The Avalanches Make Me Want to Visit Australia

Sepia Saturday: A Child's Garden of Dysfunction

(Our weekly contribution to Sepia Saturday.)

"Somewhere along the delicate axis of fact and fiction, one discovers that odd curiosity we choose to embrace as 'truth'."
-- Clarissa Bernstein Ben Zvi Dunlap
(1894-1964)
Third wife of Dr. Q. Nestor Ben Zvi

Though virtually forgotten today, in the late 19th century and early 20th century Q. Nestor Ben Zvi was one of the most widely read authors and most sought after speakers of the era, reputedly having more readers and having given lectures to cumulatively larger audiences than those of Dickens, Twain and Darwin combined.

Granted, he never wrote a single volume intended for a mass audience, but his tomes intended for the industrial and academic sectors are considered to have been a key bridge between the European industrial revolution and the rise of the American assembly line and mass manufacturing. He further forged some of the leading theories on child psychology that many authorities feel are still embedded in the collective American psyche like a deep, glaring scar.
Born in Banja Luka, Herzegovina, in 1873, little Nestor joined his family who immigrated first to Denmark when he was 18 months and then to Baltimore where they lived for three years before his father established a small ale house on Hester Street while young Nestor and his 16 siblings toiled in a button factory where much of his psychological theory evolved through personal toil and triumph. By the age of 14 he rose to a shift manager, overseeing children aged five to eight and was praised by the upper management for his ability to maximize productivity while minimizing complaints, injury and lost limbs. By the age of 16 he published the first of his many pamphlets and soon was much in demand by other factory owners as a speaker on how to get the most out of waif and ragamuffin workers.
So impressed were these captains of industry, that they invited him to take their on own children. In 1896 he was appointed the head of collective corrections at the Finger Lakes Institute for Juvenile Mental Hygiene in Mount Kisco, New York. The Institute was funded by a circle of the East Coast's leading millionaires who were eager for Nestor to "fix" their naughty children. One of the unexpected by-products of the Gilded Age was -- despite the advance of wealth, electricity and indoor plumbing -- what these blue bloods considered to be barbaric behavior among their wee ones. In an era where children were meant to be seen and not heard, these decidedly vocal heirs to the New World were sent to Mount Kisco to be muted and corrected. The registry of family names was kept top secret, but as one anonymous nurse observed, "The pedigrees are so prestigious and the children's behavior so heinous that these are clearly the children of the wealthiest of first cousins or worse."

It was here that Nestor (who earned a dubious doctorate from the Trinidad Academy of Cultured Pearl Contemplation and Psychological Studies at age 22) was now known as Dr. Ben Zvi and developed some of his breakthroughs on child misbehavior management. While originally the children were housed in the various dormitories regardless of their place of origin, he soon observed a direct link between geography and dysfunction. There were the Beacon Hill Booger Eaters. Then it was discovered that the Institute had a wing of the Manic Masturbators of the Philadelphia Mainline. From out West, there were the Persistent Pimple Poppers of Pacific Heights. When grouped by location and ailment, Dr. Ben Zvi discovered that he was able to treat these ailments with greater efficiency and speed, closely echoing Henry Ford's assembly line. (He would later try to cure the Ford children's strident anti-Semitism.)

All was going along swimmingly until a Harper's writer, posing as a distant Cabot cousin, descended on the Institute, questioning Dr. Ben Zvi's methods and daring to name the names of the gilded register at the front desk. Although a healthy "stipend" managed to suppress the story, Dr. Ben Zvi and his patients were forced to flee to an obscure hacienda outside of Montevideo where they could be observed without intervention or judgment.

It was here that Dr. Ben Zvi began writing his masterwork as he started also receiving the children of Europe's crowned heads of state, Latin American and African colonialists and the entire brood of the King of Siam.

Published in 1908 with the names changed, A Child's Garden of Dysfunction was as captivating as it was bizarre. Written in a loose, lilting verse with strange line drawing of his subjects, it featured entries like this:

Puffy Priscilla of Pompei
Ate 90 cream horns every day
Weighing in at 30 stone
There was a lot of blubber on her bones

Icky Heinrich from Düsseldorf
Chewed on hay just like a horse
When off to school he was called
He always came bucking from his stall

Wretched Rudolf from Monterery
Got great joy chewing razor blades
His bloody tongue and tortured jaw
Brought him looks of shock and awe

Though controversial and intended for a practitioner audience, the book was soon a huge hit, especially with children themselves who would memorize and sing the verses while playing ball or jumping rope. Dr. Ben Zvi was on his way back from a lecture tour of Europe when he perished on the Titanic in 1912. Ironically, he did not drown but was shot when caught trying to push his way to the front of a line of women and children trying to board a lifeboat.

What Animal Do You See?

After his return from Sacramento, Mr. Sullivan agreed to another session with Dr. Baumgartner.

"First, I vahnt you to imagine an animal. Any animal. Don't give it too much thought."

Baumgartner had become involved in animal visualization therapy that swept Vienna in the late 19th century and the U.S. in the late 20th century.
"So, vhat animal are you imagining, Mr. Sullivan?"

"An elephant."
"But don't you see a little pussycat?"
"Yeah, don't you see me?" said Billy the Blunder Cat.

"Yes," Mr. Sullivan said, "I see a cat, but you told me to imagine an animal, and I am imagining an elephant."
Suddenly the elephant lifted Mr. Sullivan as he let out a girlish giggle.

"Ah, I see it too," Dr. Baumgartner said. "And vhat an enormous trunk it has!"
"Hey, what about me?" Billy whined.
"Yes, Billy," Dr. Baumgarnter said. "Vhat about you. Vhat was your childhood like?"

"Hey, Doc, mind your own beeswax."
Baumgartner returned to Sullivan and approached the elephant. "May I please touch that big, pink trunk?"

"Get your own visualization animal, Baumgartner!"

Louis Sullivan Is Asked to "Deal With His Issues"

One of the great tragedies for dead artists is that they rarely have a chance to respond to the analysis and critique of their work once they are in the grave. There is still no empirical evidence that the dead haunt the living, but we do know that the future frequently haunts the dead before they go to the grave. Some suspect that it was not a prostitute but news of his paintings selling for seven and eight figures in the 20th and 21st centuries that led Van Gogh to cut off part of his ear.

The case is similar for Louis Sullivan. When he was "outed" by Robert Twombly in his 1985 biography, Sullivan chose to neither confirm nor deny the claims though Twombly asserted that the evidence was there in many of the master architect's writings and his "muscular" buildings. Some have giggled at Sullivan gushing about the Marshall Field Store being a building of admirably "virile" stature.

In his 1996 book, Roman architecture professor Mario Manieri Elia went even further to add onto Twombly's theories: "The causes that Twombly adduces could in fact be described as contributing factors, to some extent acceptable, in addition to a long-standing psychological disturbance variously expressed in Sullivan's interpersonal relationships. A further analysis, including historical factors, would lead us to concentrate on the fascinating anachronism of the figure of Sullivan, an anachronism that (as is so often the case with artists) places him at the peak of his linguistic research during the time of his decline. In short, his professional success was being undermined by a disjunction that can be detected as far back as the late 1880s; right from the beginning of that seventeen-year period that Sullivan indicates as the period of incubation and development of his great crisis."

Don't think that these words didn't sting for Sullivan, even though they were written more than 70 years after his death. And they did not go past his business partner Dankmar Adler who monitored the future quite regularly and through unusual sources. Tension had been brewing between them for months after Adler asserted one morning about their business signage that adorned their office entry was a bit too "frilly". Though sensitive and meticulous, Sullivan was no cream puff and refused to be intimidated by Adler's bullying.

However, when the Elia book came out, Adler became even more stern and insisted that Sullivan seek outside guidance. Though Freudian analysis had yet to jump across the pond from Austria to the U.S. full heartedly until the 20th Century, German immigrant Adler had strong Viennese links and insisted one Dr. Schwartzy Baumgartner whose office on Michigan Avenue near Grant Park. After weeks of Adler's needling and Sullivan's resistance, the battle was finally settled and an appointment was made.
Sullivan felt uneasy from the moment he walked into Baumgartner's overly ornamented office.

"So, Herr Sullivan, how was your relationship with your father?""

"Fine."

"And with your mother?"

"Fine"

"So what would you say it is that is bothering you the most. Right now, at this very moment."

"You."

Dr. Baumgartner conceded that the individual therapy might be too intimate for someone as initially skeptical as Sullivan and that a group setting might be more comfortable and productive. Relieved that the session ended earlier than originally planned, Sullivan agreed to return next week for a group session, although still having grave misgivings.

When he returned to the office, Adler immediately needled him for details.

"So how did the session go?"

"Fine," Sullivan said, dipping his pen into the ink well as he began sketching an ornate corbel.

"And...and..."

"And the doctor-client communication is always confidential."

The following Thursday afternoon, Sullivan dragged his feet slowly along Michigan Avenue as he thought of every excuse to bolt and lie to Adler that he'd attended but he knew Baumgartner would rat on him were he to bail.
Uncomfortable as the first session had been, Sullivan felt even more ill at ease as the small group circled around him and made him sit in the plush center chair. After nibbling on cookies, they were instructed by Dr. Baumgartner asked them to "check in" as each chronicled the emotional baggage of the past week.

"Oh, I was so depressed. I almost jumped into Lake Michigan."

"I had another fight with my mother. And she's been dead for eight years!"

"I keep getting more and more anxious. Even little noises bother me."

The diatribes continued until it finally was Sullivan's turn. There was a long pause until finally Dr. Baumgartner called out gently but firmly, "Mr. Sullivan, it's your turn."

"Pass."

"No, Mr. Sullivan. That's not an option. Surely there is something that you want to share. Some issue that you had to deal with, even if it was something positive."

The group moved in closer to an uncomfortable distance and eyed Sullivan up and down.

"Come on, Sully, share! Share!"

"Hey, little Louie, you gotta tell us your secrets. Just gotta!"

"Fess up. We're all here to share...and support."

Sullivan took a deep breath, staring straight ahead and refusing to make eye contact with the group. "Pass."

Dr. Baumgartner cleared his throat and said, "Okay, let's take a different approach. Mr. Sullivan, let's pretend that your mother and father are in this room. Take a couple of deep breath until you have a clear image of them in your mind's eye. Now what would you say to them, from the depths of your soul, if they were standing right in front of you."

Sullivan took the deep breaths as instructed, closed his eyes and then called out, "Mama! Papa! I'm in a room full of lunatics and they all smell of garlic and moldy cabbage."

With that, Sullivan bolted from his chair, stormed out the door and down Michigan Avenue towards his office. He decided that if it meant dissolving his partnership with Adler it was a better option than one more second in that room.

What Color Is Happy Anyway?

There seems to be a happiness conspiracy of sorts out there, and I have to admit that at times I have fallen for it. A couple of my friends have been following the PBS series "This Emotional Life" which concluded with a two hour episode called "Rethinking Happiness" which suggests that people look around in all the wrong places for it or have unrealistic expectations about it.

I'm a bit surprised to realize that I have books I don't fully recall buying with titles such as The Architecture of Happiness and Stumbling onto Happiness. Heck, I'll even admit that I own The Pursuit of Happyness on DVD and a bottle of Clinique's Happy that I have used maybe two times.

So it was a bit fitting of my often conflicted personality that in one week I bought The How of Happiness by Sonja Lyubomirsky and Bright-Sided - How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America by Barbara Ehrenreich. (The red coloring of that one word is quite intriguing, no?)

I'm generally pretty cynical about pop psychology and self help books, but I have to admit that Lyubomirsky's tome is not bad and more focused on goal setting than the various crack theories that Ehrenreich debunks. She is down on everything from prosperity evangelists, Dale Carnegie, the New Thought Movement and just about any of those suggesting that the "laws of attraction" to lead us out of any misery and to the supposed nirvana of happiness. She grounds it all in her personal experience of going through a support group after being diagnosed with cancer and being asked to see her illness as a "gift" from which she could learn and grow.

At first I had trouble with Ehrenreich's seemingly cranky tone that seemed to embrace being bummed out, but I ultimately agree with her that all this happy talk is leaving people numb from real emotions or even having the sanity to see that things are bad and to fight for their rights. Without anger and disatisfaction around segregation, homophobia, sexism, war and a list of countless ills, there also would not have been the movements and activists to take some steps to right these wrongs that still have a long way to go.

Ehrenreich is one of those writers like Mark Kurlansky that I always enjoy reading, even though I know from the beginning where they are going and what will be some of the their main points. That doesn't mean I don't enjoy the ride with them, even if I don't walk away "happy" at the end.

And, by the way, who said yellow is the color of happiness? I've always found bright yellows and pastels to be sort of depressing and have leaned more towards soothing grays, steely blues and crunchy browns. But then again, many people have told me that my handful of yellow shirts are the most flattering ones that I own.