West Indian Monster
August 27th, 2011
As choruses of “Irene, Goodnight” ring out from the more enlightened tenements in Greenwich Village, I can’t help regretting the days when storms were christened in more poetic fashion. We don’t yet know whether Hurricane Irene’s New York landfall — forecast for the wee sma’s of Sunday, August 28, 2011 — will enter the annals of history as a great disaster, but it did get me wondering about New York’s previous hurricane history.
The City’s worst recorded storm took place in early September, 1821. It first made landfall in North Carolina, and roared up through the Delmarva penninsula and New Jersey before slamming into New York City and Long Island. This may sound unnervingly familiar if you have been following the track of our 2011 storm. But 1821 hit much harder than Irene is likely to do. 13 foot surges from both rivers pushed across the City, entirely flooding Manhattan south of Canal Street. Jeepers!
In 1893, a serious hurricane — colorfully dubbed the “West Indian Monster” — again tore across the City and Long Island. It completely demolished, as in, it no longer exists, a small barrier island known as Hog Island (because Native Americans kept pigs there). Here’s what The New York Times had to say about conditions in Brooklyn on August 25, 1893:
“In such a savage manner did this West Indian monster of the air conduct itself that when the gray light of dawn came upon the city its inhabitants looked tremblingly forth upon a widespread scene of damage and destruction.”
Then the City was hit again in 1938, by a storm now known as “The Long Island Express.” In that case, I think I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves.
If I only had a canoe…
In all seriousness, we are well stocked with fresh water, non-perishable food, candles, and a battery powered radio. Our building stands in a zone that will only be evacuated in case of a much more serious storm. All our windows are closely flanked by other buildings — usually a source of frustration because of the miserable light that trickles down into our garret. But in this case, we are glad to be so well protected. At the worst, we may be without power for a day or two — a good excuse to turn off the computer and pay attention to something real. I’ll keep you posted.
Like a Drowned Rat
August 25th, 2011
Or maybe a drowned cat.
This picture shows exactly how we felt this afternoon, after we got caught in a sudden rain shower. I’m sure lots of people in New York got caught in the same deluge. But how many of them were dressed in frock coats and top hats, or hoop skirts and bonnets? And how many were carrying a coffin down Broadway?
We’d just finished part two of a massive photo shoot with artist Hal Hirshorn — this time at New York’s beautiful and prestigious Grace Church, consecrated in 1846. So we had all sorts of paraphernalia, equipment, costumes, props, etc. The pall-bearers (4 of the gamest gents I’ve ever met) had already started back with the coffin when the heavens opened. I, carrying the only key to their destination, was a few blocks behind. so I picked up my hoop and raced after them, through puddles that must have been at least 4 or 5 inches deep.
Despite a huge skirt, cage crinoline, corset, and umbrella, I managed to catch up before they got where they were going. As soon as I unlocked the door for the coffin to go in, I realized that the street was closed to traffic — which meant the cab carrying all the photographic equipment would not be able to get close enough to the door, and they had but a single umbrella. I ripped off my sopping dress, and dashed back onto the street in my chemise and corset, to wait on the street corner with another umbrella.
So when all was said and done, I felt — and looked — just like a drowned rat. In a corset.
Petticoat II
August 20th, 2011
I haven’t assembled my cage crinoline kit yet, so the skirt of my monumental broderie anglaise petticoat continues to languish in the closet. I need the cage — not to mention my new corset — in order to properly fit and balance the petticoat on its waistband.
Meanwhile, I’ve begun a crocheted edging for another petticoat. I’m using a pattern from Peterson’s, 1855 (I made a sample of this pattern earlier in the year):
I usually try to avoid crochet patterns that begin “work a chain slightly longer than desired.” I vastly prefer to work one entire repeat at a time, like knitted lace. Unfortunately, most crochet patterns require the header at least to be worked full-length, and this one is no different. After the header and top row of loops though, it’s worked by the repeats. So it could be worse.
It took me about 6 days of fitful work to complete the full-length rows. Now I’m happily hooking away on the fun part. I like to put three breadths of 45 inch cotton into my petticoats — a little narrow for the cage era perhaps, but I need them to be manageable over a horsehair crinoline as well. So, with about 135 inches in my hem, I decided to make 145 inches of edging. I’d rather have to ease the edging onto the hem than the other way round!
I want to get some nice cotton broadcloth (or a nice old sheet) for this petticoat. I’ll definitely tuck it, and have been considering some embroidered inserting, but that may be a bit much…
The real question is, what on earth am I going to do with all these fancy petticoats?
Mourning, Again?
August 19th, 2011
Gosh, it seems like I am forever pretending that I lived in the mid-19th century and one of my relatives just died.
I was at it again yesterday, as we all pitched in to help artist Hal Hirshorn stage the first of three photo shoots in preparation for an upcoming show that I’m curating. This digital snapshot was taken by one of the other models (there were 7 in total, plus a fake corpse and a coffin).
Someday, I’ll make a more cheerful outfit. I’ve often thought of copying this 1846 painting by Charles Cromwell Ingham:
“Buy a flower off a poor girl?” (Yes, I know, wrong era, wrong country.)
Agnes Grey
August 17th, 2011
I love to travel by train. Even though Amtrak no longer has a real club car (the kind where you can get a chocolate malted in a real glass), I still seek out the vestigial “cafe car,” squint my eyes, and pretend I can hear the chink of flatware on the railroad’s monogrammed china. The swaying movement of the train is a perfect accompaniment for my frequently racing thoughts, and I rarely feel so comfortable reading, writing, or just daydreaming as I do while on a train.
Last weekend, on my way to Wilmington, Delaware, I whiled away the two hour trip with a crocheted edge for my next petticoat and a copy of Anne Bronte’s debut novel, Agnes Grey. I finished the book on the way home, a few days later. It was a quick, pleasant read. Nothing terribly moving or deep, but sweet and charming for a purely personal reason: namely, my great-great grandmother was called Agnes Grey.
Anne Bronte, sketched by one of her sisters
Agnes Grey was first published in 1847 as the third volume to Wuthering Heights, by sister Charlotte. It was credited to Acton Bell, Anne’s masculine nom de plume. The story follows its titular character from her sheltered youth as the daughter of a clergyman who falls on hard times, through her two difficult posts as governess to bourgeois families, and to a happy, yet obvious conclusion. Like many novels of its time, Agnes Grey promises to reveal the seamy side for the general moral benefit of its readers. However the revelations are hardly shocking, and it’s hard to feel much sympathy for Agnes, who is diffident to the point of simpering.
I can only hope my own Agnes Grey (the daughter of decayed Scottish nobility whose family immigrated to Philadelphia in the 1840s) had a little more spunk.
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