Jeudi: The Art of Beauty

Once again, a picture says more than any writer ever could. The glorious Joyce Bryant photographed in New York circa 1953 by the incredible artist Philippe Halsman. Find out more about this amazing woman, and hear her distinctive, four-octave voice, here. Fashion forward then; fashion forward now. Many thanks to We Had Faces Then on tumblr for the original post.

Dimanche: Swimming

Marilyn by the pool via A Harlot's Progress

Samedi: Herbal-Wise

The herb known as Grains of Paradise is extremely versatile. Used in hoodoo, Voudon, and Wicca for everything from getting a job to protecting one's home, Grains of Paradise are also known as African or Guinea pepper grains.

Scott Cunningham says that Grains of Paradise can be used for the simplest kind of magick: wishing. Take a handful of the herb and hold it in both hands while you make a wish. Visualize your wish coming true; take your time here and really see the thing/change you desire. When you are certain your wish has been firmly grounded in future reality, send it off to the Universe by throwing a little bit of the herb to the four directions, starting in the North and ending in the West. This type of magick is a wonderful way to grow your powers of visualization. Start with something small and work your way up to more serious wishing.

In hoodoo, Grains of Paradise are mixed with frankincense and myrrh to encourage spiritual pursuits and protect a root worker during conjuration. The mixture is burned on charcoal and some workers add rue as well. It is said that this mixture added to Crown of Success Oil can make a powerful dressing for mojos intended to help one rise to the height of their profession and/or to draw fame. I would caution, however, that one be careful what one wishes for here.

For piece of mind and spiritual health, one Grain of Paradise should be disolved into a cup of hot water (tea or coffee will work just as well) and drunk daily. This mixture is also said to elevate the mood and make one capable of facing whatever life may bring.

In the early 20th century, Grains of Paradise were recommended for job-seekers. One was instructed to put nine of the grains in each shoe and then to hold another nine grains in the mouth while asking for a job. The grains were then spit onto the ground outside the employer's property as one left. This may not be the best way to approach this working today; try carrying the extra nine grains in a mojo bag and then - perhaps wrapped in a tissue - deposit this into a waste basket on the employer's premises.

New Orleans voodoo root workers would make a pair of protection packets filled with Grains of Paradise. Generally made of red or yellow flannel, a prayer card of Saint Michael was then sewn onto the outside of each mojo. These were secreted near the front and back doors of a house to keep both the structure and the inhabitants safe from all manner of ills. Bonne chance ~

Header: Harrods catalog cover - once a wish book to end all wish books - from the early 20th century via A Harlot's Progress

Dimanche: Swimming

Woman in Water by James W. Johnson via American Gallery

Samedi: Chthonian Histories

We were watching The Green Mile last night and I began thinking about the pros and cons, for lack of a better expression, of capital punishment. It has certainly been proven that certain types of offenders, child molesters as an example that fits the topic, are not likely to be "rehabbed". Their rate of re-offense is virtually 100% and considering the lives they destroy, the argument for destroying them holds weight. But, continuing on the theme of the movie, when one sees a death such as that of poor Eduard Delacroix one can easily make a case for deleting the institution all together. Then, too, when John Coffey tells Paul Edgecomb that he's "tired of the pain, boss" we understand. Who wouldn't rather be executed than caged?

All this brings me to the horrific yet curious story of Robert Francois Damiens. Born in a small hamlet in the northern French province of Arras circa 1715, Damiens quite literally never amounted to much. He was apparently dishonorably discharged from the army and then held a series of jobs as a servant or laborer from which he was usually dismissed as well. He was probably bipolar, but who knew of such things then?

Damiens claim to fame, or infamy as it may be, was a half-hearted attempt on the life of King Louis XV. Damiens stabbed the king as he was descending a carriage and then made no attempt to escape. The king was subjected to a mere flesh wound, and perhaps a bit of embarrassment, but Damiens would suffer far, far worse.

Hauled off to a hasty trial, Damiens ranted and raved so much that he was tied down to a mattress when brought before his judges (as shown in the engraving above via Wikimedia). He was quickly convicted of attempted regicide and sentenced to die quite literally by torture. The last days of Robert Francois Damiens and Agnes, the miller's daughter hold much in common.

Like Agnes, Damiens became curiously stoic as the hour - or hours - of his death drew near. In his book Death, A History of Man's Obsessions and Fears, Robert Wilkins quotes from a contemporary source which describes Damiens' honorable behavior in the face of unbearable misery. Damiens had his skin seared with hot sulphur and then the executioner took steel pincers "which had been especially made for the occasion,, and which were about a foot and a half long" and ripped chunks of flesh from Damiens' calves, thighs, arms and chest. The contemporary source goes on to tell us that "though a strong, sturdy fellow, this executioner found it so difficult to tear away the pieces of flesh that he set about the same spot two or three times, twisting the pincers as he did so..." After this, each wound was filled with molten lead.

Damiens cried out "Pardon my God! Pardon, Lord!" we are told. Wilkins also says that "from time to time he would raise his head and look over his tortured body." He was then harnessed to horses at each limb but to no avail. The horses pulled so hard for well over half an hour that one collapsed in his harness and yet poor Damiens' limbs would not be ripped from his torso. At this point, the prisoner - doubtless in unimaginable pain - asked calmly that the priest standing by say masses for his soul.

After fresh horses were brought in, Damiens' legs were finally torn off. The execution then chopped the prisoner's arms from his body, evidently with a sword or axe. At this point, the executioner pronounced the man dead. The pamphleteer, however, begged to differ:

... the truth was that I saw the man move, his lower jaw moving from side to side as if he were talking. One of the executioners said that he was still alive when his trunk was thrown on the stake.

All of Damiens' body parts were reduced to ash and scattered to the four winds.

Damiens remained something of a bogey man in French memory and, after the Terror, it was rumored that Maximilien Robespierre was related to him. There appears to be no validity to this and it seems to have sprung from their only connection: both men were from Arras.

The disgusting yet dignified death of Robert Francois Damiens remains an obvious case of justice gone berserk. Surely unfortunate Damiens could have agreed with John Coffey when he said he was tired of the pain.

Dimanche: Swimming

Sunday Swimmers at the municipal pool in Washington D.C. c July 1942 via A Harlot's Progress

I have so missed all y'all; my new job has a lot of demands... we shall see...

Vendredi: Chthonian Histories

In the more florid days of anatomists and resurrectionists, people worried about their bodies being exhumed for medical research. Such horrors were only replaced in the Victorian mind when the likes of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein gave way to Bram Stoker's Dracula. A long interval of decades indeed and either way we're dealing with the resurrected dead, aren't we?

Today, for your enjoyment, a poem by Thomas Hood who died in 1845, fairly the height of the post Burke and Hare era of the late 1820s. The poem is told from the perspective of the ghost of a young woman who, dead before she could marry her dear William, returns to him one night to recount the ghastly dismemberment her corpse has suffered. Hood clearly has a wry sense of the issue as well as a dark sense of humor. One wonders what he might have to say about our current culture's zombie craze.

The arm that used to take your arm
Is took to Dr. Vyse
And both my legs are gone to walk
The Hospital at Guy's.

I vowed that you should have my hand,
But fate gives us denial;
You'll find it there at Dr. Bell's
In spirits and a phial.

I can't tell you where my head is gone
But Doctor Carpue can; 
As for my trunk, it's all packed up
To go by Pickford's van.

The cock it crows - I must be gone!
My William, we must part
But I'll be yours in death, altho'
Sir Astley has my heart.

Header: Pendumbra by Enjeong Noh via American Gallery