This Belongs in a Museum
Bringing you museum-approved grammatical errors and typos since 2010.
Oh, and sorry - I DO NOT FOLLOW BACK!
On this date in 1909 Belgian chemist Leo Baekeland announced the creation of Bakelite, the world’s first synthetic plastic. And the world has never been the same since. The scientist was already a millionaire thanks to the sale of his photographic paper patent to Kodak, but phenol-formaldehyde (the not-so nice name for Bakelite) was the first plastic material to be mass-produced into just about anything. It’s been called “the material of a thousand uses”. So if you’re ever travelling through the Somerset countryside and have always wanted to see electrically non-conductive polyoxybenzylmethylenglycolanhydride, then you’re in luck. In the old water mill, owned by collector and sculptor Patrick Cook, in the village of Williton is home to the Bakelite Museum, Britain’s largest collection of vintage plastics. Basically it’s your grandmother’s basement. Everything you’d every need or want is here…from hairdryers, hot water bottles and perming machines to radios, cameras and telephones. Following the primary colour mushrooms up the stairs, there is even more to see, like a full set of teeth and an actual Bakelite coffin. Yes, you read that last part right. And you can take home or send a long-lost friend a piece of Bakelite with a special postcard as well as enjoy a cream tea (not made of thermosetting phenol formaldehyde resin, thank god!) at the cafe, which is always my favourite part of visiting little, old British museums and palaces. Postcards, tea and scones, please!
I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of talking about houses. Thank god historic house museum week is over. But before we move on, let me tell you about one of the best house museums I’ve ever visited, if you can call it that…Sir John Soane’s Museum probably belongs in a category all by itself, the place is just that unusual. I can’t think of any other house museum that is like it. Years ago I spent hours here, chatting away with the friendly staff, and I enjoyed the experience so much I decided to include it in my master’s thesis; after all, I was writing about architecture in museums. John Soane was an architect who demolished and rebuilt three houses in succession on the north side of Lincoln’s Inn Fields in London beginning in the late 1700s. The intention was to make a home and office, as well as a museum to display his large collection of art and architectural artifacts that he had collected. This guy was a hoarder. I’ll get into that later. What actually happened was that in 1833, a few years before he died, Soane obtained an Act of Parliament that bequeathed the house and its collection to Great Britain. He had created himself a Museum of Architecture. The neo-classical house is stuffed with objects, like Greek and Roman bronzes and busts, urns, fragments of Roman mosaics, a massive Egyptian sarcophagus, pieces of Medieval stained glass, death masks, Chinese ceramics, Napoleonic memorabilia, plaster casts of famous antique sculptures, various paintings and of course architecture-related items. There are 30,000 architectural drawings and over 200 architectural models. It’s difficult to remember specifics when there is so much to look at, but I do recall the hundreds of drawings on folding screens in the Picture Room, which is an ingenious way to display art when you have run out of wall space.
If Soane lived in the 21st century, he would be featured on A&E’s Hoarders because he definitely was a pack rat who hated empty spaces. He continually altered his house to make way for new acquisitions, most of these antiquities were worthy of more proper museums. But that’s not what makes his house so memorable, it’s the atmosphere of the place; the interior is full of top-lit galleries, double-height spaces and gloomy subterranean vaults. The space becomes even more eerie and gothic at night as the whole house is illuminated by candlelight (yes, you can visit the place in the evening), which is odd when you think of the burial vaults down below. Oh, right…I failed to mention Soane is buried inside his museum. A white marble bust of the man himself looks down at the Crypt Room, designed to look like a Roman catacomb, which is full of funerary busts and urns; while Monk’s Parlor is a series of rooms in the basement meant to resemble a cemetery, but is actually the grave of Soane’s dog. Odd. Even though the place is free, only a certain number of people are allowed inside at a time. You’re can wander on your own and take in the atmosphere. There are no annoying things usually found in museums: no text labels to distract your eye, no information desks, no café or restaurant to buy overpriced food. It’s a museum that is stuck in the late 18th/early 19th century, a place that time forgot. But unfortunately (or fortunately for conservationists out there), Sir John Soane’s Museum is stepping into the 21st century with a £7m three-year programme of restoration, “Opening up the Soane,” that will be completed sometime in 2015. Reading details about the project, like “improved visitor facilities, new Exhibition Gallery and Conservation Studios, and improvements for full disabled access” just makes me sad. I understand those things are important, but I feel like they might have killed what I liked most about the place: the atmosphere.
For historic house museum week, we begin with a memorable one, well, at least for me. Why? Because when you’re a postgrad student, you’ll do just about anything to get that degree. A special exhibit nearing the end of its run happened to be the main topic of my friend’s dissertation, so we took a day trip from Manchester to London to see it. Yes, this is complete madness! Not because it can’t be done (because we certainly proved it can) but this was all done for a house museum! To an American, 164 miles doesn’t sound that far, but this is England we’re talking about, a teeny tiny country that desperately wants to prove to the rest of the world it is not so small after all.
After taking a bus to Manchester’s Piccadilly Station at the crack of dawn, when only chavs are awake apparently, we wait for the megabus (we’re doing this shit on the cheap) to arrive to take us on our nearly 6 hour ride, depending on traffic, to London’s Victoria Station. There we take a train and another bus to the village of Downe to see Charles Darwin’s freakin’ house. Whether or not you believe in evolution, Darwin’s face is on the £10 note, so this guy’s house definitely deserves to be turned into a museum. The historic built environment is much appreciated in England (people go to castles for fun); therefore, the English Heritage organization manages 400 significant historical and archaeological sites around the country, the Down House is just one of many. So what about it?
The house itself was originally built in 1650. The Darwin family became associated with the building in 1842, not long after the scientist was completely finished with his travels. There would be no more voyages around the world for this guy. Charlies lived here until he died in 1882, his wife (who was also his first cousin!) died in 1896, then the building was rented out until it was open to the public in 1929. The Down House isn’t just a place where Charles slept at night, this is also where he studied and worked on his theories of evolution by natural selection. Visitors can take a look around his dark, cramped study full of old-leather books, bottles, skulls, microscopes and a screen, behind which stands a basin where Darwin would sometimes vomit or have other digestive-related problems. Yes, if there was one thing I can clearly remember from my visit, it is this. Who knew? Somehow it makes the house more real. Apparently his bad health is one of the reasons why he stopped traveling. But his dark cave of an office is like a sanctuary, and it really comes alive, you can just picture him thinking, reading, writing, and dissecting. While the downstairs has been restored to its original appearance (including a dining room full of Wedgwood, because Darwin and his wife were descendants), the top floor of the house is used for special exhibit space, usually interactive and historic, but always related to Charles Darwin. And this is the reason why we were here.
But if you’re still reading this post, then please let me tell you why I truly enjoyed this house museum. As I already mentioned when describing the study, you feel like you are actually visiting Charles Darwin’s real house, and not just a poor man’s replica. It is not a tomb or some sad monument. I think the landscape helps. You see what he did. Visitors can walk around the original grounds and gardens, full of plants that he once studied, like hollyhocks, flax, primroses, orchids, and vines. Believe it or not, inside Darwin’s conservatory (a laboratory full of earthworms, insects and carnivorous plants) experiments are still being conducted. And Darwin’s “thinking time”? Well, my friend and I traced the steps of Darwin on his famous “Sand Walk” where he walked every day to figure out the meaning behind his observations and ideas. The fact that a housing estate or McDonald’s hasn’t been built on the great meadow and forest, which sits right next to the path, definitely helps you experience the quiet solitude and rural ambiance as Darwin once did. It really shows how important the entire environment is to experiencing a “house museum”. Anyway, let me finish my journey properly by telling you how the hell I got home. Remember this is a day trip.
After we wait for another bus to take us back to Orpington’s train station, we find out the train to Victoria is broken (because this is England) so we take a different one, which is out of the way, causing us to have to take the tube back to Victoria where we arrive just in time for the megabus ride back to Manchester. Completely exhausted (our bodies barely move during the nearly hour (!) stopover), we get back in town sometime after midnight. But the journey is not yet over because we live outside the city centre and refuse to walk home so we wait for ages for another bus (our 6th ride of the day) to take us back to our comfy beds in Rusholme. The end!
As a poor grad student in the UK, I admit to surviving on cheap food like sausage rolls, jacket potatoes and pasties. Did you know there is a museum dedicated to that last “delicacy”? But it’s not in Cornwall as you’d expect…no, the world’s first Cornish Pasty Museum is in Mexico of all places. You’re probably thinking, “Uh, yeah I believe they eat this thing there called an empanada?” Even though it’s a similar dish (just like calzones and samosas…I’ll take World Cuisine for $200, Alex), the Hidalgo region is known specifically for their pastes, usually filled with peppers, chicken and pineapple, then topped off with a syrup or fruit drizzle to create a distinct sweetened flavor. The origins of the Cornish pasty in Mexico can be traced back to the British miners, who moved to this region in the early 1800s to rebuild the mining industry. They also introduced football, creating Mexico’s first team, Club de Futbol Pachuca. Football and beef pies, it doesn’t get more British, eh? Between the Cornish pump engines, the cemetery full of Cornish corpses and the houses made of natural stone and pitched roofs (just like in Cornwall) with Cornish flags flying in the breeze, it made sense to open up a pasty museum in the town of Real del Monte. Costing about 250,000 pesos (£11,440), the museum opened last March and includes a restaurant (of course), craft workshops, a children’s play area and an activity centre, where visitors can attempt to make their own pasties. There’s even a Pasty Festival, now in its fourth year! Never in a million years did I ever think I’d know so much about this savoury pie, but I have eaten my fair share, so it’s the least I can do, I guess. And if any of you people thought I was talking about dirty pasties this whole time, well, that’s your problem, not mine.
Not only have I been to the National Railway Museum in York, England twice, but I also took a train to get there both times, which obviously isn’t difficult to do because we all know of Britain’s obsessive rail habit. I visited the museum once whilst living in Manchester and another time after spending a summer with family friends who lived near Wakefield. This isn’t that important to the story, but it is, because trains take you nearly everywhere. Yet that doesn’t mean they’re all that great. Don’t get me started on the number of delays at Manchester Piccadilly or how many times a train was moved to another track at the very last second. And then there are the stories of rerouting, breakdowns or complete stops. I’ll never forget the panic I felt traveling back from London, when the train just kicked everyone off at Stoke-at-Trent. Besides the fact I had bought a return ticket to Manchester, how the hell was I supposed to get home? Walk? Oh, and then there is the itty bitty town where a train broke down and the pub only accepted “old coins”. You know you’re in the middle of freakin’ nowhere, when your friend who grew up in the area has never heard of it. Lovely.
Anyway, you would think after all those experiences who the hell would want to go to a train museum? Well, that’s not stopping me or anyone else for that matter. The place is the most visited museum outside of London. Located in a power depot not far from York Station, the large and significant collection has over 100 locomotives and nearly 200 railway-related vehicles as well as thousands of technical and historical items on display. The bit pieces and pieces include building fixtures, timetables, signalling devices, toys, postcards, historic film footage and millions of old photographs. There are over 10,000 railway posters that are archived on the website (take a look here). And of course some of the permanent display includes the “Palaces on Wheels” exhibit, a collection of royal trains from Queen Victoria to Queen Elizabeth II. Even though some of my friends considered York to be a bit of a tourist trap, I think the city is still worth a visit, at least for the museum and Rievaulx Abbey as well as York Minster and Betty’s Tea Room (the one in Harrogate is a lot nicer, in my opinion). But whatever you do, avoid the Jorvik Viking Centre, unless you like cheesy, laughable animatronics. Cheers.
There are Chair Museums, and then there are Chair Making Museums. Based in High Wycombe, England, about 29 miles (47 km) outside of London, furniture maker Stewart Linford’s Chair Making Museum houses a collection of antique Windsor Chairs and the tools used to create them throughout history. I always thought there should be a Windsor Chair Museum, and thankfully such a place exists. Sigh of relief! But this place isn’t just a collection of furniture, it’s also a workshop. Visitors can witness the traditional craftsmanship used to create these chairs and talk to the makers involved in the process. Here are some pictures of the place. So basically the museum only appeals to craddies and grandpas and Clint Eastwood, but give it a chance. Sometimes boring, old chairs can be a good thing.
Everyone knows this blog covers wax museums from time to time, not because I like them or anything, but just to highlight their awfulness. Well, I have sad news to report. The World’s Worst Wax Museum is set to close after fifty-something years. The people of Great Yarmouth, Norfolk in England can say cheerio to the flock of tourists who visited Louis Tussauds (named after the great-grandson of Madame Tussaud). The hundreds of questionable showbiz wax figures mostly date from the 1970s and 1980s, and are some of the worst waxworks ever created. But the museum has become a bit of a cult favourite due to the “worst” label, so I’m sure there are a few people out there who are crying tears of wax. The museum’s items will be sold off at auction. I don’t care either way, but I really wish I had the money to buy the WAX ABBA. Money, money, money…must be funny…in a rich man’s world.
Oh, in case you couldn’t figure out who’s who, here’s some help.
From the top (l-r): Elvis Presley, Prince William, Prince Charles, Bob Hope.
Even though I’ve been to Whitby, I’m sad to say I have never seen the “Hand of Glory”. On display at the Whitby Museum (it’s even on the freakin’ entrance sign), this mummified severed human hand was discovered hidden in the wall of a nearby thatched cottage over a hundred years ago by a local historian. A “Hand of Glory”, common throughout Europe for over four hundred years, is the dried and pickled hand of a man who had been hanged for murder. Supposedly the hand, usually the left because everyone knows that’s the sinister one, was cut off while the body still hung from the gallows. It symbolized that the person “did the deed”, while also holding mystical powers. If only all our hands can one day be cut off and live on in museum collections. Cross your fingers!
There are postcard collections, and then there’s a collection so specific you can’t believe it exists. But it makes sense the Donald McGill Seaside Postcard Museum is around when you consider that seaside resorts and hotels became a popular tourist destination in Britain at the end of the 19th century. As a result the seaside helped in the popularity of the picture postcard. What better way to show off to your friends than with a postcard? In today’s world people post thousands of pics on facebook to let “friends” know they’re on vacation. Hmmm…I wonder what’s more annoying? Receving a postcard or looking at facebook pictures? I’ll let you decide. :)
Located on the Isle of Wight at the back of the Orrery Vegetarian Cafe, the museum pays homage to artist Donald McGill, who spent his life creating original designs for the then-thriving postcard industry. He created over 12,000 postcards from 1904 until his death in 1962. McGill’s saucy seaside postcards, which usually depicted cartoon characters making use of innuendo and double entendres, cover the museum’s walls and ceiling. Yes, the ceiling. There are over 2,500 of his designs in chronological order, some three dimensional, looking down at you and reflected back in the mirrored tables. The museum also focuses on the trials and tribulations that Donald experienced in the 1950s, when he was prosecuted under the 1857 Obscenity Act for producing cards deemed unsuitable for the public to see. Many postcards were destroyed as a result and retailers cancelled orders. Donald died soon after and was buried in an unmarked grave with hardly a few hundred pounds to his name (he received no royalties). Fortunately his artwork is now recognized as many of his surviving postcards fetch thousands of pounds as serious collector’s items.
I’ve only been under anesthesia a few times in my life, and surprisingly, I can’t remember any of it. I wish there were other things I couldn’t remember, like maybe my entire middle school experience as well as maybe the last five years of bleak, soulless underemployment and crushing, massive debt. Oh, yeah. They got other drugs for that kind of shit. Well, for anyone who enjoyed their time being put under, or just wants to relive that moment when your body was in a complete state of unresponsiveness, then there is a museum just for you. Managed by the Association of Anaesthetists (Brit. spelling) of Great Britain and Ireland (or just bunch of white dudes with glasses), the Anaesthesia Museum has a collection of anaesthesia-related objects, from mid-19th century ether and chloroform inhalers to modern machines and appliances. This place makes me think of that scene with Bill Murray from Little Shop of Horrors…the only person who likes going to dentist.
