Emily Dickinson's Windows Different Amherst

EMILY DICKINSON' s WINDOWS Xiao Situ Emily Dickinson’s Windows Emily Dickinson (1830–1886) lived in a house abundantly furnished with windows. Approximately seventy-five adorned the exterior of the Homestead, the Dickinson family’s Federal-style residence in Amherst, Massachusetts (fig. 1). There were nineteen on the south façade, eleven on the north, twenty-two on the east, and twenty-three on the west. These included French windows, conservatory windows, and cupola windows. There were even two internal windows that looked out from one room into another.1 Windows permeated Dickinson’s deeply interior life. What did these windows mean to her? How might they have shaped her poetry? What can be recovered of her world by our engagement with her windows today? Dickinson’s interactions with windows were numerous and richly associative throughout her lifetime, suffused with playful imagination, ritualistic significance, and strong emotional attachment. She loved her windows, and she loved writing about them. In a letter to her friend Mary Bowles in the winter of 1859, the poet wrote, “I cannot walk to the distant friends on nights piercing as these, so I put both hands on the window-pane, and try to think how birds fly, and imitate, and fail.”2 To her friend Elizabeth Holland in 1884, Dickinson reported, “I have made a permanent Rainbow by filling a Window with Hyacinths.”3 And in a The Dickinson letter to her cousin Louise Norcross, the poet described how a fly hopping Homestead, Amherst, Massachusetts (detail, from pane to pane on her window created cheerful musical notes on see fig. 1). the glass, as though performing “a sort of speck piano.”4 Dickinson even 52 53 1 decorated her windows with plants and flowers: “Today is very cold,” The Dickinson she wrote to Mary Bowles one winter day, “yet have I much boquet upon Homestead, Amherst, 5 Massachusetts, 1858 the window pane of moss and fern.” Whenever Dickinson’s brother, (detail). Photographic Austin, was about to return home from his teaching post in Boston, print, 9 5/8 × 7 5/8 in. Dickinson would clean his room, drawing the “long closed blinds” from (24.5 × 19.2 cm). his windows, sweeping away “each spider down from its home so high.”6 Manuscripts and Archives, Yale University When it came to her poetry, Dickinson used the window as both Library, New Haven, metaphor and prop. In one of her most famous poems, Dickinson cites Connecticut. Todd- poetry as a form of creative expression superior to prose, for poetry, Bingham Picture Collec- which she nicknames “Possibility,” contains more windows and better tion, MS 496E. doors, allowing for greater interpretive traffic and therefore greater possibilities of meaning: 54 Xiao Situ I dwell in Possibility - A fairer House than Prose - More numerous of Windows - Superior - for Doors - Of Chambers as the Cedars - Impregnable of eye - And for an everlasting Roof The Gambrels of the Sky - Of Visitors - the fairest - For Occupation - This - The spreading wide my narrow Hands To gather Paradise - (Fr 466) 7 As these verses suggest, Dickinson metaphorically associated windows with creative freedom and ecstasy. Yet she also used the window in her poetry in a more literal way, as an architectural prop to frame descriptions of nature or town. “By my Window have I for Scenery,” she begins one composition, before proceeding to elaborate on what that scenery is: “Just a Sea - with a Stem - / If the Bird and the Farmer - deem it a ‘Pine’ - / The Opinion will do - for them -” (Fr 849). Another poem begins, “The Angle of a Landscape - / That every time I wake - / Between my Curtain and the Wall,” before it goes on to list precisely what is visible in that slanted bedside view between the curtain and the wall: “a Bough of Apples,” “The Pattern of a Chimney,” “The Forehead of a Hill,” “a Vane’s Forefinger” (Fr 578). Dickinson used old envelopes as writing surfaces, and some of them, when their pointed flaps were opened, resembled windows with their curtains drawn back, their four sides framing words she had scrawled across the space where the landscape would be.8 When we hold these enve- lope-poems in our hands, pulling aside the flaps to read what is written underneath or within, we combine the aesthetic act of reading a poem with the mundane domestic gesture of drawing curtains—art and housekeeping combined, the former giving the latter an aura of aesthetic sacredness, the latter giving the former a feeling of earthly routine simplicity. But the window had more to offer Dickinson’s poetry than the role of metaphor and prop. At times it functioned like a magic lens. When Dickinson had her windows closed, she saw a completely 55 Emily Dickinson's Windows different Amherst. Most domestic window glass in the nineteenth century had wavy, uneven surfaces that, when one looked through it, visually transformed everyday surroundings into spectacular forms. The 1944 photograph by Paul Strand (1890–1976) of the sash window of an abandoned New England house captures some of the mes- merizing visual effects produced by early American window glass (fig. 2). The inherent imperfections in nineteenth-century window glass—residual particles of silica or clay, tiny bubbles, waving bands—distorted nature’s familiar objects into fantastical patterns. The panes in Strand’s photograph appear more liquid than solid, and the tree branches reflected on them become frenetic, ink-like skeins. Although the glass of Dickinson’s windows was of a finer grade and quality than the window glass in Strand’s photograph, the smokiness reflected in the panes of Dickinson’s windows suggests their period kinship to those of Strand’s window and its wilder reflected forms (fig. 3). When we study such glass up close, nature can seem to liquefy and dapple on the panes, like the reflection in a still pool that has been disturbed by wind (fig. 4). Peering through such strangely textured glass meant seeing a world whose structures were momentarily “let loose.” The landscape, houses, birds, and trees appear to unravel from their familiar guises, scrambled by the panes’ uneven surfaces into wondrously fluid designs. As the poet’s niece, Martha Dickinson Bianchi, recalls in her memoirs, her aunt Emily’s writing desk was oriented toward the windows to gain natural light and advantageous views; we can imagine Dickinson sitting there, alternately looking down at the sheet of paper on her desk and gazing through her windows, this frequent back-and-forth attention resulting in a conceptual and visual overlap between her poems and windows.9 Dickinson’s windows may have thus served as formal analogues to some of her 2 poems. And indeed, the physical world we find in many of Dickinson’s Paul Strand, Workshop poems, especially her landscape compositions, is redolent of the Window, Stockburger’s Farm, East Jamaica, visual distortions created by the warps in nineteenth-century window Vermont, 1944. Gelatin glass. In such a world, sunrises unfurl color by color and views of silver print, 9 5/8 × 7 5/8 in. the landscape appear in incremental fragments: (24.4 × 19.4 cm). Philadelphia Museum of Art. The Paul Strand A Slash of Blue! A Sweep of Gray! Collection, purchased Some scarlet patches - on the way - with funds contributed Compose an evening sky - by Drs. Betty and Harry Gottlieb and family, A little Purple - slipped between - 2010-14-126. Some Ruby Trowsers - hurried on - 56 Xiao Situ 57 Emily Dickinson's Windows 3 One of Dickinson’s four bedroom windows on the second floor of the Dickinson Homestead, Amherst, Massachusetts, 2011. Author’s photograph. 4 Detail of nineteenth- century window glass, 2012. Author’s photograph. 58 Xiao Situ A Wave of Gold - a Bank of Day - This just makes out the morning sky! (Fr 233) I’ll tell you how the Sun rose - A Ribbon at a time - The Steeples swam in Amethyst - The news, like Squirrels, ran - The Hills untied their Bonnets - The Bobolinks - begun - Then I said softly to myself - “That must have been the Sun”! (Fr 204) If the richly textured surfaces of the glass lent a fluid quality to Dickinson’s poems, then the window’s grid frame may likewise have influenced her poetry’s frequent gridded rhythm and structure. The majority of the Homestead windows were of the standard double-hung sash format commonly found in early to mid-nineteenth-century Federal- style residences; such frames often featured six panes on the upper sash and six panes on the lower sash, making overall a twelve-unit grid. The formal structure and temporal denouement of many of Dickinson’s compositions bear this pattern of a divisible grid—“a grid of time, space, and temperature, voiced in notches, gauges, degrees, steps, and plunges,” as the poetry critic Helen Vendler puts it. “The poet maps these templates or grids one upon another,” Vendler writes, “enabling her to leap from plane to plane.”10 This is true of numerous Dickinson compositions in which each word, line, or stanza is a well-defined degree, notch, slot, or “pane” that spotlights a single image, emotional state, or quality of experience; these units or increments—as single words, as lines, as stanzas—together form the grid(s) of the poem. As an entirety, the momentum these grids create is that of a sequence or series of “jumps” from one state to another, like hopping from one windowpane to the next, as the poem progresses from beginning to end. An insect hopping from pane to pane on Dickinson’s windows would be perfectly trained to the rhythm and structure of her poems.

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