GW to US: my baby done left me
This is a story about a woman who walked out on a man without saying a word. Not even “I’m just going out for milk.”
Detail view, “Tell Her Things Will Be Different” by Lisa Myers Bulmash. Copyright of this and following artwork images belong to the artist.
The man was our first president, George Washington. The woman who left him was Ona Maria “Oney” Judge, an enslaved woman who worked as Martha Washington’s ‘lady’s maid.’ I’m obsessed with the story of this self-rescuing princess who decided she’d had enough. The best part: Oney remained free for the rest of her life.
Long story short, Washington placed ads and leaned on his contacts to help recover his “property” discreetly, but failed. I’ve incorporated images of that notice and other “runaway slave” newspaper ads in my newest collage, “Tell Her Things Will Be Different.”
The first ad George Washington placed to recapture Oney Judge. Credit: Library of Congress
The ad’s phrasing just creeps me out: “there was no suspicion of her going off, nor no provocation to do so…” It sounds like an abusive person playing dumb about why their partner left. And this was all happening while he was busy fathering a nation.
Lithograph of a George Washington painting by Junius Brutus Stearns. Credit: Library of Congress
Yes, I knew Washington legally owned (more than a hundred) people; yes, I know I’m judging him by today’s standards. Must be something about the banality of evil. He might as well have been putting up flyers for a lost dog. From 2021, though, Oney’s escape looks more like a person sensibly backing away from a scorpion.
I can’t just leave the story after one collage. Two more are banging on my door trying to get out, so keep an eye out in the coming weeks for more installments of the Oney Judge saga.
Find it in the classifieds
You know how Black people sometimes (still) have to remind others that we don’t all look alike? That came to mind as I pored over colonial-era classified ads to recapture self-liberated people (“runaway slaves,” that is).
Newspapers used the same sketches over and over, like stamps; sometimes the image used was of a man, regardless of who had escaped. The accompanying text gave specifics of a person’s appearance. I used to find the image repetition degrading.
But it turns out the sameness and lack of detail makes it psychologically easier for me to work with them. It also amuses me to think of how Harriet Tubman exploited the timing of the ads’ publication. She famously launched escape missions on Saturdays if possible, to gain a head start before the ads appeared the following Monday.
Of course, there’s “more to our history than Egypt and slavery.” Artnet currently has a list of Black History Month educational resources. They provide a welcome antidote to the “they all look alike to me” mindset. As for my collage in progress, stick around for next week’s post: that’s when I’ll explain why I chose to use these classified ad sketches.
Wearing the smell of old books
A legendary bookstore says they’ve captured the smell of old books — in a perfume! Our prayers have been answered! Right?
Well… I don’t know about that.
I inhale the old-book scent regularly, as I rummage through my paper stash for collage materials. Lucky for me, my friends and collectors enable my habit; I just received a delicious haul from Tess the other day. Perfect timing to find out how “Powell’s by Powell” unisex fragrance holds up to The Real Thing.
You might be familiar with the chemistry behind old-book scent: it’s even been formally studied in a lab. But this quote from “Perfume: An A-Z Guide” is far more evocative:
Photo credit: Patrick Tomasso/Unsplash
And yes, the Powell’s fragrance does smell like vanilla, with some woody notes — but not like a favorite old book. It did, however, bring a vivid image to mind. This must be what it’s like to chew an overflowing mouthful of vanilla-scented sugar crystals, followed by a shot glass of wooden splinters. It doesn’t transport me back to libraries I’ve loved, or books I’ve read until they fell apart in my hands.
I want to love this fragrance… I really do. But it would be more satisfying to drive a few hours and then walk into the actual Powell’s Books, just to hyperventilate the air inside. The perfume is missing something. Maybe a hit of printer’s ink?