One of my favorite stories to hear my grandfather, the man I called Pop, tell, was the moment he first met me. My father, a first-time parent with mild OCD, was stricken with anxiety about any germs that visitors might bring to the hospital, so …
Nineteen years later, I’ve found it. A quick backstory, if you haven’t read my previous article: I have a distinct memory of an art piece I saw at the Currier Museum of Art between 2005 and 2007, when I was five or six years old. …
I have a vivid memory of being five or six years old and visiting the Currier Museum of Art in Manchester, New Hampshire. In a brightly lit gallery (I’m almost certain I know exactly which one), surrounded by other works, was something that isn’t uncommon for art museums—a queen-sized bed. But this bed was different than the traditional example of 18th-19th century decorative arts; rather, it was a piece of contemporary art.
The bed was four-poster, and, if I remember correctly, made of dark wood, with a creamy white satin bedspread. But it was unlike any bed I had ever seen—the coverlet had been painstakingly beaded with tiny glass orbs of many colors that formed a diamond latticework pattern across the top. Those were interspersed with trinkets and charms—I distinctly remember a miniature Pepsi soda cup that had been sewn to the cloth.
But what I remember more distinctly than the appearance is the story the docent told us about the work. I remember her telling my rapt kindergarten class that the artist’s beloved nanny had passed away, and in mourning, he used materials from her jewelry box to decorate her bed as a sort of shrine to her. As a kindergartener, death was something I couldn’t quite grasp and I remember the pit it created in my stomach to hear the story. It was so macabre, so haunting—it has stuck with me since then.
In the years since I last saw this artwork, I have searched everything I can think of to try to find it. I’ve tried every possible combination of words and phrases on Google: “contemporary art decorated bed,” “nanny died boy decorated bed,” “Currier Museum decorated bed,” “beaded bedspread” and so on. I’ve tried searching as though the whole bed was the work and as though just the quilt was the work. I’ve tried Google Arts and Culture; I’ve searched the Currier’s collections database repeatedly and even tried to access their exhibition archives (the website no longer works). I’ve looked through the auction catalogs of Christie’s and Sotheby’s and have scoured Artnet. Short of reaching out to the museum with a slightly odd request (“hey, can I look through your exhibition records to try to find this one very specific art piece I remember from when I was five years old?”) I’ve tried everything I can think of to find this work.
And yet I can’t seem to find it. It’s almost as though the work never existed; as if I fabricated the entire thing. I’ve come across the work of Thom Atkins, who makes beautiful, beaded quilts, and whose work also stems from tragedy—he started making quilts after being in a car accident and losing mobility and thus the ability to sculpt. From what I can see through Google Images, his work is ornate, much like the work I remember was, but the link to his portfolio website doesn’t work and I can’t find a record of any exhibitions of his work.
I’ve also come across work from Tracey Emin, starting with her infamous “My Bed” piece. Going further down that rabbit hole, I found her piece “To Meet My Past,” which feels so close to what I remember. It, too, is a four-poster bed that has been decorated with tchotchkes. I almost thought this could be the one I remembered, but while it was created in 2002, meaning that it feasibly could have been exhibited when I would have visited the museum, exhibition records say otherwise. It has only ever been exhibited in London and New York City, two places I didn’t visit until much later in my life. And additionally, Emin’s work features words, phrases, and concepts that, while important, are a bit beyond the level of appropriateness for a kindergarten class—I don’t think the docent would have shown it to a group of young children.
Reading about one of the exhibitions of Emin’s work led me to Grayson Perry, another quilt artists who tends to center political themes in his work. But this, too, is a dead end—I can find no record of any quilt matching the description I remember in his portfolio.
And so I am at a loss. I have exhausted all of my avenues. It is so abnormal not to be able to find something online in an age when most of the information I could possibly want is constantly at my fingertips. And yet here I am, feeling unfulfilled as I search for something I am not even sure exists. In the absence of any concrete evidence of if this artwork exists, or even ever existed, I am left with so many questions. What is this work? Who made it? Am I remembering correctly that it was at the Currier, or was it at another museum? Was the quilt the work, or was the whole bed? Was the story the docent told true, or was it simply an embellishment, a tactic to engage kindergarteners? Where is the bed now? Who is the boy? Who is the nanny? Wherever it is, is it still connected to its story? Will I ever find it?
You may be wondering, amidst the chaos of my internet sleuthing, why I am even bothering with this search. And to be honest, I’m not quite sure. It may be a test of my own memory, to see if my brain somehow fabricated this story. It may be because I still feel the macabre pull of the artist’s tragic loss. Maybe it is because my experience with this piece feels like my first truly connective experience with a piece of art. Maybe it is because I want to see if I still see if the same way, as a twenty-four-year-old, that I did as a five- or six-year-old. Maybe it is simply a meaningless quest in an effort to distract myself from the many unpleasant realities of the world. Maybe it is a combination of all. I’m not entirely sure. But something about this work continues to tug at me and, perhaps naively, I hope I can find it.
Welcome to the weekly roundup! We do our best to collect the latest job openings and welcome submissions from the community. For more opportunities, we recommend the following databases: HireCulture – Jobs in the Humanities in Massachusetts Job HQ – American Association of Museums American …
To me, the Boston Museum of Science is synonymous with childhood. My dad was a member there for years and for a while, we’d visit any time there was a new exhibition opening. It was a fantastic place to visit as a kid and kept …
Last fall, I moved back to New Hampshire after living in Virginia for five years. After the completion of my previous job, and having been accepted into the Museum Studies program, it seemed as good a time as ever to move back home. I gave myself a few weeks to relax and spend time with my family before confronting the inevitable reality that I needed to find a job.
After one particularly horrible interview at a restaurant where the managers talked down to me, tried to dissuade me from working there, and questioned my knowledge, despite my strong experience, I was feeling discouraged.
It was my mom who saw a “SEASONAL HELP WANTED” sign at a nearby home decor store and encouraged me to apply. I was hesitant at first—retail, to me, didn’t feel like it was on the historical presentation/preservation/interpretation path, but life is expensive, and I decided to apply. After an interview that was as kind and informative as its restaurant counterpart was uncomfortable, I agreed to start two days later.
The exciting thing about this particular home decor store is that it sells not only your typical throw blankets, pillows, candles, artificial flowers, holiday decor, and other bits and bobs, but also furniture. And not just any furniture—antique, reworked pieces that one of the owners, Richard, refurbishes himself.
Richard isn’t your average internet-DIYer, though—he’s a master carpenter who is renowned in New England. One of his most recent projects, for which he made it onto “New Hampshire Chronicle,” a beloved statewide news segment that highlights New Hampshire culture, was at the Old North Church in Boston. Yes, that Old North Church, of “one if by land, two if by sea” fame—Richard remade the wooden crypt doors during their historic crypt restoration project.
This is a fact that was casually told to me a few days into working at the store and was one that took me entirely by surprise, firstly, because New England never fails to be a small world! But secondly, I had previously seen my two worlds as entirely siloed. I went to museum school to gain experience and knowledge for my future career and worked retail on the side to make ends meet.
But to think this way was to entirely ignore the myriad of connections my retail job held to my field. When a historic site undertakes preservation or conservation work, they call in an expert. Much as an art museum brings in a paintings conservator when they need an oil painting conserved, when historic sites need carpentry work, they bring in a master carpenter. In this case, the Old North Church turned to the same person who employed me and whom I got to begrudgingly wear cat ears for the store’s Halloween event. The very preservation and collections care work I was learning about in class was happening quite literally in front of me.
And offsite historic preservation is not the only preservation work Richard undertakes—he does onsite work as well. In 2017, during the demolition of the beloved and historic Rockingham Park racetrack in Salem, New Hampshire, Richard worked with the demolition company to salvage materials and artifacts from the track.
Recognizing the impact the loss would have on the New Hampshire community and seeing a gap in tangible public history that could be filled, Richard began making items out of the materials he salvaged. Using wood from the stables, horseshoes, gambling tokens, playing cards, poker chips, and other found materials, he has created serving trays, poker boards, wall decor, and more. These are tangible pieces of public history that visitors can purchase to remain connected to the track and its history. We had many customers who came in and got emotional seeing the pieces, sharing with us that they had a personal connection to the track, whether that be a parent who was a jockey or distant memories of attending races as a child.
This is a beautiful concept to me—people can own and treasure pieces of the park, tethering themselves to the memories that since 2017 have been intangible. The materials would have otherwise been discarded as the land has since been redeveloped. Everyday New Hampshirites like me can support a local craftsperson through the purchase of an artfully made item that can serve as a reminder of what has been lost.
So all this to say—I am very grateful for the perspective and historical connection that what I thought would be a ho-hum retail job gave me. During my season working there, I loved walking in to see a new historic furniture piece on the floor or in the workshop. Since Richard knew I’m studying history, he made sure to show me all of his latest historic work. A little while back, I walked in to see an 1860s chest of drawers casually sitting on the shop floor. One day, he showed me a 1942 plane propellor he restored, which he believes is from a World War II plane.
What’s funny is that prior to starting the job, I had jokingly mentioned to a friend the connection I would make between it and museums in a job interview: “Decorative Arts, man!” And this is true—I certainly learned so much about the work that goes into making the furniture pieces that hold bits of our lives and that we take for granted daily. But there was also so much more, too—ideas about how we can memorialize a physical space that would otherwise be forgotten, how history can be added to and revitalized by contemporary artisans, the lives and memories we can find in everyday objects, and what creative preservation can look like.
Moral of the story: finding museum and history jobs can be hard! But maybe don’t count out that retail or other job that you may see as unrelated—it just could have a hidden historical connection that could be more beneficial than you know. And, if you ever find yourself in my neck of the woods, visit Revived Furniture and Home Decor to see some incredible artistry.