washington Irving and Frances Hodgson Burnett. You'll even know the work of Hale, herself, who wrote Mary Had a Little Lamb.

Yet Hale knew the importance of both, so the journal also taught women household skills such cooking and dress-making, offered sheet music for entertaining and an incredibly detailed insight into the changing fashions of the time.

Hale's influence wasn't just over women, she led the charge to make Thanksgiving a national holiday (and included in the magazine recipes now considered the culinary mainstay of the holiday, including roast turkey, stuffing and pumpkin pie). 

In addition, as a big fan of Queen Victoria, Hale also promoted white for wedding dresses (as Victoria, herself, had worn in 1840) and, in the 1860s, copied a woodcut of the queen and her family sitting in front of their Christmas tree and - removing a tiara and a mustache from the famed couple - turned the royals into the folks next door. By the 1870s, the decorated Christmas tree had become a common sight in the American household.

The images below are women's and girls' fashions from an 1874 edition of Godey's Lady's Book ... and a little sheet music. 

A Century of Progress, Chicago 1933

One of the very first things I started collecting back in Wisconsin was cookbooks. Not only because both my husband, Kurt, and I love to cook (and he’s eternally grateful for having me as his culinary mentor), but because inside, the recipes are often a remarkble reflection of the times - of economic booms and war-time rations, agrarian-driven pasts and the indutrial presents and futures.

The foibles and follies of limitless generations of Foodies was an added bonus. So were the occasional design gems, such as this luscious 1933 promotional booklet the Durkee Famous Sauce Company gave to its visitors at A Century of Progress in Chicago. It’s bright colors sang to me from a crammed, old cardboard box in the corner of an dusty, dilapidated farmhand’s bunkhouse.

By the time A Century of Progress closed its doors in autumn of 1934 (held over another year due to its popularity), nearly 39 million people had visited what that generation’s future was to look like - and being smack-dab in the middle of The Great Depression, designers and innovators made damn sure the future looked bright.

And that everyone kept their eyes looking forward.

The motto of A Century of Progress was “Science Finds, Industry Applies, Man Adapts.”

The predominate focus of the international expostion was on modern visionaries who would pave the way to better times; and the sleek, stream-lined Art Deco designs of the 1930s - with its polished world of curves and color, luxury and modernity - were ideal for helping visitors to the Chicago fair step into “tomorrow”. And, for me, this small booklet captures it all.

Lost Words

unsigned impressionist-style landscape

Sadly, I had just finished a poem inspired by this piece when something went terribly wrong and I lost it.  I tried to find the words again. But they're gone. As is my desire to recapture the moment.

Mustn't dwell.

Must simply dry my tears and move on.

Enjoy this very lovely, dark and moody landscape.

The Thrill of the Hunt

unsigned southwestern landscape

Southwestern landscapes offer endless inspiration to those willing to pause a while in order to witness the morphing scenery which gradually changes its palette and your focus with each passing hour and every new season. 

The more time I've spent on the rough, old porches of our hilltop house overlooking Table Top Mesa and Granite Mountain to the south, Chino Valley and Mingus Mountains to the east and San Francisco Peaks and the Mogollon Rim further north, the more I understand why art bins in local thrifts and stalls at local art fairs are filled with attempts to capture the splendor of the vast and diverse, Western horizon.

Most of the art I've pulled from the bins, boxes and shelves over the years has been speedily returned to them, but occasionally I come across a piece that catches my breath and utterly delights me.

Inspiring me to hunt for treasures again and again. 

The unsigned landscape above, which I feel so perfectly reflects the light and layers of southwestern vista, is one such example.

I'm happy to say that this painting found a new place to hang when our Airbnb guests (and wonderful, new friends) fell in love with the it. Just as I had. It now hangs on a wall at the opposite ends of the world from where it was created, in Brooklyn, New York.

Open Gates, a short story inspired by Elsie Croson's southwestern landscape

southwestern landscape, signed Elsie Croson

I told him to check the gate before he left the paddock.

But, as usual, the damn fool couldn't listen and walk at the same time and now I'm the one running through the damn desert looking for two, damn horses, with about half an hour of daylight left.

"GOD DAMN IT!"

Doesn't help they both have full bellies and were restless. I'm surprised, though, they usually don't wander much further than the nearest bunch of grass or hay bale... 

Can't say I blame them. This is my favorite time to be out here, with the sun dipping, the temperature cooling, and the Sonoran dusk painting everything in soft, warm colors of remarkable depth and variety. Turning the wicked and prickly and choked landscape of the mid-day sun, into something not longer intimidating but inspiring in its dimension and pacifying in its complexion. I love the desert. 

Just not when I'm chasing after fucking horses.

Can't see a damn thing from down here, I have to go higher - climb the rocks on the other side of the wash. Damn it, I hope they haven't gotten themselves into trouble. Horses have a nose for that shit. They can tear themselves up good hightailing it through these parts. Hell, they can rip themselves open just messing around in the corral. Stupid beasts.

I don't know who to be more mad at - them, HIM... or me. 

I knew this would never work, but I kept insisting - PROMISING - that it was going to be a new start for everybody - even though I was full of shit each time I said it. Now, every day I see the resentment grow darker in his eyes - those beautiful eyes that used to offer such strength and comfort. 

He can hardly look at me anymore. And when he does, all I see in them is that he's long gone. 

Far away.

Like the touch of his hand.

His smile.

I hoped it would be different, that he'd grow to love it here, away from the things that made him unhappy. But the fact is... I seem to be the thing that's making him the unhappiest. I know it. He knows it. We just can't seem to admit it to each other... I don't know why... maybe because it means being alone? 

Again.

But I've never felt more lonely. The winds offer more solace than his troubled presence. So why am I so desperate to hold onto something - to someone - who desperately needs me to let go? To let go. 

The problem is, who goes first?

"There you are, you little devils! Yeah, YOU! I'm talking to you two! Enjoying the little outing, are we?! Please, PLEASE stay put you big, hairy beasts, 'til I reach you."

If only I could reach him. Help him. Make him happy. But all I can do is love him. And that's simply not enough. At least, not anymore. I know that now. 

He's restless - like the horses - and I just need to open the gate and let him go. No chasing after him like a damn fool. 

"Look what I have boys... treats! That's right, buddy, a big, yummy treat. Just let me slip this around your neck, and - gotcha, my little runaway... And one for you. Atta boy! That's it, fellas. Follow me. Time to go home."

Time to go home. 

Time to close one gate and open another.

1929 edition of Penguin Island by Anatole France, illustrated by Frank Pape

The son of a Paris book merchant, Jacques Anatole (1844-1924; pen name, Anatole France) began his life surrounded by the world's greatest storytellers. So it's little wonder he became a formidable storyteller and novelist, as well as a Nobel Prize winner.

A French Classicist through and through, Anatole's works reflect the polished irreverance and "enlightened" indulgences of the time and would, by his death in 1924, encompass every genre. 

First published in 1908, Penguin Island, is a strange tale of a fictitious island inhabited by great auks and a mostly blind and deaf Christian monk who ends up baptizing the birds and annoying God, who eventually turns the baptized birds into humans - now with souls, as well as a few remaining avian characteristics. 

Got to be honest with you, I only read bits and pieces of this very odd tale, but I've devoured the images over and over and over again.

When I first came across this handsome 1929 edition in a local thrift and opened its worn, black cover for the first time, I gasped. The numerous and fantabulous illustrations by English artist, Frank Pape, were mind-blowingly cool and I was in book-lover's heaven. 

In the early part of the 20th century, Frank Pape was best known for his children's book illustrations, but following WWI (in which he served), the market changed and the artist soon began to gain employment and success illustrating books such as Penguin Island, for more mature audiences. Pape would continue illustrating until his badly deteriorating eyesight made the task very difficult by the end of the1950s. In 1968, his last commissioned illustrations of Robinson Crusoe were published by Oxford University.

Several months back, I gave this book to a friend and artist who was so enthralled by it that I had little choice... it needed to be passed on to another great admirer. I hope Pape's incredible imagination offer endless inspiration, just as it to does for me as the backdrop for this blog.

Enough is enough. Let's get this thing going.

I've been procrastinating long enough.

Coming up with excuses for not doing what I firmly set out to do some time ago: share what I think are all the really cool things I've found over the years at various rummage sales, barn sales, estate sales, thrift stores, etc., mostly here in Arizona and back in Wisconsin.

At least I think they're cool.

And I've staunchly defended this belief for over two decades to friends, family and especially my husband and children who believe I have a sickness.

They're probably right. 

Even after bestowing and selling things on a semi-regular basis, I have no wall or shelf space left because I can't seem to walk away from something that moves me - some painting, or carving, or quilt, or what-not which calls to my subconscious, "I have a story to tell." - whether that story is social, cultural, political, historical, personal...

I was using just this argument for the umpteenth time with my husband, Kurt, about a recent purchase - a portrait of a couple done by a contemporary Moab artist, who, I come to find, has been living in a tent in the Utah canyons for decades. I brought the piece home a few days back and lacking wall space, placed it on the floor by his bedside.

Apparently the only strange faces he wants to wake to each morning are the dogs. 

However, I adore my colorful, charcoal couple and was arguing that their faces were full of a thousand stories, when it struck me. Literally lifting me off my feet with excitement. Maybe what was missing was fiction. Stories influenced by a scene, a face, a thought stirred by the things I've brought home over the years. I felt insanely inspired and excited that day.

But as the next rose, so did my doubts, insecurities and reasons for further procrastination.

Damn it, Anne, make a decision! What is this blog of yours going to be?

Finally, after coffee and toast, a conversation with my mom about an inspiring female artist, as well as a quick scan of the nearly 800 images (and counting) I've taken for the blog - I've decided that like most everything, finding balance is the key.

So guess what?

I'm going to do both. I've decided that if a piece offers a particular history, I'll tell it. If it doesn't, I'll make it up. Meaning, I'll see what kind of short story it inspires in me.

You might even get both fiction and non-

Who knows. 

I don't.

But I'm looking forward to finding out. 

-----------

southwestern landscape, signed W. Muscato

(The following and first piece was chosen for no other reason than it was the first image downloaded, and that's exactly how I'm going to proceed.)

The Harvest

Grateful for the shadow of the ancient rocks and the outstretched branches of the old Mulberry tree, the old woman wiped her forehead dripping with sweat from beneath her wide-brimmed hat, taking several gulps of water from the canteen slung over her humped shoulder.

She was tired but satisfied.

Happy to have made it up the old canyon trail on her own.

Not totally useless yet.

Throwing an old sheet, heavily stained with harvests past, around the base of the tree long ago forgotten by anyone but herself, Claire reached out for the lowest branches, thick with glossy leaves and berries in various stages of ripeness, and shook.

Letting go a shower of small, dark berries, falling on her hat's brim, into her undergarments down her loose cotton dress, and onto the mottled sheet below.

Just the length of a fingernail and almost black, the ripest mulberries never look like much - hairy and beggarly - but Claire knows their secret, their dark purple sweetness which seasonally summon infinitely sweet memories, like the reward of each berry.

Brief,  but exquisite.

Gathering up the shabby, old sheet, the captured berries tumble into a sugary, purple pile which Claire gently guides into her basket. Its bottom discolored with a lifetime of bounty. Its handle worked and worn, mended and re-mended.

"Kind of like me," she laughs at her grandchildren when they tease her about its well-loved but dilapidated state.

Spreading the sheet beneath branches still undisturbed by her purpose and standing on tip toes to reach the fullest limb she can rattle, her aching fingers wrap around the smooth, grey bark of the Mulberry branch. 

Using her whole body, she jiggles and laughs as she hangs from the limb and watches the tree relinquish its fruit and listens as the berries softly hit the sheet below like a marshmallow rain shower.

It feels good to stretch her twisted limbs and even after all the mulberries ready to drop, had, she continued to hang from the small, strong branch, gently swinging backward and forward until her fingers cry for release and she's forced to plant her crooked form back on the highland floor.

Gathering her harvest and repeating the process all the way around the tree, releasing downpour after downpour of the dark, delicious berries, she stops only when her basket is overflowing with what will soon be highly anticipated preserves. 

Just as she's done each spring since she was a child.

Some years yielding more than others.

Some offering none at all.

This year's rains have provided a juicy, purple bounty; making Claire even more grateful that she shrugged off the aches, the funk and the gloom and made the journey up the canyon once more.

And maybe never more.

Sitting on the mottled sheet in the welcome shade of the old tree, she relishes one, tiny berry at a time, squeezing its frugal juice in between her tongue and the top of her mouth, feeling its tiny seeds and tender stem in her teeth, marveling at its sweet, tiny perfection. 

The Prickly Pears crowding the canyon walls below her are afire with flashy, fleeting, red blossoms and round, young fruits for another season. 

Another harvest.

Perhaps another hand.

"Today," she smiles as she stares down the trail toward home, "my basket is full."