Once again, I thank the internet for an endless supply of baffling treasures. Tonight’s treat is from this site, which appears in my bookmarks as “knoppen.” It’s an incredible catalog of Cliff Muskiet’s thirty-year collection of flight attendant’s uniforms–literally hundreds of airlines are showcased.
These are just a few of my favorites.
I think the best part might be the heartbroken mannequin.
I’ve been slow to warm to twitter, and I’m not sure I’ve yet thawed, but reading William Gibson’s stream led me to this collection of typewriter ribbon tins from Uppercase Magazine.
Is that enough links for one sentence?
The New York Public Library may be a terrible employer, but boy do I love their digital archive. To be fair, I love their proper archives too, but being in Austin hampers my access a tad.
The Mid-Manhattan Library’s media collection includes thousands of manilla-foldered files filled with clippings. I can only imagine the effort that must have gone into filling those folders. A legion of flickering scissors dancing through a hundred years of magazines, catalogs, and newspapers.
This incredible set of images comes from an artist listed only as A.D.H., 1895. If only Scott Schuman could have captured this.
And my favorite…
I love the weight and gravity of an old lightswitch. Feeling that *chock* as it snaps into place restores a feeling of wonder about the use of electricity. It means something more when light requires the extra effort, and it commands more attention when the switchplate protrudes from the wall. It’s not a seamless, hidden, color-matched plastic convenience, but an honest-to-god appliance. And rather than being the means to an end, use of the switch is an end in and of itself.
That, and I can’t help but love the pressed steel body and stubby brown switch.
The ever lovely Archival Clothing uncovered an article on the 1938 Everest attempt led by a Mr. H. W. Tilman.
I love the gators and patch pockets, buttoned jacket and a bucket hat over the oxygen apparatus.
Such a treat.
The tools you use every day become an extension of yourself. When your loved ones pass away, it’s always the sight of those things that they used most that remind you just what their absence means.
And although it makes me a stark materialist, I love the things that fill my life. I see it as a healthy respect for my tools: I mourn a pair of shoes when they wear too thin or an old car when it’s euthanized to the used car lot, and it absolutely crushes me when my oafish ass breaks something I love.
Before moving to Austin for the summer, I shattered my mug. That sounds like such a little thing—and it is. But it’s a whole life adjustment. It’s the loss of the first thing I touch every day. The bringer of coffee and cereal, the measure of my day.
Mr. BigMug was a one-pint bowl with a handle and, for nine years, it was the only dish I liked to eat from. Stir fry, ice cream, ramen noodles—everything fit. And one dish used meant fewer to wash.
So, mugless, I’ve been using whatever I can find. But most mugs are too small, most steins’ mouths are too tight. And then I found this.
A two-and-a-half pound, stoneware, Gilded Age mug with a gentlemenly monkey getting fresh with the barmaid.
I know that the paint will wear thin and the design will wash away, but I’m happy to have something new to love.
Here’s to you, cheeky monkey.