That Time the Pope Went to the World's Fair

This year marks the 50th anniversary of the 1964 World's Fair in New York City. Not unlike the modern

The Unisphere on my visit in June

Olympics, the Fair didn't turn a profit, but it hosted months of culturally significant spectacles. The Ford Mustang was introduced, Walt Disney launched the It's a Small World ride, Andy Warhol mocked politicians with some controversial pop art, civil rights activists staged protests blocking highway ramps, the Beatles played in Shea Shadium, and Bob Dylan infamously used an amp.

Like the New York's first World's Fair in 1939, this was the brainchild of infamous urban planner Robert Moses. (Cue chorus of boos from historic preservation fans.) Fading from political power towards the end of his career, he hoped hosting another World's Fair and turning Queens garbage dumps into the Flushing Meadows fairgrounds and park would cement his legacy.

Even though Moses was a jerk to tear down the old Penn station, I'll admit Flushing Meadows is a great park. Some of the fair buildings are still open as museums. The '64 Fair also gave Queens the amazingly topographic Unisphere, which has become an icon of the borough. It's a great example of space age public art that can belong to everyone, not unlike my old boyfriend the St. Louis arch. Plus, you can buy the world a Coke and keep it company while you're there. 

Vatican Pavilion at Flushing Meadows.
Collection of the NYPL. 

For Catholics, the '64 fair has special significance because it brought the United States its first papal visit ever! We have Robert Moses' ambition to thank for it. The Vatican had a pavilion at the Fair, and even shipped over Michaelangelo's Pieta to display there. Moses hoped his friend Cardinal Spellman could convince the Pope to stop by in a clutch PR move for the World's Fair.

And so on October 5, 1965, Pope Paul VI became the first pope to set foot on American soil. He spent only fourteen hours in NYC, establishing the usual cathedral-stadium-political arena template for future papal visits. After landing at the new JFK Airport in Queens, he spent most of his time in Manhattan at a mixture of modern and old-school locations. He visited St. Patrick's Cathedral and met with President Johnson at the Waldorf Astoria hotel. The Holy Father also addressed the United Nations, warning that "Politics do not suffice to sustain a durable peace." Later he said Mass at Yankee Stadium, not Moses' brainchild Shea Stadium (ooh burn!).Finally, on his way out of town, Paul VI did stop at the Flushing Meadows fairgrounds. Today a marble bench marks where he stood.

Pope Paul VI's whirlwind tour wasn't as substantial as later papal visits, but it was surely a landmark moment

Pope Paul VI window in St. Philomena church,
Livingston, NJ.

for American Catholics. Only a few years before, John F.Kennedy had become the first Catholic president and a beloved political figure. Seeing the Church's leader welcomed as an international dignitary must have cemented the fact that "papists' had been accepted as true Americans, not a dangerous superstitious group swearing loyalty to a foreign power. Also, American Catholicism was no longer just mission territory; it was a major wing of the Church garnering Vatican attention! Eleven years later Paul VI would canonize New Yorker Elizabeth Ann Seton as the first American-born saint, further establishing the United States' role in Catholic history.

I found evidence of this papal euphoria in a parish near me in New Jersey. With its simple yet vaguely colonial style, St. Philomena was probably built in the early 1970s before post-Vatican II modernism had really caught on. The ample stained glass windows depict mysteries of the rosary, local bishops, and ... Pope Paul VI's NYC visit. The window is amazing and bordering on souvenir-store kitch: Paul VI raises his hands in blessing amidst the Stars and Stripes, St. Patrick's, the UN, the Empire State Building, and the Statue of Liberty. (Sadly, the Unisphere did not make the cut.) A panel at the bottom notes the date of the pontiff's visit. Perhaps some parishioners fondly remembered attending the Mass in Yankee Stadium and donated the window? I'll be on the lookout for more Paul VI commemorations in the area. American Catholicism: if it can make it here, it can make it anywhere.

If you want to learn more about the 1964 World's Fair, I highly recommend Joseph Tirella's new book Tomorrow-Land: The 1964-65 World's Fair and the Transformation of America, from which I got much of the information in the post. If you find yourself in Grand Central this fall, you should also check out this free exhibit.

Fun Museum Finds

Summer's winding down, but I can't bear to think about long sleeves yet. It's been too much fun hanging out in the sunshine and taking road trips to new museums. Before we pack away the sundresses and sandals for good, here are some fun images of outdoor festivity that I've seen recently. 

To start off, here are two paintings from the series Apollo and the Muses at the Cleveland Museum of Art. 

Erato, the muse of Lyric Poetry on the left, is basically Taylor Swift's spirit animal. She's all billows and curls, sitting in a romantic grove with Cupid while she literally writes with one of his arrows. I imagine this is how Swift's Wall Street Journal article was also composed. "[People] are buying only the [albums] that hit them like an arrow through the heart ... and I'd also want a nice garden."

Meanwhile check out the epic side eye Clio, the muse of History is giving her. "Are you serious girl? I'm over here writing about wars and plagues and fallen empires, and you're sitting under a billowing canopy? I hope the Persians get you with a spear." The two paintings really are displayed like this, with Apollo between them.

I'm not exactly sure what the artist Charles Meynier meant here. Clio's expression is pretty hilarious - but hey wait, is he saying female scholars are all ice cold? Does he think history is just dust and monuments? I do like the suggestion that maxi dresses and serious business can go together, though. 

Speaking of summer fashions, lest you think flower crowns are a new trend, check out this etching from the print collection of Washington's Headquarters in Morristown, NJ. George Washington is entering Trenton victorious after  crossing the Delaware River to defeat the British. The city's daughters have turned out for the parade in their best music festival apparel. 

George Washington also spent some time in Brooklyn, although he wasn't as successful there. NYC wasn't quite as built up back in the 1770s, as you can see in this 18th century map from Morristown. I love the little soldiers marching along the palisades.

See Charles Meynier, even military history isn't completely humorless.

People of Costco

Today I'm guest posting for Bonnie at A Knotted Life, talking about religious identity and how I secretly want to make friends with people who follow super-religious dress codes. Her blog is honest, funny, and faith-filled; definitely check it out!

Magnetic cart escalator to heaven?

It's funny how just after I finalized my post for Bonnie, I ran into the very same experiences that inspired it in the first place. We need snacks for a big museum event this weekend, so I was dispatched to Costco, that haven of bulk provisions for large religious families. Most of the time working in Brooklyn I feel like my suburban upbringing is a liability, but not today, hipsters! I knew this place back when it was still Price Club.

The Sunset Park Costco's industrial setting is pretty different from the strip malls of NoVA, but inside it smells just like a Costco. The signs and price tags are the same and the layout is familiar once you realize this store has two levels. The sheet cake order form is unchanged since my 1998 sugar-coma of graduations  and Confirmation receptions.

It brought back so many memories I almost wept with homesickness. I felt like I should be wearing a school uniform and making sure my little brothers didn't wander off in the frozen foods. Bulk grocery shopping is my heritage, dangit.

The crowd of giggling hijab-clad schoolgirls in long black dresses on the R train platform should have tipped me off. Of course this place would be packed with various descendants of Abraham. There were Jewish men in black hats and their wives in wigs. There were more hijabs and long skirts, including one Muslim mom pushing a double stroller while wrangling two other kids.

For once, I didn't feel like I needed to explain to these people that I am sorta kinda one of them. I've logged enough hours in my life traipsing the Kirkland Signature aisles in a plaid skirt to be certain of my identity. I come from a Big Catholic Family, and my people can feed a crowd with the best of them.

Memory, that winged host that flew above me

Have you heard about the book club Hayley at Carrots for Michaelmas is hosting about Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited? I'm thrilled because Brideshead  is my favorite book. Ever since it was on my summer reading list senior year of high school, I've re-read it about once a year. On every return visit I've changed a little, and so I notice or enjoy new things. The notes my 17 year old self feverishly made in multi-colored pencil seem a little silly today.

Brideshead Revisted is a great novel becaue its decades-long story has something for everyone. Carefree college antics, coming-of-age angst, love affairs, guilt, religious identity, family drama, the place of Catholics in English society, and some great papist insider jokes. There a so many different facets to ponder, and I've added a page to this blog tracking some of my favorite recent commentary on it.

For me, BR continues to be an obsession because it's all about decorative arts, yo. Architecture and home furnishings are practically the star of the show. Like the Flyte family in Charles' life, BR passages kept popping into my head when I started my master's program at a "museum and country estate."

"Is the dome by Inigo Jones too? It looks later."
"Oh Charles, don't be such a tourist. What does it matter when it was built, if it's pretty?"
"It's the sort of thing I like to know."

All the descriptions of the Flyte family house make so much more sense now. On my first visit to Winterthur, I scoffed at its seemingly redundant acres of antique furniture. Gradually, as I learned to guide tourists through the corridors, I discovered the joy of paying close visual attention to the things around me. After all, historical context is the sort of thing I like to know too.

It was an aesthetic education to live within those walls, to wander from room to room, from the Soanesque library to the Chinese drawing-room, adazzle with gilt pagodas and nodding mandarins, painted paper and Chippendale fret-work, from the Pompeian parlor ... to sit, hour after hour, in the pillared shade looking out over the terrace.

The Chinese Parlor at Winterthur, full of painted paper and Chippendale fret-work.

Even though Charles Ryder is a total jerk sometimes, I do identify with his artistic journey. Eventually shedding his lazy undergrad ways, he soaks up all the art around him, tries his first big painting project, and eventually makes a career out of documenting historic architecture. As the existential trauma that is grad school fades, I tend to remember fondly my two years "in arcadia": with unlimited access to an eight-story mansion.

Most of the time I use my "looking at furniture" master's degree to make obnoxious comments about the background in Downton Abbey scenes (oh man, that William and Mary high chest in Mrs. Crawley's parlor), but I'm still obsessed with photographing architecture. Like Charles, I feel closer to the big truths in life when I'm pondering beautiful things. 

An Open Letter to the Archdiocese of New York About Holy Innocents

Dear Cardinal Dolan,

Greetings in Christ! Like you, I am a transplant to the NYC area with Midwestern roots. It was an honor to attend the young adult Mass you celebrated at St. Patrick's Cathedral last December. Your joyful witness to our Catholic faith is such an inspiration.

It's come to my attention that the Archdiocese of New York is considering closing several churches. It's always a shame to see a parish go, but I get it. Neighborhood demographics change, and we're no longer in an era where multiple ethnic parishes need to co-exist within blocks of each other. Urban dioceses now find themselves with more real estate than they can handle. New York is an old city full of historic buildings, but it's also constantly evolving.

Among the parishes under consideration for closure is Holy Innocents on West 37th Street. Its closure would be a great loss to the spiritual life of the this city and a regrettable mistake.

The parish entrance on West 37th. 

I've gotten to know the parishes of Midtown West because of my daily commute from New Jersey to Brooklyn through Penn Station. Once Penn was a magnificent landmark, a beautiful space carefully designed by a famous architect. But Manhattan changed, as it always does, and the old Penn was deemed unnecessary. You know the rest - good design was demolished and replaced with a smaller dungeon. Today that unnecessary, beautiful old station is sorely missed and needed. The new Penn is too overcrowded to meet commuters' needs, let alone elevate their daily lives.

When I get weary from spending two hours a day in crowded underground metal boxes, I know there are refuges of peace and grace not far away. At first glance, consolidating the parishes of Midtown West might seem like an obvious practical move. There are three churches within five blocks of Penn Station, an embarrassment of religious riches. The largest of these, St. Francis, offers an impressive array of sacrament times and ministries, seemingly enough to serve the area. Both St. Francis and Holy Innocents have been godsends on bad days. St. Francis is like the department store of sacraments - it's big, convenient, and offers a wide selection to suit your needs. Mass, adoration, and confession happen nonstop during rush hour. I'm eternally grateful for the kind wisdom offered by Franciscan friars willing to get up early so we can sleepily stare each other down in a confessional at 8am.

If St. Francis is Macy's, Holy Innocents is an independent boutique. Its building is smaller and more intimate, marked by a small neon cross peeking out between wholesale clothing shops and a kosher falafel/shwarma place. It has fewer Mass times, but what it does offer is superb. The reverent liturgies there are exquisite and even better, accessible. Attend any of their Latin masses, and you'll see everyone from commuters in business attire to the kid in a plastic vest who was hawking tour bus tickets outside. Getting to know the extraordinary form of the Mass can be challenging. To us born after Vatican II, this part of our Catholic heritage feels like a foreign country. Holy Innocents makes our liturgical patrimony feel one of the rich cultural experiences available here in NYC, ready for new explorers to dive right in. At other homes of the EF I've felt like an outsider, but at Holy Innocents I've only found a warm welcome with humility, not snobbery. 

The Constantino Brumidi mural at Holy Innocents

The EF Mass could happen at any parish, but there are two more reasons not to close this gem of a church.

1. Closing Holy Innocents would mean the loss of an important artist's work. The mural behind the altar is an historic fresco by Constantino Brumidi, the same Italian immigrant who decorated the rotunda of the US Capitol building in the 1860s. Brumidi is so significant, he posthumously received the Congressional Medal of Honor in 2012. He left Italy because he was on the outs with Pope Gregory XVI, so a painting he did for the Church is an ironic rarity. Much as I love the Apotheosis of Washington, the sacrifice of Calvary is even more valuable. The parish has already invested a good deal of time and money to restore the mural's original brilliance. The scaffolding currently surrounding St. Patrick's Cathedral demonstrates the Archdiocese's commitment to historic preservation, so I know the Church can continue to keep up with the federal government in promotion of great art.

Brumidi's Apotheosis of Washington mural in the Capitol rotunda
(Via Architect of the Capitol)

2.  On a more practical note, Midtown West is just too crowded for just one parish. The soon-to-open 7 subway line extension and Hudson Yards redevelopment are only going to bring more traffic to the West Side. (My job involves transit news, so I have subway construction on the brain.) If there's a Duane Reade every ten feet in this town, surely one busy neighborhood can handle multiple churches.

For example, on Good Friday my husband and I initially planned to attend the 3 pm liturgy at St. Francis since it was earlier than other nearby offerings. Arriving at 2:45, we found It was already standing room only with packed aisles. So we walked up six blocks to the 3:30 at Holy Innocents, which was also well attended. If St. Francis is that busy now, imagine the crowds with two more parishes' worth of attendees. 

Please, don't make the same mistake the railroads did with Penn Station. Holy Innocents is cherished now and elevates the lives of many New Yorkers. It may be even more needed in the future.

God bless,
Sarah D. 

Commuter Show and Tell Purse Dump

Kendra at Catholic All Year did a purse dump linkup recently. I love these things because it's fun to see what other people carry around. Also: material culture! You're welcome, historians of the future. Here's what some ladies of the Twenty-Teens were schlepping around.

This is the random brand, fake leather big bag that I take to work every day. I've mentioned before that I am always on the lookout for functionality in a bag.

I found her on Columbus Day at a TJ Maxx under the Queensboro Bridge. The cross-body strap and multiple interior pockets were key selling points. She's looking a little worse for wear these days - note broken clasps replaced by classy carabiner clips. Also, my black wool winter coat appears to be wearing off on her. A spring/summer upgrade may be in my future.

First, the commuter survival essentials I can't do without.

From top left I have:

• Book to read, currently Well Behaved Women Seldom Make History by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich. The NYPL has the most efficient inter-branch loan systems I've ever seen. All 7 of my holds arrived at once last week so I'm trying to keep up with due dates.
• Wallet, because even with a bag full of stuff sometimes you have to run to Duane Reade or a food truck. 
• Umbrella, because the day you forget it will be the day it pours. 
• Hand sanitzer, because sometimes you have to touch subway poles. 
• NJTransit monthly pass and MetroCard holder so I can get to my office. The Vera Bradley pouch was a thank-you gift from a former intern after I served as a job reference. The plastic holder is a vintage image of Grand Central, because Penn is too hideous to put on merchandise.
• Headphones, because sometimes trains are noisy and you need to tune out the world with a podcast. 
• Staff ID from the Museum's fundraising gala in October. Because I never clean out my purse? 
• Business card holder - the image is a detail of the Roy Lichtenstein mural at the 42nd Street/Times Square subway station. 

Next is all the cosmetic/medical stuff that keeps me from making emergency Duane Reade purchases.

From top left: 

• Cough drops
• Heat patches for when my back acts up
• Tea bags for when I need a hot drink
• Gum for fresh breath
• Bandaids for shoe blisters and for papercuts while rolling 900 Gala poster favors
• Hand lotion for dry winter weather
• Ibuprofen for headaches - I refill it from our big generic container at home
• Hair ties for ponytail emergencies
• Vincent Van Gogh lens cloth from the Carnegie Art Institute gift shop
• Lip gloss - it's poppin'
• Pens and mechanical pencil
• Target generic Lactaid pills, because I am lactose intolerant but still like cheese
• Tissue, because cold season
• Spare pair of socks? Ok
• Fingerless gloves, a random purchase from the street vendor outside my Brooklyn subway stop. Even street urchins like to keep warm while using their iPhones. 

And finally here's the random paper stuff that I removed thanks to this exercise.  

Left to right: outdated train schedule, playbill from seeing a Broadway show with my aunt and cousin, outdated museum children's calendar, notepad for weekly staff meetings.

Not pictured: keys, coffee travel mug, foldable nylon tote bag (it's currently holding 15 posters of Grand Central Terminal) and various lunch tupperware containers. My sweet husband makes me coffee every morning and packs me a lunch so I can get out the door bright and early to catch my train. And then I join the herds of commuters carrying at least one bag across the river and down the tracks. 

St. Joseph the Worker

Teaching young Jesus how not to lose a finger to a plane.

Today is the feast of St. Joseph the Worker. This is a young saint day, established by Pope Pius XII in 1955 in response to Communist "May Day" celebrations. Other countries still observe May Day/International Worker's Day. (This includes my Romanian colleagues, lucky ducks.) Dear St. Joseph really does deserve extra days dedicated to his awesomeness. His wife has about a bazillion, after all. His vocation as spouse, parent, and laborer is something anyone can relate to.

Those are some legit clamps on that work bench. Source. 

I really could use some help in the labor department these days, since I'm still an underemployed twenty-something. The museum of my dreams liked me a lot, but decided to hire a good friend of mine instead. This one hurts. I hope that place and I can "still be friends," but this does feel an awful lot like a prom love triangle. To top it off, my awesome temp job is finally ending.

I feel terribly adrift, but really this change is the best thing to happen in a while. It's time for something new. Despite all the uncertainty, I have a feeling that God wouldn't let me lose my job unless He had something better in store. Guess I'll fire up the novenas again.

By John Collier. Via Terry Nelson at Abbey Roads. 

Last weekend I went to confession at a nearby church named for Jesus' foster father. As I knelt before his statue, I looked up and noticed the hatchet in Joseph's hands. And realized I'm an idiot.

Who better to ask for help in my job search than the patron saint of workers? Wouldn't Joseph love to examine some historic furniture with me? I'm sure he'd be great at identifying wood types or tool marks. Did he, like me, make a mess of things the first time he tried to use a gouge? Did he sneeze from all the wood shavings in his nose? I wonder what he would have thought of Thomas Chippendale's Director.

I tried some planing in Colonial Williamsburg last year. Photo courtesy of JRG. 

So St. Joseph the Worker, please pray for me to find a job. And pray for everyone adrift in this messy economy of ours, whether they are new graduates or old veterans hoping to retire. Remind us that no work is pointless if it's done for God.

7 Quick Takes Volume 19

I just realized I have been numbering these all wrong; I've done way more than I thought. Thanks, Jen for hosting. And for keeping the link-up open all weekend for procrastinators like me.

1. Yesterday I moved to a new desk at my job for the fourth time. Some people are annoyed that 7 of us are sharing a room, but I'm just happy to be within earshot of my department again.

2. I am determined not to pay full price for a gown from a bridal salon, but that didn't keep me from trying on dresses last weekend with my sister and mom in tow. It's funny how things I liked on paper look silly on me in person, and how my attitude toward wedding dresses has evolved now that I am engaged. With every dress, I pondered "Would I want to be the minister of a sacrament in this dress?" What I like to wear to a party and what I want to look like for a life-changing solemn moment are different. Textiles have meaning, you know ;-)

3. Still, wedding dress ads are pretty entertaining for their sheer ridiculousness alone. On my material culture blog I wrote about some that featured zombie models and classic Hollywood references.

4. I've been trying not to focus on the HHS mandate as much, because it's just stressing me out. But I couldn't help laughing at this juxtaposition of articles in my Facebook newsfeed: a piece from the feminist website Jezebel entitled "Law Will Allow Employers to Fire Women for Using Whore Pills." immediately followed by a Human Life International article, "The Assault on Femininity: Is Fertility the Next Down Syndrome?"
Both articles were not afraid of hyperbole, but obviously I'm more inclined to agree with the latter. The politics of fertility - it's a big deal, ya'll.

5. This year's gluten free Irish soda bread turned out pretty well. Baking with teff flour is always weird - things can come out dry and a little greenish. But this loaf is pretty tasty with butter and a schmear of marmalade.

6. I've been a little bummed that The Betrothed isn't around to go see the cherry blossoms, try new restaurants, go to daily Mass etc. But this afternoon I decided "Screw it, I'm going on adventure by myself." So I drove the 30 miles downtown to attend Gregorian chant vespers at St. Matthew's Cathedral. It was awesome. Then I took a long walk down 16th Street, which ends in...the White House! That was also awesome. As were the blossoming trees and the windows-down weather. Solo excursions can be fun.

7. It's the 4th week of Lent - Happy Laetare Sunday! I'll leave you with Matisyahu's reggaeton version of today's responsorial psalm.

Evelyn Waugh blog alert!

As I have mentioned on this blog before, I like Evelyn Waugh's writing. A lot. A crotchety, snarky English convert to Catholicism, he alternates between withering criticism of modern society and flowery episodes of spellbinding beauty. 


I'm always excited to find Waugh devotees online - there are even some other blogs with Brideshead Revisited as their namesake! 


The Black Cordelias ( "Send five bob and ask your friends to do the same.")  cites young Cordelia's hilarious enthusiasm for sponsoring babies in the foreign missions. Kudos to this blog's group of authors for finding such adorable pictures of kids in nun costumes.


Sacred Monkeys of the Vatican is a lovely collection of "The Strange, the Random, and the Beautiful." Its author gets a million bonus points for mentioning Cordelia's pranking of half-hearted convert Rex Mottram. That poor unsuspecting Canadian. Teenage little sisters make the worst RCIA instructors.


Earlier this week Why I am A Catholic posted about the convert's prayer in Helena, one of Waugh's loveliest but more obscure works. In that passage, recently-baptized St. Helen prays to the Magi, reflecting on how she and they were late-arriving pilgrims. 


Another of my favorite passages in Helena is her exchange with the peddler who helps her locate the true Cross. (There are some unfortunate twinges of "wandering Jew" anti-Semitism in that character, but that's another story.) Their discussion of relics and kitsch is so marvelously full of material culture. (Emphasis mine.)

"'How I see it, this new religion of the Galilean may be in for quite a run. A religion starts, no one knows how. Soon, you get holy men and holy places springing up everywhere, old shrines change their names, there's apparitions and pilgrimages. There'll be ladies wanting other things besides the cross. All one wants is to get the thing started properly. One wants a few genuine relics in thoroughly respectable hands. Then everyone else will follow. There won't be enough genuine stuff to meet the demand. That will be my turn. I shall get paid. I wouldn't take anything from you now, lady. Glad to see you have the cross. It won't cost you a thing.' 

Helena listened and in her mind saw, clear as all else on that brilliant timeless morning, what was in store. She saw the sanctuaries of Christendom become a fair ground, stalls hung with beads and medals, substances yet unknown pressed into sacred emblems; heard a chatter of haggling in tongues yet unspoken. She saw the treasuries of the Church filled with forgeries and impostures. She saw Christians fighting and stealing to get possession of trash. She saw all this, considered it and said:'It's a stiff price'; and then: 'Show me the cross.'"

Excessive materialism is the ironic flipside of a faith steeped in sensory beauty and physical reminders of the divine. If there are beautiful cathedrals, there can also be glow-in-the-dark Jesus ashtrays, crusaders bickering over bones of saints, and near hoarder-levels of holy card collecting. But is tangible connection to God worth with risk? Oh yeah. 

The Cross, Conversion, and Chippendale Chairs

I've really enjoyed following the Bright Maidens' Lenten blog series, especially this week's installment about conversion. I've had conversion on the brain lately since I've been following Kassie, Brit, and Kortni's poignant journeys into joining the Catholic Church this Easter. Being a cradle Catholic, I never had the experience of a dramatic leap into the truth, but lately I've been realizing that God requires a change of heart at every stage of life.
Elizabeth's Bright Maidens post really resonated with me since she described the stage that I'm grappling with right now - figuring out how to balance my faith and my professional life. When I interviewed at my grad program, I described my volunteer work with the poor and my love for fancy museums as "two halves of me that I'm trying to reconcile." Two years later, that is still a work in progress.

One of the new lambs on the museum grounds

When you spend most hours cramming information into your brain, there is little energy left to worry about your soul. Sometimes it's hard to see life beyond stacks of books and papers. I feel like to much of academia, my church-going is just a quaint hobby that makes me really good at art history trivia. It's only slightly more relevant to modern society than Civil War re-enacting, and probably less palatable since re-enactors don't ever tell people their choices are immoral. What do my beliefs have to offer modernity except the Cross and self-denial? That's a hard sell, and its discouraging. I've gotten a little too jaded about how crazy and kitchy Christianity must seem to outsiders.

I'm startling to realize that this is another conversion opportunity. I have to decide to be Catholic not because it's what my parents taught me, or because I'm afraid of hell, or even because I loved my college campus ministry community. No, it has to be something I choose myself, today, for the way I live right now. But exactly how do I make that choice?

Lamb of God headstone at my Delaware parish

God gave my jumbled mind and heart a breakthrough this Tuesday as I sat with the daily readings in my local parish. My over-academic brain noticed that there was a lot of material culture in the Gospel accounts of Holy Week - clothes, dishes, donkeys, attic spaces, plants, money. Maybe the two halves of me weren't so separate after all...

I thought about all the reasons why Catholics are supposedly weird:
- We talk about people and things most people have never heard of. Oh wait, that's what my classmates and I do all day long. Normal people don't spend car rides discussing Chippendale chairs, museum ethics, vernacular architecture theories, or Jackson Lears' conception of antimodernism.
- We have goofy rituals and traditions that are off-putting to outsiders. Well, at grad school dinner parties we flip over chairs, climb under tables, and analyze the china. (Seriously, I did that last weekend.)
- Then there's that sticky final issue of poverty and self denial. Frankly, I can't think of a better way to describe getting a master's degree or PhD. Case closed.

late 1800s embroidered Lamb of God burse at Church of the Transfiguration, NYC

Really, the two halves of me work best when they are in tandem. Catholicism has given me an advantage as an historian, and not just in the trivia department. When I look at the world through the eyes of faith, I can see connections everywhere - the hand of Providence in good things, Old Testament allusions in the Mass, words of hymns that pertain to certain moments, experiences that I can compare to events in Christ's life. The entire world is bound together by the love of God, the waters of Baptism, the tangible mystery that is the Eucharist. When I was at Mass tonight, I was connected to thousands of people who lived centuries before me.

There are times when studying history feels similar. Sometimes my mind envisions a timeline of people and events stretching back through the decades, connected by threads of causes and ideas. Good history books weave a complex web of lives and stories to help us understand how the world got the way it is now. The best way I can try to explain it is a kind of 3-D or polarized filter, and you have to make a point to turn it on.

Today, Holy Thursday, I turned in my master's thesis about Episcopal vestments. The whole thing is secretly about the allure of the Eucharist, so it's perfect that it ended on the day Christ instituted that very sacrament. Maybe God is trying to tell me something.

For the rest of the Triduum, I'll be praying for the converts waiting to be Confirmed, and working on my own conversion. I'll be praying for God to open the eyes of my heart, so I can see the connections that have yet to be made.

Material Culture Alert: Interior Decorating

So my Monday didn't start so well. I left my laptop's power cable at home and on my way in from the museum parking lot I slipped, fell, and skinned my knee. What am I, five years old?

Things got better, though, when I got to hear a guest speaker talk about  the late 1800's phenomenon of interior photography. It was all the rage to have a professional come in and document your house, and then have him make a nifty gift book with a photo tour of your abode. Pictures of college dorm rooms were also very popular. 

Swarthmore College

One man kept the shot of his senior year sitting room all his life - you could see it proudly displayed in photos of his adult bedroom, along with the name tag that hung over the dorm room door.

This was all very interesting and of course reminded how people still document how the live at college and elsewhere. In the interest of the historical record, here are shots I took of my room in the VSC house during my first week...

...and halfway through the year. Observe how personal objects have transformed a former convent "cell" into a twenty-something's crash pad.

 

 Yeah, that was a pretty messy day, but you can learn some interesting things about me. First, my sensitivity to light when sleeping, hence the ghetto blanket/curtain. The pictures on the wall are from Williamsburg and the National Gallery of Art. The tote bag on the bed was a thrift store find. The purple cup on the desk is evidence of my "cup hog" hoarding habit as I tried to stay hydrated. There's a book on the floor because would read in bed but have nowhere to set the book when I fell asleep (I still do this.)

You're welcome, historians of the 2100s. I photographed the whole house if you're looking for a master's thesis topic.

Material Culture Alert: Collections Storage

Well, now I am back in Delaware - break's over. I returned with even more stuff in my car than when I departed, thanks to my parents' offsite storage unit. We all pitched in to empty it out, sending a full U-Haul to the dump. In between trash boxes and broken furniture, my siblings and I retrieved a few long-lost and almost-forgotten goodies. I made off with most of my books from undergrad history classes, along with a large scented candle, exercise resistance cables, my yoga mat, some jewelry, and a perfectly good watch that I had never worn for some reason. It was like a yard sale, only we already owned everything.

It's hard to believe that it was three years ago we packed up many of our belongings to make way for mold remediation and renovations. What was supposed to be a three month project turned into a year-long home improvement odyssey. I'm grateful for our shiny new mold-free house, but still contemplating what we've lost in the process. No longer do I arrive at the familiar home I knew with its brown carpet, wobbly banister, and floral wallpaper. Forever I will regret not making photo documentation of each room before the drywall started flying. That U-Haul took away a lot of the past too - childhood toys, Halloween costumes, and storybooks. Have we lost our memories? Or are we just making room for new ones? Honestly, we haven't missed too much from that storage unit. We've survived just fine without most of it for the past three years. As an historian, I know that memory is constantly evolving and being created. The smaller material record does not mean my childhood never happened.

 Oh, and in other news there is a man in my coffee shop wearing a Ravens jersey and Union Civil War cap narrating Japanese obstacle course game shows. Earlier his friend was discussing going to Confession in Italy. Even earlier there were two little kids repeating "underwear" and giggling uncontrollably. Not gonna lie, this might be more entertaining than the library. 

Material Culture Alert: Travel bags

True confessions: I am a tote bag addict. Ever since I started carrying books in them in college, I've accumulated almost a dozen different bags of various materials. They range from a Duaghters of Charity grocery tote to a Vera Bradley that was a birthday gift. Lately I've been a fan of a fleur-de-lis print bag from The Beau's mom.
Sadly, I am also a tote bag destroyer. Thanks to my heavy computer and tendency to carry a million books, I've busted the straps on two stylish bags and worn out countless others. I can never find exactly the right fit, so I keep collecting more totes..   

So after ruining the straps of my last two computer bags, I decided to abandon cuteness for total practicality. The savvy laptop tote from eBags.com has proven to be some of the best $40 I ever spent. Its rugged straps are firmly attached and won't dig into my shoulder. There are a gazillion pockets, including side hatches for bulky water bottles and umbrellas. There is even a strap on the back for attaching it to a suitcase handle!

Though plain looking, this awesome bag can hold my big laptop along with tons of other items and still fit under the seat of a plane. The nylon construction means it is waterproof and not too heavy on its own. Seriously, I cannot say enough good things about it, or how glad I was to have it on my 4 airport journey this weekend. If it's not your style, eBags has a laptop bag finder widget where you can search their huge inventory by computer model.
I promise not to become one of those bloggers who is always shilling products, and eBags was in no way involved in this review, but I couldn't help wanting to spread the word about my trusty traveling companion.

Material Culture Alert: The man in the big red suit

Last week my class had the wonderful opportunity to take a short end-of-semester field trip to the Boston area.  Part of the time was spent in the Museum of Fine Arts' new Art of the Americas wing, which is absolutely glorious. I couldn't help noticing a common theme throughout the portraits : the red suit.  In the eighteenth century textiles were costly, and so clothing in portraits could show off one's gentility and status. I was amazed how many examples there were of men in an outfit that is today reserved for Santa Claus. 

Here's Nathanial Sparhawk, painted by John Singleton Copley in 1768. He was a successful merchant in Maine, but his house was nowhere near as grand as this backdrop.

 

John Singleton Copley also painted Samuel Adams in a red suit around 1772.

 

Across the pond in England, Thomas Gainsborough painted this portrait of hospital benefactor John Eld of Seighford Hall, Stafford in 1775.

Here's French artist JeanJacques Caffieri, painted by Swede Adolf Ulric Werftmuller in 1784.

 

The red suit persisted through several decades, as this1793 painting of Bostonians Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Russell by John Trumbull. Their arm-in-arm pose was the latest trend from England.

I wonder what portrait fads will look funny to future generations. Maybe jumping photos of entire wedding parties?

Material Culture Alert: Rosary stories

October is the month of the rosary, and in honor of that some Catholic bloggers are sharing their own rosaries and the stories behind them. For instance, the always-entertaining Kat is featuring rosaries all month on The Crescat. So here's my contribution.

First of all, I should confess that the Rosary and I have not always been super close. When you are a kid it can seem endlessly boring. I've had my share of not-great rosary experiences: kneeling on the cafeteria floor in middle school; late at night in the living room when none of my siblings managed to stay awake past the first decade; or those parking lot May Crowning procession that never, ever work, no matter how hard you try to keep your Hail Marys on pace with the people in front of you.

A turning point for me was Pope John Paul II's apostolic letter Rosarium Virginis Mariae. He explained that the whole point is not how piously you enunciate each bead, but rather how you contemplate the face of Christ. It's not mindless repetition, it's tuning out the world to meditate on events in scripture.

Since then, I've been finding new ways to incorporate the Rosary into my life. Keeping one near my bed has helped me through many a night of insomnia. Road trips are another good opportunity. Lately, I've prayed through workouts, challenging myself to jog for just one more decade. Although, I learned the hard way today that even though prayer and running are zen, and treadmills technically keep you on a stationary path, you should still not close your eyes!

I have owned numerous rosaries over the the years - agate, pearl, faceted, plastic, Our Father medallions depicting the four Roman basilicas, made out of colored cord on a Jamaica service trip. One was blessed with a relic of Padre Pio, and another was given by a crush at World Youth Day who was bound for the seminary. But the one I want to talk about is the one on my rear view mirror that I see every day. It represents one of my fantastic rosary moments.

When I was a senior in high school, I was sure that I should go to Catholic University in D.C. I had a great time visiting, some friends were going there, and why wouldn't God want me to further my Catholic education? In the end, though, it came down to money, and I had to settle for my second-choice state school.

The week my parents and I made the decision, I was devastated and confused. How could this be the way God wanted it? Happily, there was a chapel at my school with the Blessed Sacrament, so I went there during a free period. In the dim light, I grabbed a plastic rosary from the basket by the door and plopped myself down at the altar rail to demand some answers. One decade along, I looked down at my hands - the rosary had green and yellow beads. The colors of my state school.

That state school ended up being one of the best decisions I ever made. I didn't know then how much it would make me learn and grow. But God knew, and I like to think that He and His Mom decided to send me a little hug of encouragement about it that day.
The rosary in my car is not the original from that story, but it's close. It put it there to remind me that God's providence is never far away, even if it can be mysterious.

What about you, my very few readers? What is your favorite rosary? Do you have any good rosary-related stories?

Material Culture Alert: Pants are evil!

Pants are evil. At least that's what my classmate N-slice and I have decided. Pants never do what you want. If you fail to conform to their shape, they either sag and droop or compress your internal organs. Skirts, on the other hand, are forgiving and flexible. Skirts are our friends, especially in a fancy-pants museum school.

Now, you may be aware that there are some conservative religious groups wherein pants on women are evil. My fave Arkansas family the Duggars are an example of this, as are some Catholic homeschooling factions. In their eyes, pants undermine modesty, chastity, the role of women in the family, and the natural complementary differences between the sexes. Those are big issues, so I respect their worrying about them. The worry can lead to some extreme ideas, though. Naturally, if you look around the internet, you can find people in crazy arguements about this topic. For instance:

This article I found today is well meaning, heartfelt ... and totally nuts. When the author suggested that you take your husband shopping with you so he can pick out your clothes, I had to laugh out loud. It also seems to imply that pants simultaneously make you look too fat, too sexual, and too "cheap." Dude, which is it?

This post in response is snarky, skeptical, and full of female common sense. I laughed out loud more than once. Basically it says "I am a busy mom chasing after my kids - PANTS!"

All day I've been hashing out what I would write in response to these ideas about modesty and gender roles. Why can't I stop thinking about it? Here's my own itemized pants/skirt manifesto.

1. This is a material culture issue - clothing has both individual and social meaning. Clothing can assert control, reinforce a group affiliation, express individual creativity, and yes, offend those around you.
2. Longing for the "good old days" of modest clothing is bad history scholarship. Have you ever seen a Hogarth engraving from the 1700s? Not much modesty there. Granted, immodesty may be much more visible and diverse now, but it always existed within the social constructs of its time. That's another thing - clothing culture is a language that evolves. In Jesus' time, everyone wore long robes. Was that blurring the sexes too much?
3. There is extreme immodesty in our culture, but you don't have to go to opposite extremes to combat the cultural poison of, say, Jersey Shore.
   
4. Last night I read Ira Levin's novel The Stepford Wives. That book is a worst case scenario of caricatured gender relations, but the first article has some similarities. In both worlds, men admire women for their beauty, and want to direct how that beauty is displayed and idealized. The Stepford husbands wanted impossible women who would do endless chores with no personal needs; the other author appears to want the impossibility of never remembering that women are sexually attractive.
   
5. I'm the kind of person who takes spiritual advice much too seriously, especially when it is strict. Last year I read Colleen Hammond's Dressing With Dignity, and it troubled me for weeks. Was I really buying into a modern conspiracy of Marxism, Freemasonry, and the downfall of civilization as we know it? Padre Pio, a profoundly holy man, wouldn't even hear the confessions of women in pants. Was he looking down from heaven ashamed of me and my wide leg dress trousers? But then I remembered - that was one holy man's opinion. He was not infallible and he was influenced by the context of his time.
   
6. Lastly, having itemized lists of rules or forbidding entire genres of garments outright is not an adult moral approach. This is a lesson I'm learning myself, since I tend to like structure and direction. But I'm not in my high school anymore with its regulation of shirt collars and prom dress straps. There is no papal checklist approving or condemning every item of clothing you might ever try on in a store. As adults in a mature relationship with God, we must take our properly formed consciences and apply them to the unpredictability and diversity of daily life.
   

So that's my rant. No, I don't think skirts are evil signs of patriarchal oppression. I like wearing skirts and how they make me feel feminine and polished. I like when The Beau tells me I look pretty or my female classmates compliment me on a new dress. Some colleagues are bigger fans of pants, but they still look feminine.

Historic wallpaper: the past was not sepia toned

Here's a collage of nineteenth century wallpapers and floor coverings that I saw on the New England trip. Most are reproductions from Old Sturbridge and Salem.

Interior accents like these always remind me of how colorful, and even downright busy, the visual world of the past was. Would 1830s New Englanders find my neutral toned apartment boring and lower class?

On the other hand, I was just struck with an earnest desire to own a pair of orange shoes.

Material Culture Alert: Cameras

My lack of posts recently is due to the fact that I have been traveling almost nonstop for a solid month. With The Beau, my family, and my grad school class I have managed to visit every southern state except Georgia and Kentucky. It's been great, but I'm looking forward to being back in my apartment for a while.

On the road I lost a valuable companion - Theodora the camera. Somewhere between New Orleans' French Quarter, the LSU campus, and being locked in a hot car in Florida, her focus and shutter went out of whack. We've spent three years and thousands of pictures together, and not gonna lie, I'm still in the camera grieving process. I salute you, my valiant little DSLR.
While the wounds were still fresh I had to run out and buy a replacement in time for my week-long school trip. I basically grabbed my cheapest option at Best Buy, but it is a Nikon with 12 megapixels.

I've heard that a skilled photographer can produce interesting shots even with a point-and-shoot, so this will be a good test for me. So far this little cherry-red number has worked pretty well, except for low light and long depth of field. No offense, Theodora ,but it has been nice not to be weighed down with a huge camera while running from museums to historic houses.

Sweet Dreams

The Chinese drawing Room was ...a splendid, uninhabitable museum of Chippendale carving and porcelain and laquer and painted hangings; the "Queen' bed," too, was an exhibition piece, a vast velvet tent like the Baldachino at St. Peter's. Had Lord Marchmain planned this lying in state for himself, I wondered, before he left the sunshine of Italy? ... Had it come to him at that moment, an awakened memory of childhood, a dream in the nursury - "When I'm grown up, I'll sleep in the Queen's bed in the Chinese Drawing room"?

(Brideshead Revisited, page 316)

When I was a kid I really, really wanted a canopy bed too. I think it fed from the same princess complex that made me desire Cinderella pajamas, cone-shaped hats with sweeping veils, and ballroom dances with my dad that consisted mostly of low dips, much to the chagrin of his spinal alignment.

I've been reading a lot about state beds such as this red one from Kent's Melville house, and am reconsidering their appeal. My apartment's ancient heat pump can't keep up with the winter cold, so right now sleeping surrounded by draperies sounds pretty darn good. On the other hand, I read today that heavy drapes invited germs and bed bugs. Iron bed frames became popular in the Victorian era as a more "hygienic" sleeping option.

Still, those canopies are great fun. One of my fellow students proposes that our post-graduation class picture be all 8 of us snuggling in the Great Bed of Ware, which supposedly could sleep fifteen people. With so much carving and expensive textiles, it's ridiculous even by 1590 standards.
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Material Culture Alert: Toyota Corolla

Have you ever named your car? I never knew of this concept until high school. When I was a kid, we called Mom's Ford station wagon and Dad's Toyota by the very uncreative names "brown car" and "red car."

Now I have inherited the "red car," and I can't seem find a name for it. My siblings of course suggested choosing some historical figure, but the only moniker that sticks is "My poor little car." This vehicle is a champ, but it has surely seen better days. It did turn twenty years old this year, after all! Toyota Corolla engines are fantastically reliable, but no plastic interior parts are meant to last two decades. Here are some of my "poor little car's" battle scars:

• Broken driver's side door handle
• Detached rear view mirror
• Ceiling upholstery that fell off, was held on with bobby pins and plastic picnic knives, and then finally replaced
• Driver's side door paint is corroding
• Left passenger door will only open from the inside
• Front passenger seat belt sticks closed
• Gear shift plastic case has cracked
• Interior light only turns on for driver's door
  

It doesn't help that I am sometimes a klutzy driver. I still feel guilty about driving with the parking break on and losing the original gas cap. So much so that I let Jiffy Lube snooker me into getting the "power steering fluid exchange" with my oil change. It's only $60 extra!

As much as I love the Red Car, it might be time for a new one. Say, a 1998 Corolla that actually has air bags, power door locks, and anti-lock brakes. I did some shopping around over break, and will keep checking Autotrader.com.

My Dad jokes that cars can tell when you are thinking of replacing them. My Poor Little Car seems to be doing that. Just before I drove back to school, Dad and I found a gash in one of the front tires. There went my afternoon and $200 to buy new treads. Hey Little Car, I still love you! Didn't I wax you lovingly before you came to school with me? Didn't I decorate you with window decals from the finest Virginia public college? Heck, I even bought you a new starter in September! Even if we go our seperate ways, I'll still be loyal to your family.