The Edward Gorey House
7/6/06
The Edward Gorey House
The writer and illustrator Edward Gorey lived in South Yarmouthport, Ma for the last half of his life. Today we visited his house, now a small museum of his work, and, it turns out, personality. The house was filled with his collections, from stuffed animals to balls of various kinds to African gold weights (large rings which he wore on his fingers), skulls, stones, and Victorian tassels. Outside was a large southern magnolia tree and a WWI field stretcher.
Although he was a productive artist and a flamboyantly eccentric figure, he apparently did not welcome social attention. We learned this from the docent and the museum manager, both friends of his when he lived. In the back yard was a serpentine line of half-buried beach rocks. The sign said that when a friend asked why he was burying rocks in his wild, overgrown yard, he said, “I am burying them for someone else to find, as you have.”
We left with three Gorey books and a tee shirt for me, that shows a girl in a sailor dress standing on a large book in the middle of the ocean, wind in her hair, under the legend “Explore With Books!”
Gorey was (of course?) gay, but there was no sign of that at the Edward Gorey House museum except for a postcard illustration in the gift store rack, of two bearded men reclining on a couch, legs interlocked, over the verse, “Were you but mine, we’d sprawl supine/Across a chintzed settee;/And slabs we’d take of pounded cake/And swigs of “Q.R.V.” The spurious Q.R.V. advertisements were framed in another room; the docent said, “He wrote a whole series of those, and we’d ask, ‘What is Q.R.V.?’ and he’d say, ‘I don’t know.’”
If you have never read the strange little books of Edward Gorey, mostly pen-and-ink parodies of sentimental Victorian poetry and morality tales, you might enjoy his very singular talent. Here is something I liked: when an interviewer asked him, “What is your favorite journey?” he answered, “Looking out a window.” I feel that way myself.
On the way there, we had stopped at an internet cafe. I couldn’t go a whole week without my Netfix, hence previous entry. On the way home Honor asked when we were going to the big wooden playground in Chatham. We’ve run out of days, we said. She was so sad about that, that we made a detour there for just half an hour and she and Tristan played a pretending game. I think he may be in the last days of “pretending.” He has finally stopped holding my hand.
Honor has collected some tiny ants and fed the toads. It’s great to watch the whole “nature red in tooth and claw” drama played out by beings the size of soybeans. Snap! Chomp, chomp.
In the evening we met Toby’s friend Bruce and his daughters Bronwyn and Meredith at the Red Barn for pizza and miniature golf. Bruce and Toby were childhood friends who played Civil War, WWI and WWII in the yards behind our house. After fifth grade, Bruce moved away and they lost touch. He heard Toby’s name by chance several years ago and inquired if it were the same Toby? They have been in touch ever since and the miniature golf with Bruce has become an annual Cape tradition.
Bruce is quite a character; trained as a psychologist, he is now a grocery store checker, local paper columnist and father of nine children, all but Bronwyn grown and left home. His wife, the “workaholic,” does something that supports the family, town planning I think. I don’t know why he doesn’t do more with his potential. There’s some story there that I don’t know, maybe that he used to be an active alcoholic. I mean, I do know that, I just don’t know if that’s why he works in a supermarket.
Honor was thrilled to be seeing Bronwyn again; she loves older girls. Tristan, who got along famously with her last year, circled warily for the first part of the visit. Both of them have become young adults this year, and it was as if each was recognizing the other as a member of the opposite sex for the first time.
The Edward Gorey House
The writer and illustrator Edward Gorey lived in South Yarmouthport, Ma for the last half of his life. Today we visited his house, now a small museum of his work, and, it turns out, personality. The house was filled with his collections, from stuffed animals to balls of various kinds to African gold weights (large rings which he wore on his fingers), skulls, stones, and Victorian tassels. Outside was a large southern magnolia tree and a WWI field stretcher.
Although he was a productive artist and a flamboyantly eccentric figure, he apparently did not welcome social attention. We learned this from the docent and the museum manager, both friends of his when he lived. In the back yard was a serpentine line of half-buried beach rocks. The sign said that when a friend asked why he was burying rocks in his wild, overgrown yard, he said, “I am burying them for someone else to find, as you have.”
We left with three Gorey books and a tee shirt for me, that shows a girl in a sailor dress standing on a large book in the middle of the ocean, wind in her hair, under the legend “Explore With Books!”
Gorey was (of course?) gay, but there was no sign of that at the Edward Gorey House museum except for a postcard illustration in the gift store rack, of two bearded men reclining on a couch, legs interlocked, over the verse, “Were you but mine, we’d sprawl supine/Across a chintzed settee;/And slabs we’d take of pounded cake/And swigs of “Q.R.V.” The spurious Q.R.V. advertisements were framed in another room; the docent said, “He wrote a whole series of those, and we’d ask, ‘What is Q.R.V.?’ and he’d say, ‘I don’t know.’”
If you have never read the strange little books of Edward Gorey, mostly pen-and-ink parodies of sentimental Victorian poetry and morality tales, you might enjoy his very singular talent. Here is something I liked: when an interviewer asked him, “What is your favorite journey?” he answered, “Looking out a window.” I feel that way myself.
On the way there, we had stopped at an internet cafe. I couldn’t go a whole week without my Netfix, hence previous entry. On the way home Honor asked when we were going to the big wooden playground in Chatham. We’ve run out of days, we said. She was so sad about that, that we made a detour there for just half an hour and she and Tristan played a pretending game. I think he may be in the last days of “pretending.” He has finally stopped holding my hand.
Honor has collected some tiny ants and fed the toads. It’s great to watch the whole “nature red in tooth and claw” drama played out by beings the size of soybeans. Snap! Chomp, chomp.
In the evening we met Toby’s friend Bruce and his daughters Bronwyn and Meredith at the Red Barn for pizza and miniature golf. Bruce and Toby were childhood friends who played Civil War, WWI and WWII in the yards behind our house. After fifth grade, Bruce moved away and they lost touch. He heard Toby’s name by chance several years ago and inquired if it were the same Toby? They have been in touch ever since and the miniature golf with Bruce has become an annual Cape tradition.
Bruce is quite a character; trained as a psychologist, he is now a grocery store checker, local paper columnist and father of nine children, all but Bronwyn grown and left home. His wife, the “workaholic,” does something that supports the family, town planning I think. I don’t know why he doesn’t do more with his potential. There’s some story there that I don’t know, maybe that he used to be an active alcoholic. I mean, I do know that, I just don’t know if that’s why he works in a supermarket.
Honor was thrilled to be seeing Bronwyn again; she loves older girls. Tristan, who got along famously with her last year, circled warily for the first part of the visit. Both of them have become young adults this year, and it was as if each was recognizing the other as a member of the opposite sex for the first time.