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put dummy text in. The favorite punching bag of
American furniture scholarship is elitism—the historical
preference for objects made for the wealthy. Yet,
scholars often focus on extraordinary pieces of furniture
for a good reason: because they seem to have more to
say. They may have more ornament to be identified or
read symbolically or a more ambitious design that may
reflect a surprising degree of cosmopolitanism.
Similarly, the presence of an exotic wood, textile, or
brass fitting can illuminate relationships between
distant locations, cultures, and economies. Too often
material culture scholars assume that all objects from
the past have something interesting to say about the
cultural context that created them; in fact, this is not
always true. One reason that historians routinely focus
on the belongings of the aristocracy is that they are
frequently complex, ambitious objects that have a
similarly complex content. This quality of “textuality” is
evident without any reference to aesthetic superiority or
lack thereof, which is properly the terrain of the
collector and not the historian.
put dummy text in. The favorite punching bag of
American furniture scholarship is elitism—the historical
preference for objects made for the wealthy. Yet,
scholars often focus on extraordinary pieces of furniture
for a good reason: because they seem to have more to
say. They may have more ornament to be identified or
read symbolically or a more ambitious design that may
reflect a surprising degree of cosmopolitanism.
Similarly, the presence of an exotic wood, textile, or
brass fitting can illuminate relationships between
distant locations, cultures, and economies. Too often
material culture scholars assume that all objects from
the past have something interesting to say about the
cultural context that created them; in fact, this is not
always true. One reason that historians routinely focus
on the belongings of the aristocracy is that they are
frequently complex, ambitious objects that have a
similarly complex content. This quality of “textuality” is
evident without any reference to aesthetic superiority or
lack thereof, which is properly the terrain of the
collector and not the historian.
An object’s value as a text can take many forms,
however, and if the American furniture establishment is
guilty of elitism, it is because scholars have not always
searched for textual complexity in simple-looking
objects. A likely subject for study in this regard is a
group of approximately thirty middle-market caned
chairs made in Boston in the early eighteenth century.
All are related in having a mysterious punched and
cross-serifed “I” mark . The most detailed study of these
chairs is the chapter “Cane Chairs and Couches,” in
Benno Forman’s American Seating Furniture, 1630–
1730. Forman was the first to attempt a comprehensive
analysis of the chairs and their features and the first to
identify the “I” mark as that of a caner, rather than a
chair maker or owner. This article will not challenge any
of Forman’s fundamental assumptions about the “I”
chairs, even though several related examples have
emerged since the publication of his book. Rather, it will
attempt to read them as texts—that is, to place them
and the style that they exemplify into a broader
sociohistorical context than has previously been
considered.
however, and if the American furniture establishment is
guilty of elitism, it is because scholars have not always
searched for textual complexity in simple-looking
objects. A likely subject for study in this regard is a
group of approximately thirty middle-market caned
chairs made in Boston in the early eighteenth century.
All are related in having a mysterious punched and
cross-serifed “I” mark . The most detailed study of these
chairs is the chapter “Cane Chairs and Couches,” in
Benno Forman’s American Seating Furniture, 1630–
1730. Forman was the first to attempt a comprehensive
analysis of the chairs and their features and the first to
identify the “I” mark as that of a caner, rather than a
chair maker or owner. This article will not challenge any
of Forman’s fundamental assumptions about the “I”
chairs, even though several related examples have
emerged since the publication of his book. Rather, it will
attempt to read them as texts—that is, to place them
and the style that they exemplify into a broader
sociohistorical context than has previously been
considered.
The Diffusion Model
The style of the “I” chairs is typically referred to as
“William and Mary,” or less commonly but more
accurately, “Restoration.” Both of these terms contain
more than a hint of outdated assumptions about stylistic
transmission. According to the diffusion model, furniture
forms like the caned chair are invented for consumption
among the aristocracy, only gradually trickling down to
the level of popular consumption. In the process, the
form undergoes simplification, losing both aesthetic
value and importance as a cultural text. In the case of
the American caned chair, this mechanistic story of
emulation and simplification is twofold, because the
form was already an imitation when the English got hold
of it; they were mimicking their commercial rivals, the
Dutch and the French, who actually invented the design.
This narrative has some truth to it, and it is also true
that the caned chair experienced drastic formal
reduction in its travels. Yet this information tells us little
about the historical importance of caned chairs once
they reached Boston, or London for that matter. Like
most furniture, the “I” chairs are the end products of
cosmopolitan stylistic invention and exchange; but what
makes them distinctive is their reflection of late-
seventeenth-century bourgeois values in a specific
place. In general, unidirectional diffusion—either
downward through the class hierarchy, or centripetally
from center to periphery—tells us little about the
motivations of the receiving group. In a diffusion model,
those who produce and consume derivative versions of
a form are seen as trying to keep up as best as they
can; but as British architect Colin Campbell wrote,
“imitative behavior is not necessarily emulative.” The
average middle-market caned chair is a good
demonstration of this fact, because it embodies an
intricate and specific set of class and economic
concerns that are not simply imitative. It may have
been derivative, but it was also the first middle-class
furniture form par excellence, and thus an expression of
a new way of thinking about economics and fashion.[1]
“William and Mary,” or less commonly but more
accurately, “Restoration.” Both of these terms contain
more than a hint of outdated assumptions about stylistic
transmission. According to the diffusion model, furniture
forms like the caned chair are invented for consumption
among the aristocracy, only gradually trickling down to
the level of popular consumption. In the process, the
form undergoes simplification, losing both aesthetic
value and importance as a cultural text. In the case of
the American caned chair, this mechanistic story of
emulation and simplification is twofold, because the
form was already an imitation when the English got hold
of it; they were mimicking their commercial rivals, the
Dutch and the French, who actually invented the design.
This narrative has some truth to it, and it is also true
that the caned chair experienced drastic formal
reduction in its travels. Yet this information tells us little
about the historical importance of caned chairs once
they reached Boston, or London for that matter. Like
most furniture, the “I” chairs are the end products of
cosmopolitan stylistic invention and exchange; but what
makes them distinctive is their reflection of late-
seventeenth-century bourgeois values in a specific
place. In general, unidirectional diffusion—either
downward through the class hierarchy, or centripetally
from center to periphery—tells us little about the
motivations of the receiving group. In a diffusion model,
those who produce and consume derivative versions of
a form are seen as trying to keep up as best as they
can; but as British architect Colin Campbell wrote,
“imitative behavior is not necessarily emulative.” The
average middle-market caned chair is a good
demonstration of this fact, because it embodies an
intricate and specific set of class and economic
concerns that are not simply imitative. It may have
been derivative, but it was also the first middle-class
furniture form par excellence, and thus an expression of
a new way of thinking about economics and fashion.[1]
In the 1950s, British furniture historian Robert W.
Symonds argued that caned chairs were first popular
among the middle class who desired “cheap chairs of
plain quality.” He noted that “the improving quality and
increasing ornateness of cane chairs enlarged their
market, and they were bought for more fashionable
homes.” Symonds probably erred in arguing for a
“reverse diffusion” from the middle class upwards—
average and exceptional caned chairs seem to have
been made side by side from the moment of the form’s
introduction—but his basic intuition was correct: the
makers of middling caned chairs were truly innovative.
They broke with precedent in their use of craft
strategies that were easily adaptable to the subtle
dynamics of a mass market. A novel system of piece-
work, which included easily modulated, optional details
such as decorative carving, provided bourgeois patrons
with a means to express developing sensibilities of
display. Likewise, in helping to establish their middle-
class customers’ position within a larger culture of
exchange, chair makers engaged with new attitudes
toward propriety, prosperity, and fashionability.[2]
Symonds argued that caned chairs were first popular
among the middle class who desired “cheap chairs of
plain quality.” He noted that “the improving quality and
increasing ornateness of cane chairs enlarged their
market, and they were bought for more fashionable
homes.” Symonds probably erred in arguing for a
“reverse diffusion” from the middle class upwards—
average and exceptional caned chairs seem to have
been made side by side from the moment of the form’s
introduction—but his basic intuition was correct: the
makers of middling caned chairs were truly innovative.
They broke with precedent in their use of craft
strategies that were easily adaptable to the subtle
dynamics of a mass market. A novel system of piece-
work, which included easily modulated, optional details
such as decorative carving, provided bourgeois patrons
with a means to express developing sensibilities of
display. Likewise, in helping to establish their middle-
class customers’ position within a larger culture of
exchange, chair makers engaged with new attitudes
toward propriety, prosperity, and fashionability.[2]
By combining the carved crests of the English caned
chair and Boston leather chair with nascent Georgian
features, the “I” chairs crystallized the mentality of
Boston’s upwardly mobile commercial elite. In this
sense the chairs mark the transition between what
might be called the “mercantilist style” and a new
concept of taste and fashionability. Though culturally
severed from the elitism of Shaftesbury and his
contemporaries, they are nonetheless structurally
consonant with that elitism. All of the examples with
credible provenances descended in families of the upper
class including the Hancocks, Holyokes, and Aldens.
These seating forms mark the appropriation by such
civic leaders of competitive tactics that had put
Londoners at the center of that empire. And like the
Georgian style in England, they mark the end of those
tactics’ efficacy. From the 1710s to the 1740s, Boston
was the most important center of the American carrying
trade, and its merchants grew wealthy through
commerce with the West Indies. This elite identified
strongly with the English monarchy and was
instrumental in transforming New England into a class-
conscious society. As in England, the government’s role
in the economy was reimagined, and the theocracy of
the seventeenth century gave way to a more
instrumental oligarchy that tried to foster the success of
trade. Given the presence of this upwardly mobile
clientele, it was only logical that Boston chair makers
embraced the same strategy that guided their London
counterparts thirty years before. It is ironic that so much
scholarly effort has been expended on reading the
inscrutable “I” marks on these chairs, when those marks
were not intended to be highly legible. To read these
chairs as texts, we need to pay the most attention to
the areas where the makers invested the majority of
their skill and labor—the crests, which were the site of
greatest visual impact. After all, the chairs were not so
much fashionable as representations of fashionability
itself. In this respect, they bespeak conscious
participation in the larger world of English mercantilism,
in which membership in the middle class was more a
matter of assertion than taste.[23]
chair and Boston leather chair with nascent Georgian
features, the “I” chairs crystallized the mentality of
Boston’s upwardly mobile commercial elite. In this
sense the chairs mark the transition between what
might be called the “mercantilist style” and a new
concept of taste and fashionability. Though culturally
severed from the elitism of Shaftesbury and his
contemporaries, they are nonetheless structurally
consonant with that elitism. All of the examples with
credible provenances descended in families of the upper
class including the Hancocks, Holyokes, and Aldens.
These seating forms mark the appropriation by such
civic leaders of competitive tactics that had put
Londoners at the center of that empire. And like the
Georgian style in England, they mark the end of those
tactics’ efficacy. From the 1710s to the 1740s, Boston
was the most important center of the American carrying
trade, and its merchants grew wealthy through
commerce with the West Indies. This elite identified
strongly with the English monarchy and was
instrumental in transforming New England into a class-
conscious society. As in England, the government’s role
in the economy was reimagined, and the theocracy of
the seventeenth century gave way to a more
instrumental oligarchy that tried to foster the success of
trade. Given the presence of this upwardly mobile
clientele, it was only logical that Boston chair makers
embraced the same strategy that guided their London
counterparts thirty years before. It is ironic that so much
scholarly effort has been expended on reading the
inscrutable “I” marks on these chairs, when those marks
were not intended to be highly legible. To read these
chairs as texts, we need to pay the most attention to
the areas where the makers invested the majority of
their skill and labor—the crests, which were the site of
greatest visual impact. After all, the chairs were not so
much fashionable as representations of fashionability
itself. In this respect, they bespeak conscious
participation in the larger world of English mercantilism,
in which membership in the middle class was more a
matter of assertion than taste.[23]
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Carolina Parakeet with Hooded Warbler, Canada
Warbler, and Wilson's Warbler
Warbler, and Wilson's Warbler
Alexander Wilson, from his book American
Ornithology, published in 1829 by Colins & Co.,
New York, and Harrison Hall, Philadelphia.
Ornithology, published in 1829 by Colins & Co.,
New York, and Harrison Hall, Philadelphia.
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Piers Gelly
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