A Book out of Time

The most striking feature of Daniel Kelm's Neo Emblemata Nova is, without doubt, its structure. The book comes enclosed in a cloth covered, red and black, cube-shaped box that gives little indication to the contents, save a cryptic, ancient-looking Latin inscription on the lid. Opening the box reveals a tightly packed set of tile like cards which, when removed, reveal themselves to be linked at the edges such that the form a stiff, unwieldy Mobius strip. The tiles are printed with black and white images, some of them accompanied by Latin text, which were taken from a 16^th century “emblem book” – a popular book form containing cryptic imagery meant to convey religious, political, or moral messages that had to be decoded by the reader. Neo Emblemata Nova, like its 16^th and 17^th century precursors, resists decryption.

Going beyond the content – which is as intriguing yet esoteric, if not more so, than it would have been hundreds of years ago – the book itself is physically difficult to read. The stiffly hinged ring of panels is difficult to lay flat, or page, or arrange in any other recognizable position. Even once it is spread out, there is no indication as to the beginning, end, front, or back – and mathematically speaking, the work has none of these familiar qualities, as the Mobius Strip is a surface with one, continuous side that feeds back into itself infinitely. The juxtaposition of ancient content and avant-garde binding makes it difficult even to place the work within the continuum of history. The work feels infinite, both in time and space. The messages conveyed by the imagery, though they can arguably be pinned to specific religious or moral imperatives, are largely left to the reader’s interpretation. It is a work that challenges the reader, physically and mentally, from the moment they open the box to the moment when (likely after much frustration) they manage to fold it back into its original configuration. I would argue that Neo Emblemata Nova is a commentary on the book’s ability to teach us more than the physical contents would suggest – that by reading, handling, and analyzing it we can generate ideas beyond those of the author. It is a book beholden to no time or place, without beginning or end, that must be unpacked (both physically and mentally) by the reader.

Come play with it by asking for Presses W538kene.

Posted for Tucker Lancaster '18

Deliberate Designs

As a new year begins, we celebrate by displaying a January calendar page, among other creations, that was designed by the man who coined the term 'graphic designer' in 1922. William A. Dwiggins was an illustrator, calligrapher, and type and book designer who produced most of his influential works during the first half of the 20th century.

Dwiggins had a monumental impact on book design improvements during the 1920s and 1930s and created numerous fonts such as Caledonia which are still in use today. Dwiggins's criticism of the low standard of book design in the 1910s led to a collaboration with the Alfred A. Knopf publishing house in later decades. Like Knopf, Dwiggins was committed to high-quality book design and publication and brought his aesthetic to both his commercial advertising commissions as well as his own personal projects.

We have a small collection of Dwiggins-related materials here at Rauner thanks to the papers of Dartmouth professor Ray Nash, a graphic-arts historian who ran the Graphic Arts Workshop at Dartmouth from 1937 until 1970. Along with many other fascinating example of printing, Nash left us four scrapbooks containing work related to Dwiggins. To see them, come to Rauner and ask for the Ray Nash papers (MS-1076), boxes 52 and 53.

Deepest Ties that Can Bind

During the early 20th century it was common for Dartmouth students to create scrap books, commonly called “Membooks” books. The student would then, over the course of his college career, use the book to collect various artifacts and memories. These include ticket stubs, report cards, and photos. Presumably, most of these students thought of the books as a fun way to save memories of Dartmouth.

However, when I was looking through Charles Shaw Batchelder’s book I found something much different. The book contains some of the usual staples of Membooks, including ticket stubs, and invitations. However, on the front page, there is an unusual inscription that is unique to Batchelder’s book. The note reads, “If this book should chance to roam will the one who finds it think of the deepest ties that can bind men and earthly things together; and thinking this please return it to me.” While certainly an interesting opening to the book, it seems out of place. The rest of the Membook is filled with sarcastic inscriptions and memorabilia from dance parties and sports games. It is certainly odd that anybody would be so concerned about losing a book filled with jokes and tickets to college performances.

However, after reading through the entirety of the Membook, I have a much better sense of the original note. This was a place where a college student could explore without the prying eyes of administrators or parents. The book allowed Batchelder to reveal an inner, private part of his personality. He could give obnoxious nicknames to college presidents, or mock his fraternity brothers. Batchelder wrote the first note because he was afraid of losing the book, and exposing his true inner self, that the book had allowed him to create. A close reading of the inscription further reinforces this idea. Batchelder focused on “the deepest ties that can bind men and earthly things together,” not on ties that bind men together. Meaning that Batchelder’s private relationship with this book was more important than his relationships with other people. Presumably, this is because the book witnessed and created his private self, while other people only saw the façade that he presents.

Currently, college students no longer have scrap books. Instead we post photos on Facebook for the world to see. I think that in a way we lose something that the membooks gave to Batchelder’s generation. We lose the ability to create separate identities away from others. Instead Facebook feeds are littered with pictures and posts that people have filtered out, concerned about the world’s perception.

Posted for Alexander Leibowitz ‘19

Make it the Best Year Ever!

The Progressive Farmer in January 1942 urged farmers to make 1942 "The Best Year Ever." Considering what had happened only a few weeks earlier on December 7th, 1941, it seems to be an oddly placed show of enthusiasm. 1942 promised to be pretty bad for pretty much everyone, but The Progressive Farmer was ready to rally the farmers to the war effort.

The cover art, "The New Day and the New Year," is a reproduction of J. J. Lankes's painting "New Dawn." It depicts Robert Frost's farm in South Shaftsbury, another odd choice for the magazine. Frost may have been the most successful American poet of his generation, but he was never a very adept farmer. Lankes frequently worked with Robert Frost. He illustrated several of Frost's books and helped Frost create many of his famous Christmas cards.

"Vermont Dawn," silkscreen by J. J. Lankes

Whatever you thought of the past year, maybe it is best to take the advice of The Progressive Farmer and plan to make the next one the best year ever.

Rollo the Red-Nosed Reindeer

One of our favorite Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer related items in the collection is the list of possible names for Rudolph that Robert May '26 made while he was writing the story. It is a bit tough to imagine Reginald the Red-Nosed Reindeer (which was a finalist) now that Rudolph is so ingrained in our psyche. A lot of us have always been partial to the other near-miss, Rollo. That has a nice ring: Rollo the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

So, it was a bit of a shock when searching our collections for materials related to Franconia Notch we turned up Jacob Abbot's Rodolphus: A Franconia Story, "by the Author of the Rollo Books." The Rollo series was still very popular at the turn of the century, and it is hard to believe that young Robert May didn't encounter any of them as a child. Did he also read Rodolphus? Did the two names stick in his head just enough to make it onto his list and both reach the final choices? It is a stretch, but there is a chance. More likely it is just an odd coincidence. Still, it is fun to think that this book may have inspired, at least in name, May's legendary Rudolph.

To see May's list of names, ask for MS 630, Box 1. For Rodolphus, ask for Rare PS1000.A8 R54 1880. And here's another post about Rudolph!

The Enemy of all Civilized People

Dartmouth students over the years have produced scads of short lived journals. Most are venues for literary output, and some are devoted to specific causes. Surprisingly few have directly engaged in major issues outside of the confines of campus, but we just stumbled on one from the 1920s published by the "Round Table of Dartmouth College" that smacks of the witty, vaguely elite, cultural magazines of the time. It seems to be trying to emulate the American Mercury under H. L. Mencken, or maybe the early New Yorker.

Titled Tomahawk as a nod to Dartmouth's past mascot, it set out to "seriously but without solemnity publish informative and reflective articles on matters touching social well-being" to help determine "How liberal is a liberal college?" Their target is "the enemy of all civilized people, and it finds its expression in bigotry, muddle-headedness, and obscurantism: these are particular to no camp."  So, the presidential candidates all get equal treatment and there is a lament about how difficult it is to get conservative speakers relative to liberal or radical ones on campus. Tomahawk only lasted a year, but you can still read it here in the Library by a asking for DC HIST LH1.D3T6. It is a pretty interesting window (and counter to The Dartmouth) into the campus zeitgeist of the 1920s.

After break, on January 11th from 3:00-6:00, the Library will be holding an open house for students currently publishing journals and for those thinking of starting one. Who knows, with a little more support a journal like Tomahawk (hopefully with a better name!) might have thrived--we would have loved to see what it had to say when so many students were being radicalized on campus in the 1930s.

Wherefore Dartmouth College?

On this day, 247 years ago Dartmouth College was officially chartered. But how did a charity school housed in a poor minister's house grow into something so grand as a college?

The story begins in the winter of 1766 when Eleazar Wheelock sent Samson Occom and Nathaniel Whitaker to Great Britain to raise funds for Moor’s Indian Charity School. In their absence, Wheelock was in Connecticut attempting to get a charter for the school to improve its legal standing.

At first, Wheelock was stymied because the colony of Connecticut was itself incorporated. Under English law at the time, one corporation could not charter another. Because of this, Wheelock began to look further afield. He considered sites in New York, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire. The officials from all of these colonies were more than interested in hosting Wheelock’s school and they plied him with offers of money, land and prestigious positions.

William Smith, Jr. to Eleazar Wheelock, May 26, 1767

In 1767, William Smith, a prominent New York lawyer and a member of the Governor’s Council, wrote to Wheelock in an attempt to persuade him to locate his school in Albany. In his letter, he mentions that the people there will give £2,300 and would be pleased to see the school made into a university or college, with Wheelock at its head. This appears to be the first mention of the possibility of the school becoming a college. Wheelock turned this offer down because his relationship with the Six Nations of the Iroquois Confederacy had soured, and he could not anticipate many Indian students coming to the school from the Albany area. But, one has to wonder if this did not alter his aspirations.

Wheelock to Woodbridge, November 12, 1768

The next prominent offer came from Massachusetts in 1768. In his letter to Wheelock, Timothy Woodbridge suggested that the Governor of Massachusetts would be interested in making the school a college. In his response Wheelock noted his reasons against locating the school in Massachusetts, chief among them is that there was already a good college in the colony. This appears to be first time there is an indication from Wheelock that he had ambitions to make his school into something greater.

Wheelock, always a bit of a wheeler-dealer, had been corresponding with the newly appointed Governor of New Hampshire, John Wentworth, throughout his negotiations with the other colonies. Wentworth was as anxious as any to locate an institution of higher learning within his colony. When Wheelock first proposed using the term “college” in a draft of the charter in 1769, Wentworth did not balk. He readily added the wording to the Royal Charter he granted for the founding of Dartmouth College in December of 1769.

Charter Draft, December 13, 1769

However, this change in the school’s status flew in the face of Wheelock’s stated intentions. Occom was less than impressed when he returned to the colonies to find that his efforts to raise money to save the souls of his native brethren had been hijacked. In response he wrote Wheelock a scathing letter in which he pointed out that Wheelock’s school had become too grand for the poor Indian.

While the two men patched up their differences in the long run, Occom never set foot on the Dartmouth campus. Eventually Occom came to the conclusion that Native Americans and European Americans could not coexist and he devised a plan to move his family, and many Christian Indian families, to Oneida country. In 1789, just three years before his death, Occom and his wife finally moved to the newly formed Brothertown community in upstate New York.