Bronze statue of Benjamin Franklin, mid-19th century |
My friend Richard can restore any object in the universe. His particular talent lies in cars and furniture. He is very happy when you bring him an old piece; Victorian, perhaps, or early American.
He’ll walk
around, shaking his head. “I think this chest was supposed to be painted. The
wood is pine. Somebody stripped it and stained it to dress it up, but that’s
wrong.
“The guy who
made this – he went out to his barn one morning and said, ‘I’ll use these
boards lying around, and those cotter-pin hinges.’
“It’s not
meant to be fancy. Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out.”
Driving away, he’s already got
it, if you know what I mean.
Later, he’ll describe how the
chest looked originally and the mistakes made by the person who tried to restore
it a half-century later.
I can almost
see my husband’s grandmother – her name was Marian – nodding her head and
making that funny clucking sound, recalling something about its provenance and which
room it graced in the family home on Church Street in Naugatuck, Connecticut.
Her father,
a physician named Edwin Johnson, had an eye for antiques. Born in 1867, he grew
up the son of a joiner. That’s a carpenter who builds decorative pieces like
crown molding and balustrades. The construction of those items usually occurs
in a workshop, but Edwin’s father must have been installing something when he
fell off a roof and was injured badly.
The family had enough money
to send Edwin to a private boarding school in Litchfield, Connecticut. Then he
went off to study medicine at the University of Vermont. Sometime during the
1880s he married and was widowed; in 1890 he remarried to Cora Collins, an
imperious young lady from Hillsborough, N.H.
“There were two villages, upper
and lower,” Marian explained the first time we met. “The Collinses were from
the upper village. And that (she pointed to a bureau) is the ‘Hillsborough
dresser.’ I remember when it came down in a wagon from my grandparents’ house.”
Cluck, cluck.
By the time Dr. Johnson died
in 1930, he had amassed quite a collection of early American antiques. When his
wife Cora died eight years later, three of their children – the eldest son, a
black sheep, was excluded from everything – arranged a lottery so that the
furnishings could be distributed as equitably as possible.
The "Hillsborough dresser," early 19th century (detail) |
I like to contemplate the overbearing doctor, his life split almost evenly with 33 years in the nineteenth century and 30 years in the twentieth century, having such a strong affinity with furniture created well before he came into the world.
You see, by 1910 when he
accelerated his purchases, the American furniture industry was well underway.
Most Americans were happier with new furniture, with clean unblemished
possessions. Also, new stuff demonstrated that the owner could afford it.
But there was a precedent for sticking with the past.
The
Centennial International Exposition, held in Philadelphia in 1876, was the nation’s
first official world’s fair. Many exciting things happened there, including a
demonstration of Alexander Graham Bell’s first telephone and Sir Joseph
Lister’s lecture about the importance of antiseptic surgery.
Among the exhibitions, the
fair showed examples of American craftsmanship, namely furniture from workshops
such as Duncan Phyfe’s in New York City; also pieces by Philadelphia, Boston,
and Rhode Island cabinetmakers.
Not coincidentally, after
1876 Americans began to appreciate and value American material culture.
Dr. Johnson wasn’t looking
for famous names, however. It turns out that his source, a grizzled Civil War
veteran (is there any other kind?) who lived in rural Connecticut, liked old
things and kept them in the hay loft of his barn. Once in a while the doctor
would come by and purchase a few pieces.
“I’d like to
give my daughter a dining room suite for her wedding,” he once told the man. “This drop-leaf table and those fiddle-back chairs. If you can find me
three more chairs, I’ll buy the lot.”
***
A few years ago, Richard and
I were driving around looking for interesting things. One store was a complete
jumble, but Richard emerged from the way back hugging a grimy metal statue of
Benjamin Franklin contemplating the universe.
“I’m going to refinish this.
Maybe I’ll keep it and maybe I’ll sell it,” he announced. I heard no more about
it until a few weeks later when Richard said there was a problem.
“Lana and Ben aren’t talking
to each other.”
He was referring to a large
oil painting of Lana Turner that hangs in his dining room. Beneath the portrait
is an Empire pier table where the newly refurbished Franklin was supposed to reside.
But it just didn’t work. Richard
has great style and he knew the truth.
Now Ben lives in our house.
He speaks early American.
https://www.throughthehourglass.com/2016/06/ben-franklin-lana-turner.html
No, there are no other kind of civil war veterans but "grizzled!" Hope there's a post coming out that black sheep son, and why he was.
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