 | |  | |  | |  |
 |
 |
LOT 175 | Dr Jennifer E Salahub PhD
I could not bear to think that someone would purchase the battered
cardboard box for a mere $10.00 and in my enthusiasm to raise the
price I became the successful bidder for Lot 175 described as a “box
of assorted household linens.” The good news was that there was no
telltale scent of mildew and thus it had rested undisturbed in an Ottawa
attic for many years. The bad news was that my friends were doing
little to hide their amusement at my perceived folly as I now live in
Calgary and would have to pack anything worthwhile that I found in
this box of “rags”. Although there was no provenance, dated
newspapers left little doubt that the carton had been crammed full and
sealed in the mid 1960s. A veritable time capsule! Remnants of a
powdery chipped foam under padding; small pieces of 1940s linoleum
and an alarmingly sticky oilcloth were quickly discarded (although I
was tempted by the linoleum) and I began to assess the so-called
linens …
Yes, there were several interesting items to be salvaged: two early
20th century flannel flags (advertising premiums often seen in
Edwardian quilts); an unidentified Canadian flag (badly stained and
tattered); a small silk union jack; an unfinished and poorly
embroidered pillowcase celebrating Galt Ontario’s Centenary; and an
embroidered doily likely made between the two World Wars. However,
as the auctioneer had suggested, the bulk of the box was filled with
“assorted household linens” a motley collection of yellowed, stained and worn sheets, tea cloths, napkins, and
dresser scarves … my friends (who were still laughing) unanimously voted the contents “too disgusting” to be
dusters but felt they could possibly serve as paint rags.
Nonetheless, I did not discard them (or the friends for that matter). And, as I unpacked the threadbare linens
I began to read them as a narrative – the manifestation of a life framed by the twentieth century and defined
by the Great Depression.
This was someone who would expect to find an eventual use for a piece of worn fabric – someone, likely a
woman, who would continue to launder and iron the stained and well-worn napkins long past their “expiry date”
because they were once good and were still useful (if not aesthetically pleasing). Someone who had saved
string and old buttons and always stuck the sliver of old soap onto the new bar. A voice that brooked no
nonsense – for despite the meager contents of the box I would suggest there was no editing, for when this
domestic life was packed away everything was salvaged. It is impossible to imagine what might have been
thrown out if this detritus was saved!
The rumpled, creased and stained objects cried out to be laundered – I washed and hung them on the
clothesline to dry in the sun – they did not miraculously turn snowy white. Yet I could not help but think that
what now appeared to be a pile of rags had once marked a new beginning – a start of a new domestic life that
would use textiles to celebrate ritual. That they were so worn and yet considered salvageable suggested to me
a life of struggle – but it is likely that these linens were once highly valued. They were purchased (few were
hand woven) and thoughtfully embellished – hem stitching, pulled thread work, embroidered monograms and
crochet edgings adorn these textiles. They may have been collected slowly and placed in a cedar chest for
that special day or they may have begun their work-a-day life in a lavender scented bureau drawer or linen
cupboard. The damask napkins show signs of a hard usage, but were once surely admired for their whiteness
and purity and for their fineness of the stitches. In fact, the napkins would have been part of a set - six or
eight or perhaps a dozen lovely squares of linen! Probably there was a matching tablecloth, but like the
domestic rituals that these linens witnessed, it has long disappeared.
As I folded and placed these tattered linens in my suitcase I realized that I had begun to see them as signs –
signifiers of not only a life, but also a life style, under threat. They are poignant in this state – addressing not
only the fragility of cloth but also the fragility of traditions – cultural and collective memory. This was brought
home when a friend, who was downsizing, revealed that she had given all of her linens to Good Will as her
daughters-in-law had no interest in all that fuss and ironing. They explained it succinctly, if a celebration is
called for – one goes out!
How could I abandon these linens and these cultural memories. As I, and my now overweight suitcase,
returned to Calgary I devised a plan that would see these textiles move into another realm where they would
once again be recognized for their potential. They were not ready for the scrap heap yet! I would hand these
fabrics to my textile history students and have them reconsider their place within the history of textile art –
they would be asked to manipulate the textiles and, at the same time, create a specific response to their
research paper. (The papers themselves were responses to assigned readings and the class content). There
were no guidelines provided – everyone knew that their finished work would be presented and discussed at the
final evaluation. As the term came to a close I announced the unveiling would take place in a domestic sphere
– everyone was invited to my home for tea.
On a damask cloth I set out my great grandmother’s cut-glass bowl and my grandmother’s and mother’s china
cups and saucers; lit candles; made pots of tea; and arranged the goodies that everyone had contributed.
These textiles had begun their life in a domestic setting – it was fitting that we referenced this fact – for it was
likely the last time they would be together. What became evident was that these new works did not mark the
culmination of a research project; rather, each and every one celebrated a new direction for the individual’s
research and artistic practice. Further, there was a general consensus that in this new manifestation these
remnants of Lot 175 should be seen by the greater community - and an exhibition was born.
I could not bear to think that someone would purchase the battered
cardboard box for a mere $10.00 and in my enthusiasm to raise the
price I became the successful bidder for Lot 175 described as a “box
of assorted household linens.” The good news was that there was no
telltale scent of mildew and thus it had rested undisturbed in an Ottawa
attic for many years. The bad news was that my friends were doing
little to hide their amusement at my perceived folly as I now live in
Calgary and would have to pack anything worthwhile that I found in
this box of “rags”. Although there was no provenance, dated
newspapers left little doubt that the carton had been crammed full and
sealed in the mid 1960s. A veritable time capsule! Remnants of a
powdery chipped foam under padding; small pieces of 1940s linoleum
and an alarmingly sticky oilcloth were quickly discarded (although I
was tempted by the linoleum) and I began to assess the so-called
linens …
Yes, there were several interesting items to be salvaged: two early
20th century flannel flags (advertising premiums often seen in
Edwardian quilts); an unidentified Canadian flag (badly stained and
tattered); a small silk union jack; an unfinished and poorly
embroidered pillowcase celebrating Galt Ontario’s Centenary; and an
embroidered doily likely made between the two World Wars. However,
as the auctioneer had suggested, the bulk of the box was filled with
“assorted household linens” a motley collection of yellowed, stained and worn sheets, tea cloths, napkins, and
dresser scarves … my friends (who were still laughing) unanimously voted the contents “too disgusting” to be
dusters but felt they could possibly serve as paint rags.
Nonetheless, I did not discard them (or the friends for that matter). And, as I unpacked the threadbare linens
I began to read them as a narrative – the manifestation of a life framed by the twentieth century and defined
by the Great Depression.
This was someone who would expect to find an eventual use for a piece of worn fabric – someone, likely a
woman, who would continue to launder and iron the stained and well-worn napkins long past their “expiry date”
because they were once good and were still useful (if not aesthetically pleasing). Someone who had saved
string and old buttons and always stuck the sliver of old soap onto the new bar. A voice that brooked no
nonsense – for despite the meager contents of the box I would suggest there was no editing, for when this
domestic life was packed away everything was salvaged. It is impossible to imagine what might have been
thrown out if this detritus was saved!
The rumpled, creased and stained objects cried out to be laundered – I washed and hung them on the
clothesline to dry in the sun – they did not miraculously turn snowy white. Yet I could not help but think that
what now appeared to be a pile of rags had once marked a new beginning – a start of a new domestic life that
would use textiles to celebrate ritual. That they were so worn and yet considered salvageable suggested to me
a life of struggle – but it is likely that these linens were once highly valued. They were purchased (few were
hand woven) and thoughtfully embellished – hem stitching, pulled thread work, embroidered monograms and
crochet edgings adorn these textiles. They may have been collected slowly and placed in a cedar chest for
that special day or they may have begun their work-a-day life in a lavender scented bureau drawer or linen
cupboard. The damask napkins show signs of a hard usage, but were once surely admired for their whiteness
and purity and for their fineness of the stitches. In fact, the napkins would have been part of a set - six or
eight or perhaps a dozen lovely squares of linen! Probably there was a matching tablecloth, but like the
domestic rituals that these linens witnessed, it has long disappeared.
As I folded and placed these tattered linens in my suitcase I realized that I had begun to see them as signs –
signifiers of not only a life, but also a life style, under threat. They are poignant in this state – addressing not
only the fragility of cloth but also the fragility of traditions – cultural and collective memory. This was brought
home when a friend, who was downsizing, revealed that she had given all of her linens to Good Will as her
daughters-in-law had no interest in all that fuss and ironing. They explained it succinctly, if a celebration is
called for – one goes out!
How could I abandon these linens and these cultural memories. As I, and my now overweight suitcase,
returned to Calgary I devised a plan that would see these textiles move into another realm where they would
once again be recognized for their potential. They were not ready for the scrap heap yet! I would hand these
fabrics to my textile history students and have them reconsider their place within the history of textile art –
they would be asked to manipulate the textiles and, at the same time, create a specific response to their
research paper. (The papers themselves were responses to assigned readings and the class content). There
were no guidelines provided – everyone knew that their finished work would be presented and discussed at the
final evaluation. As the term came to a close I announced the unveiling would take place in a domestic sphere
– everyone was invited to my home for tea.
On a damask cloth I set out my great grandmother’s cut-glass bowl and my grandmother’s and mother’s china
cups and saucers; lit candles; made pots of tea; and arranged the goodies that everyone had contributed.
These textiles had begun their life in a domestic setting – it was fitting that we referenced this fact – for it was
likely the last time they would be together. What became evident was that these new works did not mark the
culmination of a research project; rather, each and every one celebrated a new direction for the individual’s
research and artistic practice. Further, there was a general consensus that in this new manifestation these
remnants of Lot 175 should be seen by the greater community - and an exhibition was born.
