With that I return. Not with a trumpet and throaty throng but quietly, as though by moonlight, avoiding the squeaky step.

“Is that you? (groggily) What time is it?”

“Go back to sleep honey.”

I’ve sprung the trap and survived, and escaped, and so here I am. Home again. The trap is obvious, and in plain sight, but I am forgetful. Each time I look at it I see the glint on the teeth but not the teeth themselves. The glint is bright and shiny and I am a dim, dumb animal.  Probability, or Nature, or Destiny, or whatever you’ve labeled the comically inadequate mason jar in which you hold this concept- things take their course.

What can I say?

You turn your head sometimes, as if hearing a coo or whisper, and looking toward the window, expecting to see some winged thing perched on your windowsill, you see instead your own reflection. You see your life and it startles you more than any winged thing would. It is not what you expected to see, but worse it’s not even what you’d expect a life to look like. Its proportions are all wrong, its color off, its shape odd; In truth it looks like nothing you’ve ever seen before. It looks foreign, and in as much, frightening. But it is your life still, and it’s as if in this unexpected moment you were glimpsing it for the first time.

Of course this is all Balderdash, or Poppycock, or Bullshit, or whatever you’ve labeled your most treasured mason jar- you’ve seen this ugly thing before.

I’m forgetful, as I’ve already mentioned. When I momentarily see past the well-tooled facade, past the fortification of amusements and distractions, over and beyond the ramparts of routine, I get spooked.

More often than not I react to this reoccurring revelation in a predictable way. I cycle through my mason jars, popping their lids in quick succession- Confusion, Annoyance, Anger, Regret, Longing, Sadness. Their smells waft through my rooms, swirling, blending into complex and potent combinations. What began as merely disturbing, through my panic, becomes overwhelming. Like the dim, dumb animal I am I seek a dark place, hidden from predatory eyes, where I can gather myself and think.

Q: “Ever wondered what turns straight-forward drama into melodrama?”

A: “It’s the attempt at spreading a small portion of honest pain over every banal nook and cranny of the proceedings, creating a thin smear, rather than letting it lay, as a thick dollop, just where it naturally landed. That and the bad metaphors of course!”

So where was I?

Oh yes, In my forgetfulness I’d sprung the trap.

There is an incorrect assumption I repeatedly make, which is that through sheer force of will, given enough time and space, I can understand, dismantle, and rebuild existence into something which more resembles the existence of my imagination. Because of this I abandon things in an attempt to carve out that space and create that time. I stop, turn off, take a step back, begin analyzing and over-analyzing. Like a cat with a ball of yarn I smack at my existence with my thumb-less paws and claws and unravel it, only to find finally that my ball is gone, I’m tangled in the yarn, and there is nothing at the center. This is folly but it’s not the trap I speak of, not really.

At the center of life is a terror, a mystery, a question, a void. It is huge, and it has a gravitational pull of sorts, and were you to face it and stare into it every day you would not be able to function. We build a barricade against it with whatever materials we can scrounge because were we faced with it continuously we would not be able to attain even the most paltry scrap of contentment. That’s what Happiness, or Peace, or whatever you label your half-full mason jar really is- moments of distraction strung successfully together. If you can string those moments together for an entire lifetime you are a genius, a giant, a lucky son of a bitch.

So the trap is simply this: forgetting the void. When you do that you are apt to start misinterpreting your own defenses against it as something holding you in rather than something keeping it out. Happiness is being successfully distracted from the void, by projects, jobs, entertainments, passions, dreams… the trap is forgetting the void exists.

I’ve spent many an hour in my life scrutinizing my defenses, becoming dissatisfied with their materials, and tearing them down, only to see the void rather than greener grass, and be reminded why I’d built them in the first place. I’ve spent many an hour rebuilding my defenses from the wreckage of older ones. A real time waster let me tell you.

So the lesson, which my forgetfulness forces me to re-learn continually, is this: defenses need only be judged by a single criteria- their effectiveness. No matter what they look like, no matter from what materials they are cobbled, no matter whether they are the shape and proportions you imagined them to be when you were a mere emotional zygote, they need only work. If they do, leave them alone and keep on keepin’ on.

With that I return. As a cobbler returns to his shop on a grey monday morning.

(The bell on the door jingles. In you step.)

“Hi there. What can I do for you?”

-

Related: Dissatisfaction, Dexterity Puzzle of the Mind.

First, just a few words from the chapter 1 of the book.

Quote, “The picture frame has existed for as long as pictures have been moveable. Any moveable painting required a frame to protect it. Even a fixed painting set in panelling needed some sort of framework. The idea of a framing device is older than the picture frame, however, and many early wall paintings and frescoes were given a containing painted or architectural framework.

The frame may have started out as a form of protection but its visual and symbolic purposes soon became equally important. Such purposes are not constant but vary with time and place. The frame separates the work of art from its surroundings and may help focus the viewer’s attention. At the same time it can actually unite a work with its surroundings by forming a transition or a link to other works or to the wider setting. The frame can become part of the setting itself when it is designed to fit into an architectural scheme. More obviously, the frame is usually intended to enhance a picture visually and, occasionally, iconographically. Sometimes the frame is used to draw attention to a work as an object of value or reverence; such a frame may not necessarily enhance it in visual terms, but can contribute to its symbolic significance. The frame marks out a picture as a picture, that is as an illusion rather than reality.” From The Art of the Picture Frame by Jacob Simon.

Since this post is about frames as art objects in their own right I’ve removed the paintings (so you can’t cheat.)

For more on the humble frame and its history see the following:

The Art of the Picture Frame web site at The National Gallery. Be sure, specifically, to check out the links listed under Special features.

A Brief History of The Frame.

Picture Framing Magazine’s article index, specifically the Special Supplements.

Hope you enjoyed.

The word “normal” when used in specific, direct relation to humanity does not have any real meaning unless it is as a marker of a mean value or an average. To think there is a quantity called “normal” which somehow exists outside of the quantity called “average” (in human terms) is obviously silly. And yet the connotations of the words “normal” and “average” are so different.

Everyone hopes they are “normal” to some degree, yet simultaneously everyone hopes to avoid being “average.” Isn’t that odd?

“Normal” is, in nearly all of its shades of usage, a positive quantity. Normality is understandable, reasonable, safe and reassuring.

When we seek to embrace a billionaire, or a “genius,” or a celebrity, we say “But I’ll tell you what, he’s really just a normal guy.” That is almost the highest compliment we can pay. The President of the United States? “Well, I like him, he seems like a normal guy.”

When we wish to distance ourselves from a once familiar murderer or rapist or otherwise ugly personage we say of him, “But he seemed so normal.” That is our alibi, “I lived next door to him, baby sat his children, and exchanged Christmas cookies with him because I thought he was normal.” Everyone can nod at that, and if murderer = bad, then it follows “normal” = good.

On the flip-side there is “average.” Averageness is rarely positive, defined, it seems, by only half of what it is not. Average is not exceptional, not remarkable, not gorgeous, not brilliant, not amazing. This is an adjective which seems to carry with it the limitations of its noun.

- How was the food at Chez Mullah? “Eh. Just average.”
- What did she look like? “uh… average.”
- How was your weekend?! “Average, didn’t do much.”
- “You are a C student and average students just don’t get into good schools!”

So though “normal” and “average” are, in essence, synonyms, in usage they are fairly distinct. Normal would seem to describe what is desirable, warm, and human about the collective “we.” While Average feels colder, more distant, and less comfortable. It would seem “normal” has done a better job transcending its mathematical roots where as “average” still has a strong whiff of the statistical.

When a human life hangs in the balance the choice is clear:

- Doctor how is my wife?! “Her vital signs are normal, she’s going to be OK.”

People’s vital signs are never “average.”

This disparity would seem to cast some doubt, somewhere, and if we accept that “average” feels more mathematical a quantity in common usage and “normal” feels more human a quantity… well, I would aim my suspicions toward “normal.” Math would seem to have the better track record when it comes to matters of precision and clarity.

So what’s with this word “normal” then? I propose the following:

The word “normal,” when used in relation to humanity, is the product of fear. I say this because “normal” seems most often used as a bulwark against it. It is “average” fortified. It is “average” gussied-up. It is “average” humanized. It is “average” pimped-out with comfy cushions. It is the cashmere of “average,” knit into a soft blankey we can hide under when faced with all those things which make us want to go pee-pee in our pants.

Do you disagree?

Last thing I’ll say is this: If you are one of the many people on Earth whose fondest wish is to “just be normal,” to simply attain that coveted, seemingly mythical state of normalcy, one of the… let’s say… awkward, the unpopular, the dissatisfied, the lonely, the self-hating, the confused, the depressed, the unhappy, let me assure you of something- your fear of not being “normal” affirms your averageness, and in as much, your normalcy. So hooray!

By way of setting the scene briefly I’ll just say Duncan Shriek, the protagonist of our story, has been summoned to his publisher’s office a month after submitting a manuscript on a rather controversial subject. When Duncan arrives at the publishing house, Frankwrithe & Lewden, he is escorted into the president’s office, where said president, one Mr. L. Gaudy, “a bearded man of indeterminate age, his gaunt flesh wrapped across his cheekbones” is waiting, sitting behind his desk, staring calmly into the depths of his fireplace. Denied the comfort of a seat Duncan stands there, in total silence, for over five minutes, waiting…

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

As the fire behind them began to die, Gaudy smiled and broke the silence. He spoke in a “perfectly calm voice, level and smooth. He stared at the fireplace as he spoke, and steepled his fingers, elbows on the desk. He appeared not to draw a single extra breath.”

He said:

“You need not sit and thus defile my perfectly good chair because it will take no time at all to say what needs to be said to you. Once I have said what I am going to say to you, I would like you to leave immediately and never return. You are no longer welcome here and never will be welcome again. Your manuscript has performed the useful function of warming us, a function a thousand times more beneficial than anything it might have hoped to accomplish as a series of letters strung together into words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs, and chapters. The fire has purified it, in much the same manner as I would like at this moment—and will desire at all moments in the future—to purify you, were it not outside of the legal, if not moral, boundaries placed upon us by the law and society in general. By this time it ought to be clear to you, Mr. Shriek, that we do not intend to buy the rights to your ‘book’—and I use the word ‘book’ in its loosest possible sense—nor to its ashes, although I would sooner buy the rights to its ashes than to its unblemished pages. However, on the off chance that you still do not comprehend what I am saying to you, and allowing for the possibility that you may have entered a state of shock, I shall continue to talk until you leave this room, which happy event I hope will take place before very much longer, as the sight of you makes me ill. Mr. Shriek, as you must be aware, Frankwrithe & Lewden has a history that goes back more than five hundred years, and in that time we have published our share of controversial books. Your first book—which, by the way, you may be fascinated to know is as of this moment out of print—was the forty-first book to be banned by the various Antechambers of Ambergris over the years. We certainly have no qualms in that regard. Nor have we neglected to publish books on the most arcane and obscure topics dreamt of by the human brain. As you are no doubt aware, despite the fact that many titles no longer have even a nostalgic relevance, we keep our entire, and considerable, backlist in print—Pelagic Snail Rituals of the Lower Archipelago comes to mind, there being no such snail still extant, nor such an archipelago; still, we keep it in print—but we will make an exception for your first book, which shall be banished from all of our catalogues as well. As I would have hoped you had guessed by now, although you have not yet left this office never to return, we do not like your new book very much. In fact, to say I do not like your book would be like calling a mighty tree a seedling. I loathe your book, Mr. Shriek, and yet the word ‘loathe’ cannot convey in even a thousandth part the full depths of my hatred for this book, and by extension, you. But perhaps I should be more specific. Maybe specifics will allow you to overcome this current, potentially fatal, inertia—tied no doubt to the aforementioned shock—that stops you from leaving this office. Look—the last scrap of your manuscript has become a flake of ash floating above the fireplace. What a shame. Perhaps you would like an urn to collect the ashes of your dead newborn? Well, you can’t have one, because not only do we not have an urn, but even if we did, we would not allow you to use it for the transport of the ashes, if only from the fear that you might find some way to reconstruct the book from them—and yes, we do know it is likely you have a copy of the manuscript, but we will feel a certain warmth in our hearts if by burning this copy we can at least slow down your reckless and obstinate attempt to publish this cretinous piece of excrement. Returning to the specifics of our argument against this document: your insipid stupidity is evident from the first word of the first sentence of the first paragraph of your acknowledgments page, ‘The,’ and from there the sense of simple-minded, pitiable absence of thought pervades all of the first paragraph until, by the roaring crescendo of imbecility leading up to the last word of the first paragraph, ‘again,’ any possible authority the reader might have granted the author has been completely undermined by your inability to in any way convey even an unoriginal thought. And yet in comparison to the dull-witted pedantry of the second paragraph, the first paragraph positively shines with genius and degenerate brilliance. Perhaps at this point in our little chat, I should repeat that I don’t very much like this book.”

Gaudy then rose and shouted, “YOU HAVE BEEN MEDDLING IN THINGS YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT! DO YOU THINK YOU CAN POKE AROUND DOWN THERE TO YOUR HEART’S CONTENT AND NOT SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES?! YOU ARE A COMPLETE AND UTTER MORON! IF YOU EVER COME BACK TO MORROW, I’LL HAVE YOU GUTTED AND YOUR ORGANS THROWN TO THE DOGS! DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND. ME??!”

What other rhetorical gems might have escaped Gaudy’s lips, we will never know, for Duncan chose that moment to overcome his inertia and leave Frankwrithe & Lewden’s offices—forever.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Ha!

I have to imagine that anyone who has ever had a manuscript rejected, which is to say every writer alive, or anyone who ever hopes to have a manuscript rejected one day (like myself) will appreciate that monologue very much. Read it over and over again and the terse rejection slips you receive in future will seem infinitely kind and sweet by comparison, like delicious little form-letter bon-bons. Yum. “Thank you sir may I have another?”

Hope the bookish among you enjoyed as much as I did.

For a broader, perhaps more representative excerpt see: The SF Site or visit Jeff himself at his blog.

As always these were just the examples that caught my eye, not necessarily perfectly representative of the state of design and illustration in 71 / 72.

This annual had an added bonus in the form of an introduction by one Paul Rand, a fella you designey types might have heard of. I decided rather than chop his text up into little quotes in the post I’d just make the whole thing available as a pdf, and here it is: Paul Rand Intro to Graphis Annual 71 / 72. Enjoy you design dorks.

More to come.

I’m sorry you had to absorb that all in one massive dose but as a person interested in design, and more importantly as a proud owner of both a cornea and an optic nerve, I felt it was my duty to drive home this point: Television weather-infographics are pitifully, horribly, inexcusably bad. These are pieces of design which we seek out every single day for their intended functionality, often first thing in the morning, when we are half asleep and most vulnerable, but which hammer at our eyeballs like Schuster conundrums made of broken neon tubes and melted crayon shavings. I ask this, here and now, of all the television weather-infograpic makers– Why?! Why must it be this way?

Television infographics in general are pretty much out of control so far as I can see. Their scrolling, swirling, swooping gloss has at this point far overpowered the meager amounts of information they are meant to shuttle efficiently into our brains. They do not, if I had to put a totally fabricated number on it, contribute in any way to that purpose 75% of the time. They are the gaudy prefabricated ornament on the facade of pure televised information. Howard Roark would dynamite your satellites! Well, were he a real person… who was able to fly… into space… carrying one of those old-timey plunger boxes… Anyway what I’m saying is from sports broadcasts to news broadcasts the infographics are poorly thought out, overused, detrimental to effective transference of data, and did I mention spectacularly ugly?

As for weather graphics in particular I just can’t help but wonder, where did networks get the idea all that crap was necessary? It seems like presenting the weather forecast ought to be quite a simple operation. Temperature and precipitation projections for 5 days. Why all the confused hubbub? Best as I can surmise there are only two possibilities– meteorological hubris or graphical incompetency. Perhaps a combination of both.

If there are any young people out there reading this who are enamored by the glitzy and glamourous life of a television weather graphics professional and are planning on making a career of it, let me offer these few tips:

1) Nothing needs to move. Not raindrops, not snowflakes, not wind marks, not sun-rays. We already know how rain and that other stuff works.

2) Remember there are other colors besides ultramarine blue, pure red, and neon yellow. Use them, but please not all at once.

3) Don’t try to get to clever and “nuanced” with your atmospheric icons. All we need to know is whether it’s sunny and dry or cloudy and wet, the numbers fill in the rest. Having one icon with a single cloud, another with two slightly more wispy clouds, and a third with a darker more rounded cloud does not help us at all. If you want to interpret weather conditions in sensitive and unique ways paint landscapes.

4) Go to design school, take a few courses at the local community college, or at very least have lunch with your highschool art teacher a couple of times. Please?

5) One word: Standardization!

This last would go a long way in cutting down on the eye contusions. If we could just agree on a few simple symbols which would hereafter represent important weather conditions things would be a lot easier. If weather icons were standardized a symbol and two numbers would deftly tell us all we needed to know. No need for interpretation.

Well, hope you feel gratified, my having finally voiced this displeasure which I know was secretely eating away at all of you. Sometimes there is such a thing as too polite you know? That’s how you get ulcers.

Next time: Shampoo bottles!

O.K. So you just went out to the deli to get smokes and between there and here you decided to screw some guy?! Am I hearing you right Beth?

He wasn’t “some guy.” He was a God.

Why do you keep saying that! Jesus! Did he show up as a swan or suddenly coalesce out of raindrops?

No.

A little puppy maybe, that, like, drew you in with his cuteness and then unleashed his irresistible God-cock on you?

No!

Well he better have shot lighting bolts out the end of his prick or something, because what your telling me here is that while I was doing the dishes you went out and fucked some guy behind a dumpster.

He wasn’t “some guy” alright?! He was… something else.

This is just fucking great! He was something else? “Boy oh boy, that stranger I just screwed was somethin’ else honey!” Should I run out and try to catch him before he flies back to Olympus? Huh? Maybe get a little taste of that hot God-action for myself?

That’s not what I meant. He was…

A GOD! I know you’ve said that, like, 20 times already. You’re insane…

...

What am I supposed to say to you right now Beth? “Oh it’s alright honey, everyone gets raped by a God at some point, no big deal?!”

I told you it wasn’t “rape.” And It was a big deal.

I KNOW it was a fucking big deal! I’m incredibly pissed-off right now in case you hadn’t noticed. I’m –

John please try to understand. He just sort of came to me. I was crossing through that parking lot around the corner and suddenly he was just there a few feet in front of me. It was weird because I wasn’t startled. Not at all. I looked at him and just sort of knew what was going to happen. It’s like it had to happen and somehow I knew that. I wasn’t scared, like, “oh my God this guy is about to attack me.” And I wasn’t compelled somehow or entranced or –

So you wanted it.

I…

You saw this guy with what? Big pecs and a motorcycle jacket coming toward you and you were like, “I need to fuck that guy.” Excuse me but it all sounds very Cinemax to me. Was Shannon Tweed watching you two from some upstairs window with binoculars at the time by any chance? 

John stop.

If it had been a burning bush or something… oh wait, you were the one with the “burning bush” right Beth?

John I just had a religious experience. Can’t you understand that? It was –

Holy shit… there was no condom was there? Of course not. You just fucked some homeless drifter in a parking lot without a condom didn’t you? Didn’t you?! Jesus fucking christ this is unbelievable! What were you thinking?

You’re not listening to me. This was not “some homeless guy” and it wasn’t Fabio and I didn’t just get a craving for an anonymous encounter so I could have a secret and feel naughty John. This was something amazing and… spiritual. He was a God John. I mean that. I know it. I can’t explain it but it’s the truth.

First of all he wasn’t “a” God because, unless you’ve gone all pagan-goats-blood on me, we both know there is only one God, and I’m pretty sure Jesus didn’t just get horny and come down to earth to bang my wife! Alright? Second whoever it was, you let him put his dirty been-who-knows-where cock in you without even… Wait.. did he pull out Beth? Beth?!

...

Answer me! Did he pull out or did he cum inside you?

...

You know I never thought I’d be wishing so fervently that a homeless guy would cum on my wife’s face in a parking lot but…

...

Answer me God damn it!

I’m pregnant John.

Ha! You’ve totally lost it haven’t you? This “roll in the clouds” only happened 20 minutes ago. My coffee isn’t even cold yet! Don’t tell me you had the foresight to buy a pregnancy test at the deli which you administered right there behind the dumpster Beth?

I’m pregnant. I know it. I’ll take a pregnancy test right now if you want me to.

So what? We’ve finally gotten pregnant after all the thousands of dollars of fertility treatments and you’ve gotten cold feet? Is that it? You make up a rape story thinking that I’ll agree to an abortion? You know I won’t Beth. And why all the “God” stuff? So I’d think you’ve come unhinged as well? A two-tiered plan of escape Beth? I didn’t think you had such a fertile imagination. In a way I’m actually relieved since…

I am not making any of this up John. This is not a scheme and I did not plan it! Alright?

...

John, look at me. Please look at me! You know me. I am not a liar, I am not crazy, I am your wife and I love you and I didn’t ask for this to happen, It just did. Please look at me… What are we going to do John?

What are we going to do? Well for starters I’m calling Doctor Leventhal because you are having a nervous breakdown. He can prescribe something and examine you so as to clear up the little matter of whether you even had sex with someone today. Then I’m calling your parents to come and sit with you because if you did screw some stranger I’m packing a bag and going to a hotel and if you didn’t I’m sure they’ll want to help me check you in to the nearest recovery center. Will you pass me the phone?

Honey, it happened. A God, whose face was… whose eyes were… He told me without ever opening his mouth that he was divine and that I’d been chosen and that I would bear a child unlike any the world had ever known. He told me that John, and I knew it was true. It wasn’t rape because I smiled and took his hand.

Stop.

I unzipped my coat and slipped off my sweatpants and he slid up inside me. I can’t lie John it felt amazing. Like nothing else I’d ever experienced.

Stop.

It wasn’t “sex.” It was like making love to a thick solid ray of light, covered all over with little twitching mouse whiskers. I started to cum immediately and just kept on the whole time. My legs just kind of buckled and I dropped my coat into a little pool of antifreeze but I didn’t fall. I heard this soft voice in my head, his voice, saying my name over and over again, but at the same time I heard other voices, above and below his, thanking me, congratulating me, asking me for my blessing. It felt like it went on for hours but it couldn’t have been more than five minutes –

Please stop it Beth.

It happened John, exactly like that. It happened.

It couldn’t have Beth, because God does not come down to earth to impregnate 42 year old accountants from Riverhead, alright?! I think I would have noticed if Father O’Brien had so much as alluded to heavenly light-ray orgasms in any of his sermons Beth, and he didn’t, ever. What you are describing happens only in back issues of Heavy Metal magazine and has nothing to do with my God and has nothing to do with reality.

But John look at my –

I’m not kidding Beth! Knock it off! Alright? Just stop! I don’t know what your trying to prove but I don’t want to hear anymore of this shit. It’s ridiculous.

It happened to Mary didn’t it? And it’s happened to others. Almost every ancient religion has these stories!

Mary was visited by an angel who revealed the immaculate conception to her Beth. Mary didn’t get plowed by God’s erection-of-light in a filthy 24 hour parking lot! She didn’t instantly drop her sweatpants and “cum continuously” while God whispered in her ear!

We weren’t there, we don’t know how it really happened. But it did! Didn’t it? You either believe the Bible or you don’t John and I know you do. These things happen.

These things happen?

Yes.

O.K. you’re obviously a late-blooming schizophrenic.

I don’t know why you’re so mad. Sex with a God can hardly be considered adultery John.

Is that right? Well, All I can say is you’re lucky they don’t burn loopy hysterical women at stakes any more. If I were you I’d call your parents, a doctor, and Father O’brien. Maybe a combination antidepressant-cocktail and exorcism will cure what’s ailing you. As for me I’m calling a hotel concierge and our lawyer. I’ve had enough.

He loves you John. He told me.

Well then he’ll forgive me for making his holy incubator a single mother won’t he?

...

You can petition heaven for child support.

Joseph stayed with Mary didn’t he John?

Yeah, well, Joseph was the greatest cuckold in history, I’m just an insurance salesman.

_______________________________

Previous installments in the series: 1, 2, & 3.

“Meerschaum has been called Venus of the Sea, White Goddess, sepiolite, sea-foam or froth, the Aristocrat of smoking substances! It has been identified as hydrous magnesium silicate, an opaque white-gray or cream colored mineral of the soapstone family. It has been written as H4Mg;Si30 ,o, 3S .O^MgO^H^O, 2MgO, S,0;-14H20 and even Mg4(H;0)3(OH),SitO,5-3H;0! Whatever its composition, meerschaum is not the bone of the sepia or cuttle fish, the residue or fusion of decomposed sea shells, petrified sea foam or a clay composition. It is a mineral! Mined 30 to 450 feet below the surface of the earth, the magnesium content provides strength while the hydrogen and oxygen contribute to its porosity. It is, in the words of one, “. . . soft and light as a fleeting dream, creamy, delicate and sweet as the complexion of young maidenhood.” -Benjamin Rapaport, A Complete Guide to Collecting Antique Pipes. 1979.

“Meerschaum is a German word meaning ‘sea foam’— it derived its name because it often was seen floating on the Black Sea. The German term probably has been used because German-speaking people controlled the meerschaum-pipe industry until World War II. Also, most of the craftsmen who began making meerschaum pipes in the United States came from either Germany or Austria.

Meerschaum is a very soft, porous, hydrous silicate of magnesia that is found in pockets within clay or serpentine deposits. Its origin is unknown, but it is believed to have been formed from the metamorphic shells and bones of tiny prehistoric sea creatures. Its geological name, assigned in the mid-nineteenth century by a German mineralogist, is sepiolite, from the Greek “Sepio,” or cuttlefish bone, which it resembles.” -Carl Ehwa, Jr. The Book of Pipes & Tobacco. 1974.

“The discovery and initial use of meerschaum as a substance for making pipes is shrouded in much mystery and myth. Even the origin of the word is obscure but the most generally accepted account is that a certain Hungarian nobleman, Count Andrassy, on an official mission to Turkey in 1723, received a lump of meerschaum from the Sultan. Returning to Pesth, on the east bank of the Danube, he gave it to a cobbler who, when not making or mending shoes, made wood pipes; the Count was one of his patrons. Another tale relates that when John Sobieski, King of Poland, rescued the beleaguered city of Vienna from invading Turks, he had seen many Turkish articles, including pipes; the articles were made of luletaschi, a white mineral called pipestone believed to have been meerschaum. And, there is yet a third story which meerschaum pipes were being made by a French artist, Louis Pierre Puget, student of the Italian sculptor Berini, who carved the first meerschaum in 1652.

Meerschaum could have been used even earlier than 1652 but however devious, cryptic or circuitous the route, meerschaum came from the East and was popularized in the West.” -Benjamin Rapaport, A Complete Guide to Collecting Antique Pipes. 1979.

“No matter who actually was responsible for the introduction of the meerschaum pipe, it steadily gained favor among wealthy smokers throughout Europe. After 1750 pipes of the new material were in exceptionally heavy demand. Unlike clay, however, which was available to everyone, meerschaum was restricted to the rich and titled who could afford to commission the handiwork of a carver or an ‘artist.’ The meerschaum rapidly became the pipe of the stylish smoker and the effort and money spent by these smokers to outdo their peers probably accounts for the artistic meerschaums created in those times.

In many cases, the fact that these masterpieces are pipes is almost incidental;

indeed, a great many never were smoked. Some of the very large, magnificent pieces adorned cabinets and shelves as objects of art. One wealthy Englishman had a lovely pipe made for himself even though he didn’t smoke. When the pipe-maker had finished the job, the gentleman instructed him to color the bowl before delivering it. For a period of two or three weeks, the pipe was smoked by every pipe-maker in the shop until the color became very rich and dark. The gentleman was well pleased and promptly placed his seasoned treasure on the mantle.

As artisans and wood-carvers turned to pipe-making, they soon became swamped with more orders than they could fill. By the 1850s, enterprising merchants and pipe makers set up factories that employed hundreds of carvers. Between that time and the years just before World War I, when briar began to dominate the industry, the thousands of meerschaum pipes created in factories finally found their way into the hands of middle-class smokers, who now were able to indulge in what only nobles and the rich had been able to afford in previous years.” -Carl Ehwa, Jr. The Book of Pipes & Tobacco. 1974.

“A new meerschaum pipe is generally either pure white or a very pale, creamy yellow color. As it is smoked, tars and oils seep closer to the waxed surface of the shank and then the bowl. Pinks dissolve into deepening amber reds and the golds become a richer, golden brown. The coloring ultimately approaches black-brown or a muted, dark cherry. These changes take place very gradually, the seasoning progressing so slowly that it almost goes unnoticed. It is as if one were watching a very cautious but exquisite autumn slip stealthily into its colors. In addition to its beauty, the meerschaum smokes quite dryly and, after a time, tobacco smoked in it tastes somewhat more delicate and sweeter than it does in a briar.

Today, with the exception of the fine carved heads produced by Andreas Bauer in Vienna, almost all meerschaum pipes are fashioned into shapes corresponding to those of standard briar pipes. In marked contrast, those carved by artisans years ago featured clusters of exquisite figures in relief or forming the entire body of the pipe. The bowl often was slipped in unobtrusively so as to avoid disrupting a battle scene, or dancing nymphs pouring wine for an amber-faced Bacchus.” -Carl Ehwa, Jr. The Book of Pipes & Tobacco.1974.

“It has been said that the cigarette smoking craze in the United States had a significant effect on the meerschaum industry. Further, ‘meerschaum is no longer so fashionable as it once was. Probably the numerous cheap imitations, the extreme readiness to break of the genuine article, and the fantastic designs into which it was fashioned, have led to its decadence in public estimation.’

All good things come to an end at some point in time. The delicate and slight, even the massive, the bulky meerschaums were impractical, never fashioned for a hurried Twentieth Century industrialized world of assembly lines, crowded buses and elevators and middle class income. But the magical and captivative nature of meerschaum has kept its popularity alive and the ranks are now augmented by a new breed of young, curious and enlightened collectors committed to preserve the cult of the White Goddess! -Benjamin Rapaport, A Complete Guide to Collecting Antique Pipes.” 1979.

“A perfect Meerschaum pipe is decidedly            
one of the choicest and rarest gifts of
the gods; but like all choice and rare
gifts, it is a source of considerable
anxiety to the owner. Like women, its,
‘name is frailty.’ As originally taken in
hand, and presented to the lips, nothing
can exceed the loveliness of its looks—its
delicious smoothness, its graceful
rotundity of form, and apparent innocence
from everything that can tarnish a
reputation. But, alas! you take it as
you take a wife, ‘for better and for
worse;’ and again, alas! it does not fare
better with the smoker and his Meerschaum
than with man and wife.”

-The Smoker’s Guide, Philosopher and Friend
A Veteran of Smokedom, 1876

Most of the images above are from the two books quoted, A Complete Guide to Collecting Antique Pipes and The Book of Pipes & Tobacco. A few were found online.

Hope you enjoyed.

See what fun we are missing with our humorless sloans?

Alright I take it back, we lost nothing, the invention of the toilet was a win-win.

For a bit more info on the “potty” check out:
Musings of a Privy Digger and 1earth’s page on chamber pots.

Again, If you’d like any more information please feel free to .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address) me. Note that the image I used to begin the post is no longer available.