Antique Stained Glass (continued)

The next three pieces of antique stained glass sit in our dining room.  The Chandelier and accompanying grape and leaves window appear, at first blush, to be made by the same maker.  In fact, I bought the chandelier (which I believe dates back to the 1920’s or 1930’s) first and then, twenty five years later, came across the window.  Both come from the Northeast (Pennsylvania and Ohio, respectively) and are close enough in design to be a match.

AnSW chandelier

AnSW grapes

The third item in the dining room is a stained glass fireplace screen dating to the 1880’s.

AnSW fireplace

It has chunk glass and jeweled bevels intermixed on the lower right mixed with stained glass mostly on the upper left.  It sits in an ornate brass frame.   Here is some detail from the fireplace screen:

AnSW fireplace screen detail1

A similar piece appears on page 3 of Great Glass in American Architecture by H. Weber Wilson.

If you love (or just like) antique stained glass, here are a few websites of dealers who I have found to have exceptional pieces:

Wooden Nickel Antiques, Cincinnati, OH http://woodennickelantiques.net/stained-glass/

Soll’s Antiques, Camden, ME https://www.ebay.com/usr/cantiq307

American Antique Stained Glass Windows, somewhere in northeastern Oregon http://www.antiqueamericanstainedglasswindows.com/

Oley Valley Architectural Antiques Inc., Denver, PA https://www.oleyvalley.com/antiques/windows-stained-beveled-glass/

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Antique Stained Glass

I have a small, but interesting, collection of antique stained glass which I have collected over the last thirty years.  Although amounting to only seven pieces (five windows, a chandelier and a lamp), the collection is eclectic and each piece has a history.  For example, as I will explain, the chandelier and one window go together even though they were bought about 25 years apart.

Just like my earlier post on the decay of post offices, railroad stations and light houses (see Going Postal), antique American stained glass suffers from neglect, urban renewal (or urban removal, as I call it) and changing modern tastes.  The mid-20th century modernistic movement was a direct attack on all things ornate – whether Victorian, Art Deco or Art Nouveau.  As a result, many wonderful pieces of antique stained glass found their way to the garbage heap.  Fortunately, pickers, collectors and preservers managed to keep others from destruction.

One of the first pieces I collected came from the aptly named Thieves Market in Alexandria, Virginia.  The entranceway greeter was an old fortune teller machine and the rest of the “market” was a labyrinthine maze of dead ends and rabbit holes.  When Thieves Market closed for business, they sold the stained glass hanging above their auction floor, among them two pieces from a Victorian house dating from the late 19th century in Northeast Washington, DC.  I did snag the back door transom (shown) but passed on the accompanying front door transom because it said “704” and I never lived at a residence numbered 704.

AnSW transom

The next piece (actually a set of windows) came from an antique dealer from Ohio who dealt mainly in jewelry,  She bought the matched windows as a present for her daughter but the windows did not fit in her daughter’s house (fortunately for me).

AnSW kit2

Here is some of the detail from one of the windows:

AnSW kit detail

The dealer said the windows were from a house in Cincinnati in the early 20th century and mentioned Third Street Studios.  Thanks to Wooden Nickel Antiques in Cincinnati, Ohio, I found out that Third Street Studios is not the name of a single glass studio but a name coined in the 1980’s by a dealer for stained glass makers from the Third Street area of Cincinnati dating to the late 19th and early 20th century.  The matched set was originally placed as a hinged set in the dining room of an elaborate house at the turn of the 20th century.  The hinges and locks have been removed but you can still see where they existed.  You can find more on Third Street Studios in Cincinnati Magazine May 2002 starting on page 80.

(to be continued…)

 

Great Triumverates in History

A comparison:

GTIH1

GTIH2

GTIH3

GTIH4

 

versus

GTIH6

and

GTIH5

 

Aw, shit!

 

I had an “Aw, shit!” moment the other day.  We had received warnings of immanent, severe weather.  It was the usual blurb from local meteorologists:

“Nothing to worry about (if you’re Superman).”

“Secure children and small pets to sturdy fixtures driven at least six feet into the ground.”

“If you are driving on a major highway, abandon your car now!”

“Good news.  The storm has been downgraded by the National Weather Center from cataclysmic to merely life-threatening.”

I took the usual precautions by checking for loose objects, taking light weight items inside and resupplying my liquor cabinet.  I went out on the back porch to watch the storm, which did turn out to be rather severe.  As I sat there placidly and amusingly watching the rains beat sideways and the winds pick up, I noticed an object floating in the lake near my house.  Someone, I thought, has had the misfortune to have their shed blown into the lake and slowly sinking.

At the moment, I realized that it was MY shed blown into the lake and slowly sinking.

Aw, shit!

How many times in our lives have we had that unfortunate moment when we realize that no amount of prayer, wishful thinking, incantations to the gods or promises of remorse is going to reverse the irreversible.

All of this, by way of my swamp of consciousness, brings to mind a winner of the Bulwer-Lytton contest.   As you may recall, entrants to the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest are invited “to compose the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels” – that is, deliberately bad.  This one came immediately to mind:

“The bone-chilling scream split the warm summer night in two, the first half being before the scream when it was fairly balmy and calm and pleasant for those who hadn’t heard the scream at all, but not calm or balmy or even very nice for those who did hear the scream, discounting the little period of time during the actual scream itself when your ears might have been hearing it but your brain wasn’t reacting yet to let you know.”

In other words, “Aw, shit!”

Ah shit

Our Sweet Yorkie

We have a pleasant Yorkie, a likable, lovable, spoiled little seven pound creature.  An affectionate doggie who loves to cuddle and play and look cute.

473

She likes to spend the day nestled in your lap when, without warning, she

FARTS!

How badly does she fart, you might ask?  Badly enough to knock a buzzard off an open garbage truck.  Badly enough to call out an emergency hazmat team.  Badly enough to make your eyes water, your nose run and your skin itch.  THAT’s how badly she farts.  Her farts are thermonuclear.  Actually, they are more akin to a neutron bomb in that they are stealth farts.  They do their damage without leaving any trace or registering on any seismic device.  It is inconceivable that such a small creature can wreak such olfactory havoc.

Not only does she fart spectacularly but she has the audacity to act as though someone else had performed the dirty deed.  She jumps off your lap and looks around in amazement like a little girl caught in the act of breaking mommy’s vase and pretending it was done by her bad brother.  (Our doggie has no brother, bad or otherwise, so the culprit must be a squirrel or a sparrow or maybe the mailman.)

Now such vile activity in a somewhat larger animal – a Saint Bernard or an English Mastiff or a Great Dane  – might be understandable, though not any more pleasant, but a seven pound Yorkie?!  Pound for pound this has to be one of the most intense effusions of odor imaginable.  If this odor was pleasant rather than, well, odoriferous, I could foresee bottling it as Chanel Yorkie, rather than as something best called Essence of Open Sewer Rotting Fish.

Now you might think our doggie is offended by being described as a broken septic field on four paws.  Not at all.  She is, this very moment, waiting to jump back in my lap, nestle down and…

Our sweet yorkie

I am holding my breath.