Encyclopedia of the Exquisite: An Anecdotal History of Elegant Delights Read online

  Copyright © 2010 by Jessica Kerwin Jenkins

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Nan A. Talese/Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.nanatalese.com

  Doubleday is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc. Nan A. Talese and the colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  This page constitutes an extension of this copyright page.

  Illustrations by Elizabeth Haidle

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Jenkins, Jessica Kerwin

  Encyclopedia of the exquisite : an anecdotal history of elegant delights /Jessica Kerwin Jenkins.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  (alk. paper)

  1. Curiosities and wonders. I. Title.

  AG243.K447 2010

  001.94—dc22 2010003191

  eISBN: 978-0-385-53365-2

  v3.1_r1

  For Nico

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  Aerostation

  Alfresco

  Amorini And Putti

  Attitudes

  Black

  Blancmange

  The Bob

  Bon Chrétien

  Boudoir

  Carousel

  Champagne

  Claude Glass

  Confetti

  Countess De Castiglione

  Countess De Castiglione, Posthumously

  Crickets

  Cumulonimbus

  Dahlias And Gladioli

  Dark Tower

  Divan

  Elephantine Colossus

  Enthusiasm

  Fanfare

  Far Niente

  Faux Jewels

  Felines

  Fireworks

  Folly

  Frilly Lingerie

  Giochi D’Acqua

  Gloves

  Heels

  Hello

  Italics

  Jester

  Kimono

  Kumari

  L’Art Pour L’Art

  Lazzi

  Lightning

  Love Notes

  Maraviglia

  Masquerades

  Milk Baths

  Miracles

  Miserere

  Moritsuke

  Mouches

  Nebula, The Powdered Sugar Princess

  Nectar And Ambrosia

  Obelisk

  Obsidian

  Ogi

  Omelet

  Origami

  Painted Ladies

  Pell-Mell

  Pentimento

  Perfume

  Pillowbook

  Pouf

  Pulu And Poona

  Punto In Aria

  Qabus Nama

  Quadrille Naturaliste

  Quintessence

  Red Lipstick

  Rosarian

  Ruff And Cravat

  Saffron

  Sequins

  Shabby Chic

  Showstopper

  Silence

  Soteltie

  String

  Subaquatic

  Swing

  Talk

  Tassel

  Tea

  Tempest

  Thaumatrope

  Topper

  Traje De Luces

  Trapeze

  Truffle

  Turban

  Twilight

  Umbrella

  Unicorn

  Velocity

  Viriditas

  Wanderers

  Weekend

  Whistling

  White Paint

  Xenia

  Xiguo Jifa

  Yes

  Acknowledgments

  Bibliography

  A Note About the Author

  I don’t know what I may seem to the world, but, as to myself, I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.

  —SIR ISAAC NEWTON

  Great effort has been made to be certain that all the information found in this book is factual, accurate, and up-to-date, as well as amusing. Notification of any errors or inaccuracies would be greatly appreciated: [email protected].

  INTRODUCTION

  This book first took form in my grade-school jewelry box, designed to look like a small birdcage with a faux canary swinging behind brass bars. In its shallow drawer I kept a prism that made rainbows, two Mexican pesos, an unusually large acorn cap, a miniature seashell, the face of my father’s old Timex, and a sample vial of Patou’s Joy—all my treasures.

  The word “exquisite” comes from the Latin verb exquīrěre, to search out, or to seek. It means uncommon delicacies, carefully selected, and the kind of beauty that can “excite intense delight or admiration,” as explained in The Oxford English Dictionary. For many years, I wrote for a slick magazine, trying my best to invoke that sense of delight by lending a fashion designer’s story haute romance, giving a new shop an old pedigree, or dusting off an antique idea to make it sparkle anew. Becoming part of the luxe fantasy was as easy as swiping a credit card. That is, if you could afford it. But in real life, in my life, I didn’t make enough to land the fancy trinkets I wrote about. I was Holly Golightly with my nose pressed against the glass.

  While those years taught me to recognize beauty of all kinds, to respect it, and to allow myself the time to ponder the exquisite, by contrast, this book is an ode to life’s many luxuries that don’t require much spending. It’s about how knowing the royal lineage of a common Bartlett pear or the origins of the top hat can make you feel rich, and about how learning the history of the Japanese kimono or of confetti can turn the world vast and strange.

  The earliest encyclopedias, like Pliny the Elder’s thirty-seven-volume Natural History (first century AD), celebrated nature’s marvels, describing fantastic creatures of Africa and Asia, incredible gemstones, and miraculous plants. Similarly, Renaissance authors compiled books of knowledge with an exotic bent, like cabinets of curiosities assembled by the nobility. They’re brimming with mysterious artifacts, religious relics, and intriguing clockworks, presented alongside the occasional unicorn tusk. This spirit of renewing old sources of beauty guided my search.

  My encyclopedia is also like its predecessors in that its scope is far-flung, extravagant, and maybe a little eccentric. And like those early books, it’s also very personal. Wikipedia represents the accumulated knowledge of the general public. These entries sprang directly from a file I kept on my desk, bulging with scribbled scraps, Xeroxed articles, quotes, and curious images I’d come across—anything that lit a spark, or excited “intense delight.” In my mind I called the collection “Why I Like It Here,” “here” meaning on the planet. If I was having a bad day, flipping through the file could sweep me into a dreamy demimonde where things didn’t seem so bad.

  Yet, unlike the couture collections and black-tie balls I wrote about for my job, many of these pieces of ephemera illuminated an esoteric world independent of big-ticket luxury, and one that gave off an aura of wonder that was even more beguiling. I’ve often found myself defending frivolity when in serious-minded company. This book is an homage to frivolity—though again, I don’t mean the empty gesture of spending too much: doing something frivolous means doing someth
ing pretty and purposeless. And what better reason to do something than for no reason at all? I believe it’s essential.

  At every step along the way, the obscure, exquisite, and twinkling facts I gleaned filled my notebooks, fueled my imagination, and delivered an exhilaration that splurging on some new bauble could never do. To me these carefully compiled tales of folly are the treasures that make it all worthwhile.

  AEROSTATION

  The art of hot-air ballooning

  By 6 A.M. carriages blocked the road from Paris to Versailles, where a fire raged in the château’s courtyard one September morning in 1783. Black smoke funneled into a heaving aerostatic machine, the bulk of it painted blue with gold curlicues. The hot-air balloon, as it is now known, was slowly swelling and coming to life.

  King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette stood by. People crowded the streets watching the sky. Spectators climbed onto nearby rooftops and filled every window of the château, as attendants placed a trio of passengers into the balloon’s basket—a duck, a sheep, and a rooster, history’s first aeronauts. Up they went, drifting for eight minutes before sinking into the woods, where a recovery crew on horseback raced to find them. Dazed, but otherwise unharmed, the pilgrims were presented to the king, who was so pleased he promptly ordered the creatures cooked for his dinner.

  The balloon, invented by the enterprising French brothers Joseph-Michel Montgolfier (1740–1810) and Jacques-Étienne Montgolfier (1745–1799), was inspired, Joseph claimed, by seeing Madame Montgolfier’s chemise fluttering as it dried near the fire. A month after the first flight, it was the first contraption to ferry humans into the “aerian ocean,” when the twenty-six-year-old daredevil Pilâtre de Rozier (1754–1785) rose to a height of eighty feet in a Montgolfier balloon held in place by ropes.

  Still, no one had flown untethered. The king had decreed that only a condemned inmate could fly freely, in exchange for a pardon. But, working his connections at court, de Rozier convinced King Louis that aerostation was safe, and Louis watched from below in the Bois de Boulogne park as Rozier and his aristocratic copilot the Marquis d’Arlandes (1742–1809) climbed aboard their aerostatic machine.

  They lifted off without a sound. “I was surprised at the silence and the absence of movement which our departure caused among the spectators,” wrote the marquis, who, admittedly, wasn’t a great pilot. “I was still gazing, when M. Rozier cried to me—‘You are doing nothing, and the balloon is scarcely rising a fathom.’ ” The two grabbed pitchforks and shoveled hay into the fire that kept their balloon filled with hot air, rising again. But only for a moment. The marquis took another break to stare at the marvelous Seine below. “ ‘If you look at the river in that fashion you will be likely to bathe in it soon,’ cried Rozier. ‘Some fire, my dear friend, some fire!’ ” They fell toward the Paris rooftops, just missing the bell towers of Saint-Sulpice.

  One of Benjamin Franklin’s (1706–1790) more skeptical friends doubted the usefulness of the balloon, but Franklin, who was also watching the scene from below in the Bois that day, shot back, “What is the use of a newborn baby?” In truth, the hot-air balloon was impossible to steer, but it was lovely. Aerostation became all the rage. “We think of nothing here at present but of flying,” wrote one observer. “The balloons engross all attention.”

  Eleven days later, a crowd of 400,000 turned out to see French physicist Jacques Charles (1746–1823) and his assistant Noël Robert take off from the Tuileries to ride in the boat-shaped wicker basket of their speedy hydrogen-powered aerostatic machine. The duo waved banners as they floated over the countryside and shouted to the astonished people below. “We cried, ‘Vive le Roi!’ ” wrote Charles. The people below shouted back, “My good friends, have you no fear? Are you not sick? How beautiful it is! Heaven preserve you! Adieu, my friends!” The pilots landed two hours and twenty-seven miles later, along the way dropping a blanket onto the dome of a church for fun.

  In flying, Charles found perfect bliss. “How great is our good fortune!” he told Robert. “I care not what may be the condition of the earth; it is the sky that is for me now.”

  ALFRESCO

  Out in the fresh air

  Poised between civilization and the wild, picturesque picnicking and outdoor dining alfresco—“in the fresh air,” as the Italians say—offered stiff, cinched Victorians a chance to escape the city and to breathe. Chaperones kept an eye on young picnickers, but “even the rigidest disciplinarian will romp a little when there is green grass underfoot and a blue sky overhead,” as one writer pointed out. Alfresco etiquette was as loose as the tone of the sunny invitations. “Dear Jo, What ho!” began one fictional epistle, sent to Little Women’s Jo March and her sisters. “Some English boys and girls are coming to see me tomorrow, and I want to have a jolly time. If it’s fine, I’m going to pitch my tent at Longmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch and croquet;—have a fire, make messes, gypsy fashion, and all sorts of larks.”

  Bolstered by flirtation, sunshine, and good food, the ancient Romans began the grand tradition. Average citizens celebrated festivals under giant tents, in imitation of the nomadic kings of the East, who traveled in sprawling tented cities. The wealthy put on deluxe banquets in their gardens, as rich Florentines of the Renaissance era would later do. During the Renaissance, even alfresco meals were exactingly formal. Servants hauled out a giant sideboard, and every dish on the long stone table was arranged symmetrically on top of a triple layer of fine damask cloth, right down to the perfumed finger bowls. The French took a self-consciously laid-back approach, heading outdoors in the eighteenth century with their fêtes champêtres, rosy pastoral parties celebrated by painters like Watteau, Fragonard, and Boucher. Silken Parisian ladies and their gallants ate at tables brought into the Tuileries, then lazed under the trees by the Seine.

  At the end of the nineteenth century, before air-conditioning kept people indoors and before Prohibition corked the good times, the alfresco meal took on a dazzling urban veneer at New York’s flourishing rooftop cabarets. “From early June until late September nightfall brings to birth a new and fairy city on hotel tops,” one journalist wrote, “a city of pleasure, of suave shaded lights, of tinkling fountains, of gay music, song and dancing, of luxurious food and wine.”

  At the block-long roof garden above Oscar Hammerstein’s Olympia Music Hall, swans glided on a faux lake and lovers cooed in the arbors under three thousand twinkling lights. The rooftop at the nearby Republic was done up like a Dutch farm, complete with a mini-windmill, a duck pond, and two live cows stationed outside a miller’s cottage where a stork’s nest was perched on the chimney. The most fabled of New York’s alfresco spots, however, was the sprawling pleasure garden atop the Hotel Astor on Times Square, which opened in 1905 and accommodated five thousand guests. Gazebos, mossy grottoes, and thousands of blooms—roses, Virginia creeper, moonflowers, and fuchsias—turned the place into paradise. Fountains sprayed water into the air. Fish swam in the lily pool, and the white-columned promenade ran on for a quarter of a mile.

  With the addition of a glass-roofed restaurant situated under a waterfall, the Astor was still thriving in 1920. “Every New Yorker,” the New York Times reported that summer, “and every stranger in New York who can possibly make it is trying to get on some roof somewhere, somehow.”

  AMORINI AND PUTTI

  Cupids, cherubs, and baby angels

  The tumbling swarms of pudgy pink cupids fluttering through the artwork of the Renaissance and Baroque eras are known both as amorini, a diminutive of the Italian amore, or love, and as putti, a diminutive of putus, Latin for “boy child.” But their origins are as old as antiquity. Delivering messages for the Greek gods, the fleets of flying babies first took to their wings on the crowded sarcophagi of the fourth century BC. Known as erotes, these guardian sprites protected living humans, then ushered their souls to heaven. Putti were pixies with a taste for the finer things in life. They frolicked, boxed, wrestled, blew horns, or bowled hoops. They hauled heavy gar
land swags, celebrating wine’s delicious intoxication and the heft of the harvest, or otherwise cavorted around, dancing like dervishes.

  Recast as angels, cherubs flitted through early Christian imagery, though they fell out of favor during the Middle Ages, when artists took celestial inspiration from goddesses in long flowing gowns instead. They reappeared during the Renaissance, when the sculptor Donatello (1386–1466) fashioned a new breed of naughty putti as brazen as their bacchanalian ancestors. Most often, however, then as now, the amorini stood for earthly love in the form of Cupid, setting lovers aflame with mini-torches and targeting their hearts with his arrows.