#the first half of the class is going to be the reality of Victorian fashion and how they used it/thought about it

[theduchessofnaxos]

I am at a strange point in my life where I am simultaneously a fully functional adult and a college student.

So I took vitamins and an omega 3 supplement this morning, but I washed them down with peach tea monster.

[youmightfindyourself]

It’s Hard to Find a Good Lamp Donald Judd 1993

In the middle 1980s I wrote that in the middle 1960s someone asked me to design a coffee table. I thought that a work of mine which was essentially a rectangular volume with the upper surface recessed could be altered. This debased the work and produced a bad table, which I later threw away. The configuration and the scale of art cannot be transposed into furniture and architecture. The intent of art is different from that of the latter, which must be functional. If a chair or a building is not functional, if it appears to be only art, it is ridiculous. The art of a chair is not its resemblance to art, but is partly its reasonableness, usefulness, and scale as a chair. These are proportion, which is visible reasonableness. The art in art is partly the assertion of someone’s interest regardless of other considerations. A work of art exists as itself; a chair exists as a chair itself. And the idea of a chair isn’t a chair. Due to the inability of art to become furniture, I didn’t try again for several years. However, I’ve always been interested in architecture and continued to sketch ideas.

Of course if a person is at once making art and building furniture and architecture there will be similarities. The various interests in form will be consistent. If you like simple forms in art you will not make complicated ones in architecture. “Complicated,” incidentally, is the opposite of “simple,” not “complex,” which both may be. But the difference between art and architecture is fundamental. Furniture and architecture can only be approached as such. Art cannot be imposed upon them. If their nature is seriously considered the art will occur, even art close to art itself. The mistake I made with the table was to try to make something as unusual as I thought the work of art to be. Back of this was the assumption that a good chair was only a good chair, that a chair could only be improved or changed slightly, and that nothing new could be done without a great, strange effort. But the furniture slowly became new as I dealt easily with the reality. A good chair is a good chair. The particulars slowly created the general forms that could not be directly transferred. I can now make a chair or a building that is mine without trying to derive forms from my own works of art. After a few years I designed a pair of sinks for an old building that I bought in New York City and for which I’ve designed much subsequently. These were designed directly as sinks; they were not a conversion; I didn’t confuse them with art. The basin of the sink is an ellipse, which so far I’ve never used in art, instead of a circle, which I do use. I also designed a large table with chairs, somewhat like benches, to be made of folded one-eighth-inch stainless steel, brass, or copper. These were never made because the fourth floor of the building in which it was to be is very open, primarily two planes, floor and ceiling, while the table and chairs are very closed. The latter would ruin the space. I later made some bookshelves for the third floor.

I kept the building but moved to West Texas with my two children, where I rented a small house on the edge of town. The house was quartered into eleven-by-eleven-foot rooms. There was no furniture and none to be bought, either old, since the town had not shrunk or changed much since its beginning in 1883, or new, since the few stores sold only fake antiques or tubular kitchen furniture with plastic surfaces printed with inane geometric patterns and flowers. The two small children played and slept in one of the four rooms. In order to give them each an area of their own notwithstanding the one room, I designed a bed which was a closed platform of one-by-twelves with a central, free-standing wall, also of one-by-twelves. The bed was designed so that the lumberyard could cut the few different lengths to size and I could then nail them together in place. I liked the bed a great deal, and in fact the whole house, for which I made other furniture. Later, in a large place in town, I designed desks and chairs for the children using the same method of construction. More furniture developed from this beginning.

It’s impossible to go to the store and buy a chair. In North America since the “Mission” style became unfashionable in the 1920s and in England since the similar furniture derived from William Morris also became unfashionable, there has been no furniture which is pleasurable to look at, fairly available, and moderate in price. The only exception is the bentwood furniture developed by Thonet, which became less fashionable in the 1920s but has continued to be made until now by Thonet and others. This is still not expensive but it is not down the street in the store. The furniture designed in the 1920s by the well-known architects that continues to be made is expensive for most people, although not as expensive as the materials and the construction imply, and is hardly nearby to purchase. Neither is all of it agreeable. Mies van der Rohe’s is still the best and should not be considered as only a worn status symbol. As bad ideas should not be accepted because they are fashionable, good ideas should not be rejected because they are unfashionable. Conventions are not worth reacting to one way or another. Most of the other furniture in production, such as Breuer’s Wassily chair and Le Corbusier’s furniture, is an early civilized and almost forgivable sentimentalizing of the machine. The chairs of both architects are derived from the better camping and military chairs of the nineteenth century. Old good ideas made new and shiny are now a dismaying precedent. Sentimentalizing the machine is now a malignity of the century. This is present in most available furniture and in most buildings. It is extreme in Pompidou and Lloyd’s. In furniture this puerility is usually combined with the puerility of domesticity, the societal progress of the machine with personal progress in the society.

Almost all furniture made since the 1920s and much before in any of the “styles,” “modern” and “traditional,” has been junk for consumers. As I’ve written, the ornate and overstuffed furniture of the last half of the nineteenth century, crowded into corresponding rooms, was not supplanted by simple and functional modern furniture. Instead, this was turned into Victorian furniture, also crowded into matching rooms. Decoration isn’t just applied; a chair is decorated. Modern, progressive furniture has been corrupted into the opposite. Primarily, “traditional” furniture, Victorian furniture, continues. It’s ordinarily what’s in the store. This is what most people have to choose from, whether in Yellowknife or New York. As in politics, this furniture is not traditional and conservative but is an imitation of past furniture. The appearance of the past represents status by invoking a higher class in the past than the purchaser is in in the present. The imitation old furniture symbolizes up and the imitation modern symbolizes forward. Usually the first is in the home and the second is in the office, sometimes one or the other in both, and seldom the reverse. Good office furniture is also difficult to find. The bizarre and complicated “modern” office of the rich executive, who has photographs on his desk of his wife and children in their traditional setting, is a summation of the surrounding corporate headquarters. Since he or his wife is on the board of the museum, it must look progressive, like the headquarters, but with a touch of tradition, for her, for upward mobility to the past, for something better than business, such as learning, although there is nothing better, and, generally for the gentility of art, which symbolizes all of these. Then, also, he may be on the town council, or he builds shopping centers, or he builds apartment houses, giving the people what they want, to go with the furniture in which they had no choice. Upward and forward, and lower every year, not only in architecture and art, but economically and politically, since reality is equally absent. Anyway, what kind of a society is it when you can’t even buy a chair?

Architects, designers, businesspeople, even politicians, say that they are giving the people what they want. They are giving the people what they deserve, because of their negligence, but they are presumptuous to claim to know what they want. What they want is what they get. An exception to imposing upon the public what they want, or perhaps a rare good guess, is the design of Sony television sets and other equipment of some other Japanese companies and of some European companies. This has no relation to traditional Japanese architecture, which is fortunate, because if it did the new version of the old would be just as debased as it is in the United States. Department stores in Osaka are floor after floor of kitsch, as they are in New York. And always surprisingly, and always everywhere, new Japanese and Korean architecture show no fundamental lessons learned from their past architecture, the same as in Paris. In the United States the television machine began disguised and continues as at once the myth of the machine and the myth of the old home. The Americans gave the Americans what they wanted; they didn’t want it. Neither did anyone else. In addition to the success of Sony’s design, there is the smaller success of Braun, whose design must be the model, somewhat better, as earlier usually is, for Sony’s design. A few months ago there was a curious article in Lufthansa’s magazine justly praising Braun and its chief designer, Dieter Rams, praising “German” design of course, but explaining that “German” design was now second to “Italian” design (consumer products are not where nations differ in design) but that Germany would catch up. This means become worse. “Designer” Italian furniture is the world’s worst. The only things as bad are the plastic bottles for liquid soap. It is an exception and a possibility that you can go down the street and choose a TV and enjoy looking at it when it’s turned off. In Texas, when I made the first furniture, I wanted a television set. This wasn’t down the street, but almost so, twenty-five miles away. All the sets were American, all were made of plastic imitating wood, some like your Anglo grandmother’s sideboard, some like your Italian grandmother’s credenza, some like your Latino grandmother’s aparador. I chose an Anglo set by Zenith. Again as usual, the design and the technology were congruent. The color was that of the first colored comic strip, printed during an earthquake.

Most of the furniture that I have designed remains fairly expensive, because of its methods of construction, and it is not easily available. We have made a serious effort to lower the prices but the furniture is handmade, basically even the sheet-metal pieces made by Janssen, one by one. These would be cheaper made by hundreds but still there would be considerable handwork. The wooden furniture cannot change. Lower prices require great numbers, which require a large distribution. This usually leads to the department store. The distribution of furniture, and of books, probably of most things, are monopolies against diversity, which eliminate exceptions and complication, which have an invariable scheme for production and for costs, and of course for appearance, and, for books, subject matter. For both furniture and books the designer and the author absolutely receive very little. The production cost of furniture is not as fixed as the cost of the designer, but it is low. The cost of the designer must have developed from that of real modern furniture, since the architect was always dead. The producer, not the factory, and the retailer, or both as one, receive the most money, some as profit, some for the expenses of the distribution and the salesroom. This makes an impossible price. And of course it seems that the middleman should get less. The larger the distribution the more to the middleman. Therefore the best method is a small distribution, which is what we do. And, importantly, we are the producers, which combines that profit and my profit into one, leaving only the retailer as extra. Our furniture goes around the world, but only one by one. Most things could be made in the area in which they are consumed, eliminating the big distributor, often one company charging for three functions, instead of two for one as in our case, charging three times as the distributor, the producer, and the manufacturer, that is, profiting as corporations. Almost anything they can do anyone can do anywhere. And obviously even cars and TVs could be made by any large city or small country. I have always thought it strange that there are no cars built in Switzerland. I have heard that there was once a company. Why should Texas import cars and trucks from Michigan? The oligarchy of monopolies of distribution prevents innovation, invents only restrictions, and raises blank walls. The flat and boring society is a maze of blank walls just above eye level. This prevents new and real inventions, so obviously there is no chance for only a new chair or a little book. The purpose of big business is to maintain its oligarchy rather than to do anything else, for example, to fulfill two of its biggest claims, competition and innovation. Efficiency is another claim, part of progress, efficiency for profit, not necessarily for production, and not for the public. Only in the mythical “progress” is there a suggestion of benefiting society. Most businesspeople think that such slight altruism is part of their advertising. And “free enterprise” is a slogan of the Pentagon.

Noam Chomsky writes:

Free trade is fine for economics departments and newspaper editorials, but nobody in the corporate world or the government takes the doctrines seriously. The parts of the US economy that are able to compete internationally are primarily the state-subsidized ones: capital-intensive agriculture (agribusiness, as it’s called), high-tech industry, pharmaceuticals, biotechnology, etc.

The same is true of other industrial societies. The US government has the public pay for research and development and provides, largely through the military, a state-guaranteed market for waste production. If something is marketable, the private sector takes it over. That system of public subsidy and private profit is what is called free enterprise.

My experience is that both furniture distribution and book distribution are impossible. On the other hand the art business is such a one-horse business that something larger seems better. But this is perhaps because the context for art is so weak. The only possible way, perhaps, to make cheap mass-produced furniture is to start with a construction cost and to design accordingly. At present we would have to debase the construction of the existing furniture for mass production. Beginning from a fixed construction cost still leaves the questions of too little to the designer and too much to the producer-organizer-wholesaler and to the retailer.

The roughly made pine furniture made by me and others in Texas was made first, with a few exceptions. So far this has not been made for sale. Next, well-made furniture in fine solid wood was made for my building in New York and then in small numbers to sell, as it still is. The wood and the craftsmanship make this the most expensive. In 1984 I designed some chairs, benches, a table, and some beds in sheet metal, which were painted one color to a piece. There were also a couple of chairs and a table made of copper. This was for myself but also was the first furniture to begin as furniture to sell. Since this was sheet metal and the construction is common, I thought it would be cheap enough to be used outdoors in public, but there is still too much handwork. Until then, except for the first pine chairs, all of the furniture was somewhat heavy. Five years ago I designed some light chairs and two tables in solid wood. These are simply but well made in Yorkshire. Similar ones were made recently for outdoors in galvanized steel and of granite, again heavy, and also in Texas in painted steel and of slate. A few years ago, first for use, then for sale, desks, tables, and a bench were made in Cologne of clear plywood. The sheets of plywood are cut as little as possible and are slipped together, interlocking, like a children’s toy, an old idea. These also, sometimes with the plywood coated commercially with a color, as well as chairs like those in pine, are made in New York.

I am often asked if the furniture is art, since almost ten years ago some artists made art that was also furniture. The furniture is furniture and is only art in that architecture, ceramics, textiles, and many things are art. We try to keep the furniture out of art galleries to avoid this confusion, which is far from my thinking. And also to avoid the consequent inflation of the price. I am often told that the furniture is not comfortable, and in that not functional. The source of the question is in the overstuffed bourgeois Victorian furniture, which, as I said, never ceased. The furniture is comfortable to me. Rather than making a chair to sleep in or a machine to live in, it is better to make a bed. A straight chair is best for eating or writing. The third position is standing.

First published: Donald Judd Furniture: Retrospective, exh. cat. (Rotterdam: Museum Boymans-van Beuningen, 1993), 7–21.

Donald Judd Text © Judd Foundation

[acontributor]

The Origins of Dating

The word “date” was coined — inadvertently, it seems — by George Ade, a columnist for the Chicago Record, in 1896. In a column about “working class lives,” he told of a clerk named Artie whose girlfriend was losing interest in him and beginning to see other men socially. When Artie confronts his fading love, he says, “I s’pose the other boy’s fillin’ all my dates?”

But when these single women, stripped from their dependency on fathers and husbands, began to be courted in public, police, politicians, and civic leaders were alarmed.

“In the eyes of the authorities,” Weigel writes, “women who let men buy them food and drinks or gifts and entrance tickets looked like whores, and making a date seemed the same as turning a trick.”

After centuries of women’s fortunes being dictated by the men around them, the notion of women on their own gave much of society pause. In Chicago, single women were known as “women adrift.”

The charity girl

These circumstances gave birth to dating rituals and other unfortunate traditions that still remain — or, at least, still cause confusion as mores change — today.

When women first hit the workforce, writes Weigel, “the belief remained widespread they were working not to support themselves but only to supplement the earnings of fathers or husbands.”

As such, “employers used this misconception as an excuse to pay women far less than they paid men. In 1900, the average female worker earned less than half of what a man would earn in the same position.”

If you’ve ever wondered how it developed that men were expected to treat their dates, that’s how.

“‘If I had to buy all my meals I’d never get along,’ a young woman living in a boardinghouse in Hell’s Kitchen told a social worker in 1915.”

But as these women were courted in public, efforts were undertaken to curb what authorities viewed as a potential public menace.

“In the early 1900s, vice commissions across the country sent police and undercover investigators to check out spots where people went to make dates,” Weigel writes. “As early as 1905, private investigators hired by a group of Progressive do-gooders in New York City were taking notes on what we can now recognize as the dating avant-garde.”

She recalls the report of one such special agent, staked out at the Strand Hotel in Midtown, who noted that the women he was spying on did not seem like prostitutes, per se, but were concerning nonetheless.

Of the “store employees, telephone girls, stenographers, etc.,” he noted that “their morals are loose, and there is no question that they are on terms of sexual intimacy with their male companions.”

So heavy was the concern that these loose, immoral women might harm society that, “in the 1910s, John D. Rockefeller Jr., the son of the Standard Oil founder, funded investigations into the commercialized vice industries of more than a dozen American cities.”

By the mid-1910s, women on dates came to be known as “Charity Girls” — as in, since they took no money for their “favors,” they were perceived to be giving it away as charity — and by the 1920s, “the prostitutes at New York’s Strand Hotel complained that Charity Girls were putting them out of business.”

It sounds like a joke, until you learn that some women were thrown in jail for this horrible crime.

“At Bedford Reformatory, an institution founded to rehabilitate female delinquents in upstate New York, an Irish woman told her jailers again and again that she had ‘never taken money from men,’ ” Weigel writes. “Instead, men took her ‘to Coney Island to dances and Picture Shows.’ ”

In time, the authorities gave up, overtaken by reality.

“As the years passed, the vice squad had to accept it,” she writes. “Daters did not see these exchanges as tawdry. They saw them as romantic.”

The shopgirl

While dating finally became acceptable, it wasn’t exactly liberating for women. If the American Dream for men was to work hard and become a success, the equivalent for women was to get a good job and marry your rich boss.

“Frances Donovan, a University of Chicago–trained sociologist who taught at Calumet High School on the city’s South Side in the 1920s, interviewed senior girls about their plans after graduation,” Weigel writes.

“‘I would like to be a stenographer,’ one announced. ‘I’m going to be an executive secretary and marry the boss.’ ”

The other alternative was for women to take jobs in high-class department stores where rich men were likely to shop. These women became known as “Shopgirls.”

Donovan spent two summers working at a department store to research a book, and later reported she knew of “several marriages and heard of a great many more where the husband was far above the wife as measured by the economic scale.”

Magazines began running articles such as, “How Shopgirls win Rich Husbands.” An in-house newsletter for Macy’s employees in New York even included a gossip column that tracked these courtships.

“Have you noticed a gentleman wearing spats stopping at Miss Holahan’s counter every day, leaving a spray of lily of the valley?” read one such entry. “Best of luck, Ide!”

In order to attract rich men, these Shopgirls were caught by the irony of needing to buy the expensive items they sold.

In an odd way, this consumerism marked a form of progress.

“In an earlier era, a girl from humble origins could not hope to look like the wife or daughter of a millionaire,” Weigel writes. “But a job in a department store or a laundry gave anyone opportunities to become well versed in the signs of wealth.”

To that end Shopgirls studied their well-to-do female customers seeking to imitate their look, which led the business world to pounce on this new type of consumer who sought little but to impress.

“The cosmetics industry exploded in the 1920s,” Weigel writes. “Previously, only prostitutes and actresses ‘painted.’ Victorians had viewed ‘natural’ outer beauty as a sign of clean living. But around 1900, more and more women were starting to apply cosmetics. By 1912, the Baltimore Sun reported that even respectable society women ‘are seen on our streets and fashionable promenade with painted faces.’ ”

To counter society’s negative association with painted faces, “the cosmetics industry invented a new term: makeup.

“Not only was ‘making yourself up’ permissible; advertisers were soon claiming it was positively virtuous,” Weigel writes. “By making herself up, a woman showed that she valued her femininity and was willing to spend time and money on her appearance.”

The ‘It’ Girl

Two other now-familiar concepts also sprung up around this time. Previously, people sought to be known by traits that emphasized morality, such as “character” and “virtue.”

The concept of “personality” — which places emphasis on surface traits — had been regarded in the negative, referenced in terms of “personality disorders.”

“Starting around 1920, however,” Weigel writes, “experts began to grant that healthy individuals had personalities, too.”

The concept began popping up in romance literature and articles about dating, in the sense that, “personality was like ‘painting’ — a way a woman could make herself up in order to appeal to men.”

“In the context of dating, to have a ‘good personality’ or to simply ‘have personality’ meant to have charisma,” Weigel writes. “This was an asset whether you were selling handkerchiefs or selling yourself.”

Elinor Glyn, writing for Cosmopolitan in 1926, referred to personality simply as “It,” which was, according to Weigel, “a mysterious kind of animal magnetism.”

“With ‘It,’ ” Glyn wrote, “you win all men if you are a woman — and all women if you are a man.”

Glyn’s article was adapted for a movie starring Clara Bow as “a shopgirl who has ‘it,’ ” and the concept of the It Girl was born. Bow’s It Girl, of course, sought to marry the boss — in this case, the son of the store’s owner.

The notion that “it” can be developed led to the origin of another phenomena — the dating-advice book.

Weigel tells of a 1915 New York Times article on a lecture by author Susanna Cocroft, who seized on the trend by writing books like “What to Eat and When,” and this now-remarkable title, “Beauty a Duty.”

“‘Beauty is no longer vanity; it is use,” Cocroft said. “A waitress or a shopgirl could be fired at any time simply because someone her boss found prettier showed up and asked for her position.”

As dating rituals changed, moral authorities panicked at every turn. After “petting” came into vogue in the 1920s, for example, Weigel cites a Times article from 1922 with the title, “Mothers Complain That Modern Girls ‘Vamp’ Their Sons at Petting Parties.”

[ulysses-posts]

For part two of this review, I decided to try some recipes to see if they worked. As mentioned earlier, the book is divided into two parts – recipes for upstairs and for downstairs. Both parts are further subdivided into breakfast, lunch, afternoon tea and dinner. Browsing through the cookbook, there were recipes I immediately thought would be good to try while others were quickly dismissed for reasons I will outline in my conclusion.

As someone who works full time, my main qualifications for a recipe is it should require minimal preparation and it should be quick to cook. Sure I’ll do something more complicated but that’s usually restricted during the days when I’m off and when I have more time.

But I digress. From the recipes I thought would be a good idea to try, I decided on two that I would review for this blog and both of them are versions of dishes that we (me and my husband) cook and eat on a regular basis.

KEDGEREE (P. 34)

Kedgeree is a dish that is Indian in origin; the original is called khichri which is a mix of rice and dhal. This later evolved into a dish that contained smoked fish and became a staple in upper class Victorian and Edwardian breakfast buffets. At present kedgeree makes a good brunch or dinner dish, there’s something comforting about curry flavoured rice with flakes of smoked fish served piping hot.

I’ve been cooking this for years and my go-to recipe is that from Delia Smith’s Complete Cookery Course. What attracted me to try this version is to see if I can make it the same way the Victorians did. My first impression was this was more like fried rice since it called for cooked rice rather than raw. There was also white fish instead of smoked and I was dubious about the cream. Instead of curry powder, the recipe called for cayenne pepper.

Gray mentioned in her blog that the original source of the recipe was from a long forgotten cookbook entitled The Cookery Book of Lady Clark of Tillypronie (1909). Having examined a copy in the British Library, Lady Clark had three versions of kedgeree and I can safely assume that what’s in the Downton Abbey cookbook is a combination of all three.

When I made this dish, I reduced all the quantities by half and much like Delia’s version, it was easy to prepare and cook. The cream I later learned stopped the rice from going dry and helped keep the grains separate while mixing everything together. In addition this is a good recipe with which to use leftover cooked rice. However my husband thought this version was bland and while the method certainly worked, I will definitely use smoked fish and curry powder next time.

  PRAWN CURRY (P. 135)

The first curries were introduced into the UK during the 18th century but it was via post-World War 2 immigration from the Indian subcontinent that familiarised Britons to a wide variety of curry dishes such as Jalfrezi, Rogan Josh and Korma. Curries have become such an integral part of the contemporary British culinary landscape that “having a curry” from a local takeaway has become a regular treat for many households.

Like the Kedgeree above, this Prawn Curry recipe is easy to prepare and it makes use of ingredients that could be found in my cupboard or easy to obtain from the local supermarket – curry powder, coconut milk, spinach, onion, prawns, etc. This recipe is also versatile, as Gray writes in the introduction; other seafood such as fish could be used and I would recommend this good way to get children to eat vegetables as well as introduce them (or anyone who isn’t familiar with the dish) to food that has more complex flavours.

This brings me to my problem with this recipe as like with the kedgeree, it was bland. Perhaps this is not the recipe’s fault as we’ve been accustomed to eating more authentic curry and this one seemed to be more of a poor copy of the real McCoy. However, my husband suggested adding salmon to the recipe and adjusting the quantities of the spices to see if it makes a difference.

  CONCLUSION

Both these recipes are from the upstairs section of the cookbook and I have to say that this tome is not really one that can be used for everyday meals, perhaps more for special occasions or during the weekend when one has more time to shop and prepare for meals in advance. As the Kedgeree and Prawn Curry have shown, many of the dishes have not aged well as either they have fallen out of fashion or in the case of the curries; they have been supplanted by more authentic ones that can be recreated at home due to access to the ingredients that can easily be found in supermarkets.

Other recipes are simply too complicated and labour intensive especially with today’s more time poor lifestyle (and no servants) and the reality that many of us live in flats where the kitchen would barely cover half in a country house. In addition many of the ingredients such as quail are simply expensive or inaccessible if one doesn’t live near a local butcher (or even if they stock it).

On the positive side however, the recipes gives the reader a glimpse into what people ate during the late 19th and early 20th centuries and while French cuisine and influence reigned supreme, there was also the influence of the British Empire. The recipes crucially also work, as Gray writes in a clear and concise style which reminds me of Delia Smith hence making them easy to follow.

Book Review: The Official Downton Abbey Cookbook by Annie Gray Part 2 For part two of this review, I decided to try some recipes to see if they worked.

[creativitytoexplore]

[RF] It Came from Above https://ift.tt/2SZC19e

As I looked into the empty onyx eyes of the beast, I saw the deepest abyss harken back to me. Through the sparse rays of moonlight, I could tell that its hairs were erect. It was fully aware that I was there to kill it or it would kill me by the end of this night. I had no intention of leaving this forest without a souvenir of my venture. My muscles tensed as I lowered myself into a more defensive position. The veins in my arms bore from my skin as I gripped the blade in my hand tighter. The beast mirrored my form. Legs holding firm to the ground, body arched forward with arms protecting one of the most vital treasures in its body, the heart. We stood there. We watched each other’s movements, ready to strike at the sign of an attack. We were both playing the offensive, but that wasn’t going to work in either of our favor.

The sharp crack of a twig drew my attention from my enemy for a mere fraction of a millisecond, but it was enough time for the beast to move. I could no longer see it but I could hear hurried claws make its way around me. I did a full turn just in time to have the beast claw at my arms and legs. I did my best to slash in its direction but the blade could only slice through the air. The smell of iron from my lost blood mixed in with the piney, earthy scent of the forest. I fell back in exhaustion but the creature was not tired. Defeat would no longer be an option if it persisted with such ferocity. With the last few ounces of adrenaline coursing through my system, I drove the blade into the gaping maw of the monster until I could go no further. It wrung its hands, bled onto my body, and fought against my shaking arms. But then it went quiet. Its breathing slowed to desperate pants then stopped altogether. Its heavy body slumped over mine. And that's when I heard the most terrifying sound unknown to the common man.

“ANNIKA WATKINS! I do recall asking that these stories were to be about what you did this summer; not some fantastical exaggerations from the mind of a fantastical dreamer.”

“But this did happen Mrs. Crowley.” Annika lifted one of the sleeves of her sweater. She revealed large ghastly, healing gashes along the length of her forearm where her skin had been ripped open some time ago. “See, I have the scars to prove it.” The class gasped in the fascination of the validity of her story but her teacher was not impressed.

“I doubt those were made by some monster.”

Annika didn’t want to risk being held back at school any longer. She decided to just take her seat rather than face detention for “talking back” again. While the next student drudged on about their lame summer skipping rocks or fishing, Annika looked at her wounds again. She remembered the dark woods. She remembered going on a short hike with one of her brothers. She only walked away from him for a second. She just wanted to get a good look at the stream full of small minnows and frogs. Before she knew it, she was attacked by a young wolf. Must have been its first hunt because she wasn’t hurt immediately. She tried screaming for help but the wolf deafened her cries with its howl. Remembering the pocket knife she took off from her brother’s belt, she was aware that she couldn’t run. She had to stay there and fight it. After driving the knife into the young wolf, Annika heard the sound of a dense pack of wolves howling back towards the slain child. Her brother found her quickly, threw her over his shoulder, and left the woods. The scars were a reminder for her to always keep her guard up.

Mrs. Crowley was a homely woman known for her affinity for cats but disdain for rowdy children. She had only become a teacher because her success with the other sex was about as realistic as the beast from Annika’s story. She loathed Annika and her stories. As well-spoken as the ten-year-old was, she had an unquenchable desire to write macabre fictional stories. They were never set in reality, much like the girl herself. Annika was a daydreamer. If she wasn’t writing, her mind would take her through the window, outside of the classroom, away from the school to a darkened world of blood, sinew, and viscera. Her dark worlds were not completely hopeless, there was always the inclusion of a young heroine or hero that slew savage monsters, therefore cleansing the world from the horror.

Who could blame such a young girl for a mind like that?

The Watkins were free thinkers. Liberals that allowed such a young, impressionable mind to watch horror movies until the wax of candles burned out. Her only friends were her even more rowdy older siblings who would rough house with her when the chance arose. For the most part, Annika would find herself alone. She would play along the forest line, where the acres of her family’s land greeted the black isolating coniferous trees. In her dominant hand she held a makeshift dagger made from cardboard, paint, and other decorative craft supplies as she fought against the unseen enemy. Of course, she would have to write this victorious tale of violence when given the next opportunity in class.

It was a long way from the bus stop to the Watkins Residence. Annika trekked through woods and a dirt runway for a half-mile until her house stood right in front of her. It was a large two-story Victorian home at the head of their five-acre property. Swirling clouds overhead, made the house darker than it usually appeared. A storm was coming. All Annika wanted now was to get some rest along with a rousing fighting match against one of her brothers.

Annika entered the doorway of her home, dragging her feet along the worn wooden flooring. Once her body had made its way completely inside, she crashed to the floor in defeat. She groaned loud enough with the hopes that any of the other Watkins would hear her cry. But the house remained quiet, still. She groaned again, louder this time, in case no one could hear her throughout the long halls. She sighed, accepting the reality that they must have been out hunting again. Without her. Again. She brought herself up from the frigid wood and began her ascension up to her room. She passed by the kitchen to her left. Empty. The living room, a little further up: empty. To her right were the hundred-year-old stairs with twelve grand steps that creaked and moaned as she continued to drag herself upward. By now she had recognized the individual despaired voices of the different steps along the staircase. She knew which voice represented which level and could tell how long she had until her parents would make it to the top floor before she had to pretend she was asleep every night.

At last, she was at the top, tired from her day at school, she knew someone would wake her up in time for dinner. If they all weren’t camping out again that is. Her mom may have left a note but she was too distracted by her slump to care. She continued down the long hallway till she reached her bedroom door at the furthest end. Above she could see the entrance to the old attic before entering inside. A large bed made of solid redwood trees pushed along the right-most wall invited her in for a cozy slumber. She slung her backpack and jacket into her closet that faced the bed. It promptly landed on some clothes that she was meant to fold ages ago. Annika crashed her full body onto the bed. In the same fashion as she had done on the floor below. Without any more time to think, the young girl fell into a deep slumber.

The dangerous cracking of lightning jolted the youngest family member out of her peaceful rest. Annika had a feeling that someone was home, hopefully with a delicious dinner prepared for her. She rose from her bed, happily making her way out of her room.

She didn’t get far.

She halted in her tracks, frozen in anxious curiosity. The attic door that was in front of her room was propped open. The assisted ladder was out, barely touching the wood below. The light in the attic was not on. Could one of her family members be up there looking around? She was always cautioned that it was too dangerous for her to even consider going up there. This did not stop her. She took a hold of the rungs, making sure to quietly climb upward. The attic would have been pitch black had it not been for a few light sources crudely placed around the area; a small window allowing for the occasional bright flash of lightning, a small oil lantern in a corner slowly dimming away, and small light coming from her bedroom leaking in from the attic’s entrance. Next to the lantern, she could see something familiar; one of her dad’s old sleeping bags, littered with holes and a nonfunctioning zipper. Next to it were a few open cans of old food, fit with flies, filth, and fully rusted around the visible edges. That’s when the stench hit her. It was foul, rotten. An unearthly stench emanating from a coffee tin next to the bed. The smell of urine, ammonia, and death. Her head felt dizzy from the wafts of whatever was in the tin, her stomach swirled and ached as her brain urged her to leave the room. The stench caused her eyes to tear up, her nostrils burned; she stifled a few quiet coughs.

Before Annika could make it back down the ladder, she heard footsteps approach. They weren’t as heavy as her dad’s or brothers’ work boots, but they weren’t lighter than her mom’s house shoes either. They were different, hushed, calculated steps that seemed to be headed right towards her. In a panic, Annika made her way fully into the attic. She found an old chest fit with shards of broken glass from old picture frames, cobwebs, and a cloud of dense dust particles swirling around her irritated sinuses. Annika was short on better choices for hiding. She climbed into the chest, using a hole on the inside to peek through. She could still catch the smell of the musk and grime of the other person who brought himself into the attic behind her. She watched as he grabbed something from under the sleeping bag then sat against the wall with the object in his hands. It caught some of the light from outside. The object looked metallic, one edge straight, while the other edge curved against the strange man’s finger. She recalled her mom telling her the story of squatters. Disturbed people who lived in old homes with a lot of space. They would steal food and sometimes hurt the homeowners if they ever found out.

Annika’s heart rapidly pumped as adrenaline coursed through her body. A burst of wind blew open the small window, providing enough distraction for Annika to jump out. Annika’s arms dripped with fresh blood from the broken shard in her forearm. One of her older scars had reopened. Without letting her injuries distract her, she made her way out of there and down the ladder. She could hear shuffling, some aggressive grunts, a few curses behind her. “Get back here!” She hurriedly leaped off of the ladder and slammed it upwards to the attic to buy her some time.

The young girl flew down the stairs, desperately searching around the whole bottom floor for anyone who could help, but the house stayed silent as a dormouse. She ran into the kitchen to find the house phone, as she picked it up to her ears she heard the dial tone, a voice on the other end saying something about a “disconnected service”. That’s when she saw it, a note on the fridge that either would damn her or help her in the end.

Went deer hunting by the mountains. We set our alarms to 10 p.m. so we will be back by 11. Promise.

Love,

Mom Dad Jason and Todd

Annika looked up at the clock on the wall: 10:35. She may have not been good at math, but she knew that if she could survive for long enough, someone would be there to help her in the end. While she began thinking of a plan, she heard the haunting moans of the wailing staircase.

Step 10. Thunder. Step 6. Thunder. Step 4. Silence…

Annika froze in a desperate hope to hear more but she was met with just the raging storm outside. With quick wit, she grabbed one of her dad’s hunting knives from the counter. She took advantage of her small frame by quietly slipping into one of the cabinets above the sink. She knew that most creatures in the wild search low areas first. Now all she could do was wait.

Finally, she could hear the footsteps again. The same, quiet footsteps as before. They made their way towards the kitchen first. As she predicted, the squatter searched the lower cabinets. His musty odor was more prominent than before as he got closer to the sink. She waited patiently. Her breath was steady. Any noise could mark trouble for her. When she heard the older body make its way through the kitchen into the dining room, she tried opening the door to the cabinet. In astute betrayal, the cabinet squeaked above the rolling thunder and she quickly jumped from the cabinet to the counter to the floor. Her small feet carried her back towards the staircase, up the cacophonous stairs. She reached her bedroom, desperately closing the door shut. Hurriedly, she hid in her closet under a pile of unfolded laundry.

She was protected but cornered. She knew better than to jump out the window. A broken bone would not be to her advantage. All of the furniture in her room was too heavy for her to move by herself.

The thunder outside did not cease. It boomed, shaking the entire house with it. She could hear the squatter’s every move.

Step 1. Thunder. Step 3 Thunder. Step 5. Silence…

He wasn't moving as quickly as before. She couldn’t hear his footfalls along the staircase anymore. Just the quiet of the house. Did he stop? Was he still coming up? Where was he now?

The thunder got louder. Annika lost her hearing for a moment. She couldn’t hear her breath or her own heart.

Thunder. Step 12.

He was at the top of the stairs, heading straight down the hall. She held the knife close to her chest. Daddy, please come home. Her bedroom door swung open. In less than a second, the closet door to where she was hiding was open too. She screamed.

“I got you”. He didn’t move further though. The glint of the blade in her hands caught his attention. She froze too, ceasing her shrieks to notice he also had his guard up. Another boom of thunder distracted them both. He quickly lunged at her but she was swift and small. She slipped past him, but he grabbed her leg. Pulling all of her weight to the floor. The air in her lungs had fully expelled. She turned onto her back. He lunged again. Annika drove the hunting knife forward. It went straight through his mouth, to the back of his throat. He thrashed, clawing at her and the knife. While he was down, Annika made her way out of the room and down the stairs again. She took the chance to run out the front door when she was blocked on her way out. It was soft, rain-soaked fabric that smelled of the surrounding forest, of fresh deer. She looked up to see her father before her. She held him close and cried. When the tears stopped, she explained everything to him.

Annika’s mom took her daughter into her arms, letting her know how proud she was. The three men carefully went to her bedroom equipped with their rifles. Unlike Annika’s usual fibs, they could already tell that her story of triumph was true. In a large puddle of viscous red was the man that Annika had described, a familiar hunting knife lodged in the center of his throat. Without words, the family made a silent vow that the youngest was never to be left out of sight. Two close encounters with death were more than enough for a young girl.

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New Post has been published on The Bouncing Tigger Reads

New Post has been published on http://www.tiggerreviews.com/what-a-gothic-tale/

What a Gothic Tale

Well I think Nettie wrote her own Gothic novel in this story with its ups and downs and the frequent villains and flitting from police and and and…

I really enjoyed this book after a slow start. Do persevere as it gets better. The fake paintings are very current as there was an article in the Guardian newspaper on Saturday 15th June claiming that a museum dedicated to the work of Étienne Terrus (a friend of Matisse but lesser known) has now discovered that most of the paintings (60%) are fakes.. https://www.theguardian.com/global/2019/jun/15/french-art-museum-full-of-fakes-etienne-terrus

It seems that top artist fakes are now too easily found so people are copying the work of lesser known artists. But when this novel is set, fakes of well known artists were much rarer. Amusingly earlier this year it was discovered that what was thought to be a fake Botticelli was actually real!

So Nettie lives in dire poverty in reality with almost no protein and in the slums of London with a father who is profligate yet without earning much at all.

To find out a little more about Victorian life, wages and cost of living I did a little exploring. I found the following quote from Dickens:

There are several grades of lawyers’ clerks. There is the articled clerk, who has paid a premium, and is an attorney in perspective, who runs a tailor’s bill, receives invitations to parties, knows a family in Gower Street, and another in Tavistock Square; who goes out of town every long vacation to see his father, who keeps live horses innumerable; and who is, in short, the very aristocrat of clerks. There is the salaried clerk—out of door, or in door, as the case may be—who devotes the major part of his thirty shillings a week to his Personal pleasure and adornments, repairs half-price to the Adelphi Theatre at least three times a week, dissipates majestically at the cider cellars afterwards, and is a dirty caricature of the fashion which expired six months ago. There is the middle-aged copying clerk, with a large family, who is always shabby, and often drunk. And there are the office lads in their first surtouts, who feel a befitting contempt for boys at day-schools, club as they go home at night, for saveloys and porter, and think there’s nothing like ‘life.’ Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers,1836

For interest I found the following statistics:

For the average coffee-stall keeper, general labourer or female copy clerk in the City the wages/salary was – £1 per week: http://victorian-era.org/the-victorian-era-wages-salary-earnings.html

And Clerks in general were paid as follows:

The cost of accommodation – bearing in mind that in this era nearly everyone rented was:

If you worked at sewing as Nettie did then you could be expected to be paid as follows:

So you can see that it was very difficult to make ends meet unless you were middle class earners.