Distorting mirror (’miroir de sorcière’) from André Breton’s collection of art, ethnographic/oceanic objects, objets trouvés, natural objects and objects of curiosity;
in Breton’s studio at 42, rue Fontaine in Paris in the 1930s (the round object right above his head…);
and as part of the ‘Breton Wall’ at Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris, in 2005 (see right lower section of the picture).
Last year around this time I held a rose of jericho in my hand; it felt dead, but strangely elastic. The friendly tour guide at Trausnitz Castle in Bavaria, the partly restored Wittelsbach kunstkammer collection that opened to the public in 2004, had us touch a specimen, no doubt trying to keep the children at bay. I remember thinking, what’s the point? After all she didn’t pour water on it to make it blossom.
But maybe the opportunity to handle the object is the reason why I still remember everything she told us about it: that it is an African desert plant brought to Europe by the Crusaders; that it opens its dead-looking branches and begins to blossom as soon as it is watered; that it was kept in cabinets of curiosities due to its magical, oracular powers (its failure to open symbolised a person’s imminent death); that, according to its Christian symbolism, it was believed to represent the opening of the womb at childbirth, and that it was therefore supposed to blossom only at Christmas.
Gemsbok diorama, Akeley Hall of African Mammals,
American Museum of Natural History, NY.
Water Hole diorama, Akeley Hall of African Mammals.
The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody’d move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody’d be different. The only thing that would be different would be you.
Quoted from J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye, chapter 16.
Alaska Brown Bear diorama, Hall of North American Mammals.
Australian diorama (detail: crimson rosellas), Birds of the World Hall.
All pictures from the AMNH website.
“This Space is Still Evolving” exhibition plaque at the Creation Museum. Wait a minute. Shouldn’t it be “This Space is Still Being Intelligently Designed?”
According to the Creation Museum which opened in northeast Kentucky close to Cincinnati in late May,
It’s obvious, isn’t it.
What I find really worrying is that apparently the exhibition design must be spectacular, leaving even the biggest sceptics utterly impressed and making institutions such as the Natural History Museum London look rather dull. It was created by Patrick Marsh who also designed the Jaws and King Kong attractions at Universal Studios in Florida (though personally, the Jaws sharks are far too obviously papier-maché to make me jump…). Furthermore, one cannot help admiring the fundraising politics, leaving the $27m project completely debt-free upon opening.
On the other hand it’s somewhat reassuring to see that founder Ken Ham’s claims that the museum considers both sides, intelligent design and evolution, prove untenable even upon superficial examination. The fact that the website section What people are saying gives exactly one viewpoint, unsurprisingly that of a hard-core creationist, speaks volumes.
An attractive place? Maybe.
A place that presents the truth? No comment. Don’t get me started.
A place that welcomes debate? Definitely not.
See here for a well-researched review and here for a funny photo set.
The owners of Calke Abbey in Derbyshire (visited with A. and I. yesterday) were hoarders. The male members of the Harpur Crewe family, who moved into the country house in 1622 and stayed for nearly 350 years before donating it to the National Trust, were avid collectors who obviously loathed throwing anything away. The National Trust decided to preserve the property and the collection of curiosites it houses in its original state, thus allowing fascinating insights into both life in the Victorian period and a collector’s mindset.
It might have been the rain and cold intensifying the sombre atmosphere of an era, a house and a family in decline, but if you’ve got a penchant for places soaked with melancholy and nostalgia, you should definitely visit.
Royal Worcester figure of a pug dog in the Entrance Hall, its broken leg propped up with a matchbox.
Bird display in the Drawing Room.
Sir Vauncey Harpur Crewe’s Bedroom, left in the state in which it was found by the National Trust in 1985, complete with hunting trophies and collections of shells and fossils.
The Saloon served as a private museum of souvenirs and natural curiosities such as a crocodile’s skull (brought back from Egypt in 1870) and display cases crammed with stones, fossils, sea shells and stuffed animals.
Dome of taxidermied mice.
Ostrich egg, silver-mounted and decorated with boar’s tusks, given to Richard Fynderne Harpur Crewe by his Great Uncle Richard as a christening present in 1880 - instead of the traditional silver spoon or teething ring.
Visited the Caves of Nottingham with J., M. and E. on Saturday and was reminded, appropriately or not, of David Wilson’s Museum of Jurassic Technology and Roland Albrecht’s Museum der Unerhörten Dinge. They are both museums run by artists that play with notions of truth and fiction. The visitor who comes across the tiny fur of a bonsai stag, a breast-shaped stone said to have belonged to Thomas Mann, a rather curious specimen of Cameroonian stink ant or a 11 x 13 mm fruit stone carving of a Flemish landscape is prompted to question the authenticity of the exhibits and the stories behind them and, ultimately, to reflect on the ways we produce knowledge.
Now I’m not implying that the City of Caves tourist site, a succession of caves dug underneath Nottingham city centre some 1100 years ago, used as a storage, work, meeting and hiding space and even for housing, pursues an equally lofty mission. After entering the underworld via The Rock Shop located in a big shopping centre next to Thorntons and H&M, the guide takes you a couple of stairs down to an enchanted well (featuring ascending blue mist and the possibility to toss a coin and make a wish); a tannery (complete with detailed comments on the nature of the excrements used for the process); slums; and a WWII shelter (including a morally questionable re-enactment of an air raid during the blitz). Re-emerging from the catacombs and getting rid of your hardhat (the equivalent of felt slippers donned by tourists in Medieval castles, I believe), you can finally peruse the shop and purchase Robin Hood arrow heads or fossilised shark teeth dating back 30 Mio years for just three pounds.
In short, one cannot blame M. for doubting the authenticity of this award-winning tourist attraction. The whole place is great fun, but extremely dodgy. However, checking the website today, I came across an unexpected moment of self-awareness and auto-reflexivity, bringing it infinitely closer to the aforementioned artist’s projects:
We still don’t know all the answers. But whatever the truth may be, there is no doubt that the City of Caves is a truly unique site.
Authenticity? Who cares these days, as long as the entertainment is provided.
