What's in the Attic? Part 2
What should we do with the remnants of the past?
This is part 2 of the dollhouse attic’s excavation. If you missed it yesterday, please check in on part 1.
The home I was born into was erected in 1909. The lumber it’s made from is of the kind that no longer exists. When those trees were in the ground, my anscestors were getting off of the boat from Spain. My dad bought my childhood home in the 70s. It was condemned and scheduled for demolition at that time. Many years later, the dollhouse appeared to me on the beach of Lake Michigan during a fallow period of my life. I found it covered in splinters, with nails protruding at various angles. The image of this delapidated dollhouse on the beach felt poetic for the moment, so I called an uber and hauled it home.
A house can be a symbol of comfort and security. It may grant us autonomy, intimacy, and privacy, but we might also become enslaved to it. My dad has spent the greater part of the last five decades waging futile resistance against its decay. When not toiling at his job at the shipyard, he is inspecting the house’s foundation, checking for rotting timber, searching for mold and mildew, scheduling an appointment for yet another termite tent, repairing the roof, cleaning the gutters, and contending with the unavoidable march of time.
After leaving my childhood home at the age of 6, I returned at 18. The house's blueprint remained indelibly etched in my mind. I could navigate from one room to the next with precision, noting that no object had moved since my departure. The décor was starkly utilitarian, adorned only occasionally with photos of Jesus and an American flag. Rather than exuding a homely warmth, the place felt more like a functional holding cell for a worker between shifts. A question that preoccupied my childhood in this old house returned: what’s in the attic? As it turns out, this curiosity is shared by many authors of the great novels throughout history.
In ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray,’ the attic is the hiding place for a portrait that reveals his soul’s true nature. In Bronte's 'Jane Eyre' the attic embodies themes of imprisonment and concealment, symbolizing the characters' hidden passions and suppressed identities. Conversely, in 'Little Women,' the attic becomes a sanctuary of sentimentality, where the sisters retreat into a realm of imagination and childhood wonder. The garret is remembered in literature as a sanctuary for bohemians and a residence for artists and intellectuals, who favored these spaces because they were inexpensive to rent.
Examples from literature depict the attic as a universal symbol in our collective consciousness, serving as a repository for memories. While we often look back on these memories fondly, many of them are repressed. The attic represents both the physical clutter left by past generations and the clutter of our imagination. This symbolism reflects both our inner emotional landscape and the outer physical reality. The question then arises: what do we do with all this clutter, and how do we manage it?
“From Kitchen to Garret” is a book from 1910 which offers advice to newlyweds for the management of domestic tasks. It’s chapter on the upkeep of the garret, (or attic) strictly outlines the procedures to keep the garret in optimal shape, encouraging the reader to keep it free from dust and debris, to store clothing in boxes lined with cedar to detur moths, and advice on how to organize the attic in such a way that every object has a known place and can be easily accessed.
In one passage, the author describes an interaction she had with an elderly woman approaching the end of her life, struggling to manage the sentimental clutter in her attic.
The author outlines clear instructions for the care of material objects that have immediate use, but encourages readers to discard and set fire to items in the attic kept out of sentimentality. Sentimental objects often evoke overwhelming emotions, which were unfashionable for the Victorians. Seeing no use for old letters and grandma's furniture, readers who followed this advice would have set fire to the remnants of their past. By destroying the physical objects of the past, we disrupt the continuity of time and our ability to make sense of it.
This theme of cultural erasure extends beyond personal belongings to the built environments we inhabit. When I am in the suburbs of Chicago, this erosion of culture is evident. The chain restaurants, the outlet malls, and all the new apartment developments look the same. There is no sense of connection to the past. When I am in the city, I am surrounded by architecture of the recent past. I can imagine the hands of the masons building the buildings around me one hundred years ago. For Americans, our built environments mirror our cultural amnesia and desire to cut ourselves off from the ways of life of previous generations. When I’ve traveled to Montreal or Guadalajara, I’ve walked on cobblestone roads that were laid in the 15th and 16th centuries. When we are surrounded by remnants of the past, we are reminded of the grand scale of time. The spirits of the past are still with us, and we can sense a way through the present through their guidance.
The author later recounts the act of burning her personal letters and the remorse she later felt. Her friend who encouraged this act declared the reading of old letters as “one of the most depressing tasks in the world,” and this declaration is true to some extent. It is painful to look back at all that is lost, but refusing to do so does not honor the dead. The past keeps us anchored in time and space. It reminds us we are small and insignificant in the long procession of human history. This is painful, but it’s also an important truth to learn to hold.
It a great tradition of Americans to set fire to the past. We cannot be inconvienienced by the ghosts of our past, and so our built reality reflects our undying want to rid ourselves of it. Our collective attic holds the memories of genocide, slavery, lynchings and several other crimes against humanity commited by ancestors of our recent past. These are inconvient truths, but they are worth examining. In this attic, I’d like to place the memory of the north american buckskin map, which exists today in the British Museum. Drawn on the back of a buck, the map is a document that shows the buying and selling of land is a relatively new practice.
The first object I added to the dollhouse attic was a spinning wheel. Once a mundane and practical object, the spinning wheel was once as common as a television is in the modern home. The spinning wheel exists now in our collective unconscious as a thing of fairy tales. In "Rumpelstiltskin," it possesses magical properties, turning straw into gold. In "Sleeping Beauty," Aurora is fated to prick her finger on its spindle, indicating the spinning wheel's dual role as a harbinger of both enchantment and destiny in folklore.
The tale of Sleeping Beauty has evolved significantly from its earliest roots to Disney's popular adaptation. In the original narrative, collected by Charles Perrault and later the Brothers Grimm, the spinning wheel represents a pivotal element. It serves as both a foreteller of fate and a catalyst for the princess's hundred-year slumber. Perrault's version features the princess pricking her finger on a spindle, invoking a curse foreseen at her birth by a malevolent fairy. This event sets in motion the prophecy of a deep sleep from which she can only awaken with a kiss from a prince.
Disney's rendition, however, transforms the spinning wheel into an iconic symbol within a more sanitized and romanticized narrative. Here, the evil fairy Maleficent casts the curse as revenge for not being invited to the princess's christening, replacing the traditional fairy godmother with a vindictive figure. The spindle itself becomes a focal point of the curse, illustrating Disney's adaptation to appeal to modern sensibilities while retaining the core elements of the story's magical allure.
In both versions, the spinning wheel symbolizes the inevitability of fate and the consequences of choices made, echoing themes of destiny and transformation prevalent in fairy tales.
In our modern perspective, the spinning wheel has transcended its original purpose, depicted as a mystical artifact imbued with otherworldly charm. We view something once mundane as magical, with it’s power to transform raw fiber into functional thread. The spinning wheel has a timeless relevance — bridging the ethereal and the practical, reminding us of its enduring role in converting humble materials into essential textiles.
So what are the consequences of our choice to relegate the spinning wheel to the attic? It became obsolete with the invention of the spinning jenny, which often relied on child labor in industrial textile production. The quilt added to the attic by
calls to mind the rich history of quilting in American heritage, with many heirloom quilts woven from fabrics produced through such labor practices. Quilts serve as a kaleidoscope of the human experience, reflecting the inhumane labor practices our country was founded on.Other submissions to the attic are as follows:
A conch shell - When I was little, my grandma had a collection of shells in her room. I often held a conch shell to my ear to hear the ocean. Now that I am far from my birthplace, it is symbolic of a connection to my ancestral roots in Florida. The conch shell is the former home of a mollusk, specifically a marine snail known as a conch. Conchs, found in warm, shallow waters, are herbivores that graze on algae and seagrasses. Their spiral-shaped shells not only provided protection and shelter but also serve as natural sound amplifiers, which is why they seem to echo the sea. Historically, conch shells have been used as horns in various cultures, symbolizing communication, alertness, and the call to gather or signal important events. The conch shell symbolizes nature's beauty, protection, and communication, and holds spiritual significance in various cultures.
Sewing Machine - Similar to the spinning wheel, an old sewing machine might represent a practical object that was once common place in the home, but now seen by most as obsolete. Outsourcing the labor to make clothes to far-off places distances us from the production process and can alter our view of the self. When we are disconnected from the creation of the items we use daily, we may lose touch with the value of craftsmanship and the effort that goes into these products. This detachment can lead to a more consumer-oriented identity, where self-worth is tied to possession rather than creation. Moreover, it can foster a sense of detachment from the global workforce and the conditions under which our clothes are made, weakening our sense of global community and ethical responsibility. Reconnecting with the origins and labor behind our possessions might deepen our appreciation for them and cultivate a more mindful, interconnected sense of self.
Clothing - Also submitted by
, these hand sewn doll clothes serve as a reminder of the personal and emotional significance embedded in items made by hand. Period dress reflects the values, social norms, and technological advancements of past societies, illustrating distinctions in social status, gender roles, and cultural trends. By examining historical clothing, we gain insight into how the circumstances and values of different eras shaped people's lives and expressions through fashion.A rocking horse-The attic may evoke memories of childhood wonderment, making the rocking horse symbolic of lost innocence. This cherished toy represents a simpler time of imagination and play, contrasting with the complexities and responsibilities of adulthood.
A box of memories- Submitted by
, a simple cardboard box represented her experience with transient living, serving as a reminder that a physical home is tied to the privilege of collecting keepsakes and developing one's personal history. This submission mirrors my family's own experiences, recalling a childhood memory of my mother reflecting on the singular photo she held of herself as a child. The photo is scuffed and worn from its years of vagrancy.A screw pin anchor shackle-
submitted this found item from a construction site he was working on. A screw pin anchor shackle is used to securely connect and bear heavy loads in rigging, lifting, and construction applications. This particular kind of shackle is no longer in production, and so it’s missing pin renders it obsolete. He liked the idea that it was forever unpaired. Found on a construction site in San Fransisco, this artifact played a small part in the building of one of America’s great cities.Clocks- Also a submission from
, the attic holds two clocks: one with hands, one without. As a repository of memory, the attic is timeless. The objects inside exist outside of our every day perception of time. The clock with hands symbolizes the passage of time, structure, and the progression of life's moments, serving as a reminder of time's relentless march. The clock without hands signifies timelessness, stagnation, or the suspension of time, highlighting how memories can become frozen, detached from the linear flow of time. Together, these clocks reflect the duality of time's presence and absence, illustrating how the attic, and the memories it holds, exist both within and beyond the bounds of conventional time.
In Gaston Bachelard's "The Poetics of Space," he observes that philosophers often prioritize exploring the vast universe before considering the intimate spaces of the personal home. However, these microcosms are intricately linked to the macrocosms they reflect. When I revisit my childhood home, I appreciate its shelter but lament its lack of ornament and warmth. My father often recounts memories of his childhood home with dirt floors and peeling lead paint. I am saddened that beauty and comfort is so often treated as a privilege of the wealthy, and denied to the blue collar workers who build the world. Bachelard's insights remind us that even in modest surroundings, the pursuit of beauty is not merely a desire for luxury but a fundamental human need—to create spaces that inspire, nurture, and reflect our innermost selves, regardless of our material circumstances.
What’s in your attic?
If you feel compelled to add to it, you may send more submissions to the attic at the following adress. I will add new submissions to upcoming newsletters.
To mail an item to the dollhouse, use this address:
4610 North Clark St. #1158
Chicago, IL 60640
The next room we explore in the dollhouse will be the bedroom. As Virginia Woolfe states in ‘A Room of One’s Own’— “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."
In this room, we will be exploring the importance of intimacy and privacy in one’s creative life. Consider what objects you keep here or have kept that help you cultivate this inner world.
I grew up in a house with a stuffy attic crammed with all manner of bric-a-brac and memorabilia. My mother kept three trunks there. One held her academic medals and other relics of the stellar training that failed to get her hired as a university professor. Two other trunks—one for me, another for my sister—contained our report cards and all the stories and drawings we created at the dining room table, our entire child minds. After our mother died, my sister emptied the house for a yard sale, an exhausting, days-long project. I was working far away and couldn’t help, except to tell her what to do with my trunk. “Send it to the dump,” I said. What else was there to do, with the house sold and new owners on the way? Thirty years later, I wish I could open that trunk for a parting look at who I used to be.
I feel transported to a different time and place. I love the literary references. Of course I love how commonplace items become filled with magic after they have lost their usefulness in a culture. I also love this idea of what cultures do with the past. Do we keep it or burn it? Do we pass our dirty secrets on to the next generation or pretend they didn’t happen?
I live in a 120yr old house in the oldest part of our settled city. I’ve never been to the attack, although the door to get in does exist. I wonder if any remnants exist?
As a child we always moved and my mother, though sentimental, was not a writer. She kept photo’s and dolls and childhood items but her mother kept a journal. I think I would rather receive a journal than a doll from my grandparents. Though it’s written in German, so I will never be able to read it.