Parallax bookreview, 16/11/05

 

Boria Sax

Crow

{London: Reaktion, 2003)

Charlotte Sleigh

Ant

(London: Reaktion, 2003)

Rebecca Stott

Oyster

(London: Reaktion, 2004)

Crow, Oyster, and Ant are three of the first books in a new series launched by Reaktion Books that will include at least 16 other titles. Already in print are Bear, Cockroach, Dog, Falcon, Parrot, Rat, Snake, Tortoise, and Whale, and forthcoming hooks include Tiger, Spider, Moose, Hare, Fox, and Bee. The series is called, simply enough, Animal, and each volume, obviously, is titled simply with the name of the animal discussed therein (though animals are never as simple as in our constructions of them: crow’, Sax informs, denotes numerous members of the family corvidae, including magpies, jays, cloughs, nutcrackers, jackdaws, blackbirds, ravens, and others). The series is, in a word, wonderful. These three books are consistent enough to demonstrate that the series has been sagaciously contracted and edited, though at the same time, each hook preserves a distinctness that reflects both its human creator and its non-human subject  - are uniformly well-written, beautifully formatted and illustrated, and richly informative to an audience of specialists in a wide array of scholarly disciplines), amateur animal enthusiasts, and just plain readers.

Each book begins with a sketch of the subject animal’s geography and evolutionary history and then broadens into a wide-ranging cultural history with attention to myth, religion, science, commercial consumption (in the case of Oyster), semiotic resonances and artistic iconographies, and so on. They also include useful appendices with bibliographies, websites and associations relevant to the subject, and, in Stott’s volume, recipes and a listing of the world’s best-known oyster bars.

Readers will most likely begin these books by thumbing through and looking at the high-quality eclectic illustrations; and they may well spend a great deal of time reading the book first this way, as I did, attracted by the fascinating pictures that do not just amplify the text but tell a visual/cultural story of their own. In Ant, I opened first to a weird photograph of ‘honey ant chocolates’, which depicts the upper half of an ant’s body that appears to be crawling out of a large candy egg beneath. Next we see a photograph of an Australian Aboriginal family digging for honey ants, and then a full-page reproduction of an Aboriginal artwork, Honey Ant Dreaming. I would not have realized, had I seen it outside of this context, that the painting represents thousands of honey ants. (They look like merely dots, arranged in lines and circles against a colorful banner of stripes.) More flipping around: a zany movie poster for ‘THEM’ - ‘The amazing new Warner Bros. Sensation’ - a classic giant huge epic from 1954. A monstrous, evil-looking ant holds a leggy and buxomly redhead in its mandibles as a frenzied crowd panics below. (‘This city is under martial law until we annihilate THEM’, threatens a cop; ‘Kill one and two take its place!’ screams a woman fleeing from the horror.) There are details of ants illuminating a medieval bestiary (which ‘often linked the ant’s acute sense of smell with the Christian’s ability to distinguish orthodoxy from heresy’ (p.59), and film captures from the animated film AntZ. We see a range of 19 and 200 century ant farms, and illustrations from John Swammerdam’s 18th century study of insect life. The overall effect of the illustrations is to show how varied and complex these animals (and images of these animals) are as they meander through culture. These hooks are exhaustive surveys of each animal, but at the same time they are grab-bags of oddly fascinating trivia. In Oyster, for example, Stott extensively discusses, as one would expect, the mollusk’s sexual indeterminacy, its reputation as an aphrodisiac, and the commercial history of oyster culturing for food and the pearl trade. But her gastronomic survey of oysters offers a range of fascinating unanticipated insights about class and the culture of food. ‘Who eats oysters and where and when? On the street at an oyster stall at midnight, in an oyster tavern cellar for breakfast with friends, in a private inner room as part of an elaborate seduction ritual, or at a banquet laid out with a 100 cut-glass and fine silver?’ (p. 56). Fresh raw oysters, scarce and expensive, were a delicacy for the ancient Romans, but Asians, who smoked and dried farmed oysters that were easily harvested from the rocks, considered them more of a fall-hack food. In I 9tt century Europe, advances in cultivation and transportation made the oyster a subsistence food for the urban poor. In 1 6 and 17th century England, oyster taverns and stalls generated their own social culture. Pepys, who mentions oysters in his diaries 68 times, often ate them for breakfast (accompanied by wine). In 1671, ‘the Prince of Conde’s Steward fell on his sword after a basket of oysters arrived late for his master’s lunch with Louis XIV’ (p. 61). Stott recounts food historian Piero Camporesi’s account of the part that oysters played in the changing cuisine of the eighteenth century in Europe:

For Camporesi they are she emblematic food of the enlightenment with their succulent light, taut and white clash, an expression of the Lebensgefűhl of the fledgling century, its hunger for light, trim and nimble bodies (alert and agile, like the new ideas and spirit) in stark contrast to the previous century’s floating, blown-out masses of flesh … Taste was transformed, excess and splendor were condensed as evidence of irrational dissoluteness: and it was in tins changing culture that oysters found new power and value on the table of the epicure as white delicate flesh: Oysters and truffles seized power, forcing all the strong dishes typical of ancient  aristocrats into exile.’ (pp. 61-63).

In Crow, Sax elucidates the nuanced and sometimes illogical or contradictory cultural resonances of these birds. Crows are usually black, so have  frequently been associated with mystical powers: their darkness. their slouching posture, an their love of carrion, have helped to make crows symbols of death, yet few if any other birds are so lively and playful. They indulge in such apparently useless games as carrying a twig aloft, dropping the toy, then swooping down and catching it. For no apparent reason, they may hang upside down by one foot or execute back flips in flight. Crows in Alaska reportedly break pieces of congealed snow off sloping rooftops and use these as sleds to slide down’ (pp.10-11). Crows are highly intelligent birds, Sax writes: ‘this, together with the whiskers around their beaks and an apparent smile, make crows, in a scruffy sort of way, endearingly “human”.’ Nature writer David Quammen conjectures that the natural intelligence of crows is far in excess of what is demanded for survival in their biological niche. ‘The result is they are continually bored and make up games to amuse themselves. In other words, crows are like very bright children in environments where intellectual accomplishments are neither encouraged nor appreciated’ (p.19).

In biblical passages, ravens appear to be agents of God. For the Vikings, they were birds of omen: ‘A raven with wings outstretched became the standard of Viking chiefs going into battle (p. 59).  Bui the birds also had more immediately fearful associations: ‘The idea of being eaten by animals at times arouses a very primeval terror. Being left as a corpse for crows and ravens can mean, in other words, being abandoned and cast out from human society. This was the fate of criminals, whose bodies ‘sere left out on the gallows as a public display ... Warnings against a life of crime often invoked the fate of being eaten by crows and ravens’ (pp.65-66). In the 13th century, Moslems making pilgrimage to Mecca were prohibited from killing animals: but crows were considered so noxious that an exception was made for them. In 16th century England, on the other hand, it seas forbidden to do any harm to ravens, because if they did not eat carrion, the meat is would putrefy and poison the air. What we get is a portrait of the animal that is rich and muddied: inconsistent, largely because the bird that we see is an imperfect combination of the ‘real’ crow and the crow as represented by countless numbers of cultures across time and of course, some of what we ‘see’ when we look at a crow is incorrect, or anthropocentric, or overdetermined.

In all these books, there are many careful, evocatively observational passages like this one from Crow,  ‘Foraging on their long, powerful legs, crows can appear to glide over the earth. Then they ascend almost effortlessly, flapping their wings only now and then, into the air like spirits. Though people gene rally do not think of them its such terms, crows are also remarkably graceful’ (p. 13). These authors are looking at at animals, and inviting us to took at animals, with a careful and polyvalent sensibility. Certainly they add their own prejudices to our sense of these creatures, but the distortions in these books seem less assaultive of the animal’s essence than many others have been. These compilations of wide ranging lore are so conscious of she variegations that human culture imposes on animals (Sax begins his volume with the parable of the blind men and the elephant) that readers realize these books do not pretend to capture the animal definitively or monolithically-- people have captured too many animals already, too cruelly and selfishly -but rather they mean to offer more of a smorgasbord of the animal’s existence in the cultural imagination. The resulting portraits are cubistic, polyvalent. And finally, in all three of these volumes the end product is a perspective on each animal that I find consummately respectful of the subjects (though I wish Stott had examined the ethics of harvesting oysters: readers with animal rights interests will of course expect this). I finished each book with a deeper appreciation of the posters that these animals possess, and the ways in which people base alternately tried to pay homage to and co-opt those powers These books are eminently useful: a nobody interested, for scholarly or other reasons, in a crow, or an ant, or an oyster. would be ill-advised to overlook these books.

Parallax bookreview, 16/11/05 21:16:12

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