I received a call from my friend Deryn. She’d recently returned from Nayland, England, where she’d gone to settle her stepmother’s estate. Her stepmother’s cottage was filled with an eccentric lifetime of Staffordshire sheep vases, books and horsehair chairs, but Deryn said that she’d found something extra special which she knew would be of particular interest to me.
[ Curious! What was it? ]
It was an old wooden box which she’d found in a cupboard festooned with cobwebs. There was a yellow label on the inside lid which read: Juvenile Tool Chest. Contains: Hand saw, Hammer, Mallet, Two Gimlets, Two Brad awls, Chisel, Gouge and Turnscrew. But there was also a handwritten inscription which ran along the side of the label. It had faded over the years and the only part we could still make out, read, “given me by Uncle … when I was 7 years old. W.A.S.B.” Deryn’s stepmother was the great-niece of William A.S. Benson (1854-1924), so we assumed that whatever was in the box had belonged to him.
[ But what was in the box? ]
The box contained eleven, carefully wrapped little bundles. I was expecting to find a miniature hammer or gimlet when I opened them, but to my surprise, there were no “tools” in those bundles but tiny toy animals. The most remarkable handmade representatives from the animal kingdom that one could ever imagine!
There was a three-legged lion with a long tail made of jute twine. There was a polar bear and a brown bear. The polar bear had icy blue eyes and a wide grin. The brown bear was the fiercest looking beast in the box and looked like it might bite if you tried to pick it up. There was a zebra, a camel and an elephant. The tiger was the most colorful beast. It was a deep orange with black stripes and bright yellow eyes. The jaguar’s ears were pinned back, and it had a bit of a worried look on its face; possibly because, years ago, someone had tied a knot in its tail. The baboon had a disturbingly human-like face, and its single, heavy brow gave it a most sinister look. And, like the Mona Lisa, no matter what angle you approached it from, the baboon seemed to be staring straight back at you. And, lastly, there was a peculiar, hunchbacked dog-like creature, which I assumed to be a hyena. I was mesmerized by them. These fabulous beasts simply could not be put back in that box and left to sit in some forgotten corner for another 100 years!
[ Then I had an idea. I would do a photo shoot with these tiny beasts. ]
I needed to collect some props because I wanted to stage a few different “outdoor settings” for them. This, however, would prove to be a tad challenging; it being the dead of winter in Ottawa, Canada. Regardless, I spent the next couple of months scouring the neighborhood for anything interesting that I could use. I climbed snowbanks, crawled under porches and even went through the odd rubbish bin looking for little treasures. I filled sandwich bags with twigs and dried weeds; basically I grabbed anything that was hearty enough to poke its head above the snow. I even found a wishbone. But I really hit the jackpot when an ikebana artist offered-up some poppy seed pods, curled fern fronds and colored sand. I searched online for different backdrops; lush jungles, dramatic clouds, an ominous moon.
When I had enough to work with, I spent a couple of days photographing the beasts in various scenarios which I set up on an old cookie sheet. A handful of ice cubes against a backdrop of a clear blue sky was the perfect setting for the polar bear. The jaguar crouched behind a striped rock; ready to pounce on an unsuspecting hyena. A few fiddleheads and poppy seed pods stuck in a mound of white sand was just bizarre enough for the baboon.
[ The final images were absolutely ridiculous ]
When the owner of a local gallery saw them, he asked if I would exhibit them there. Et voila! The photographic exhibit “Benson’s Beasts” came to be. The reactions to the images on opening night were mixed. People laughed, people told me that the baboon “creeped them out” while others looked in my general direction with concern on their faces. Deryn arrived with a trunk full of champagne and I presented her with an image of the jaguar stalking the hyena. It was a successful event and the beasts were a big hit. But my journey with the beasts did not end there.
[ Stay with me, because I am jumping to a totally different subject, but I promise that I will get back to the beasts. ]
My father was born in Germany, in 1925, and was the victim of an abusive childhood. At the age of 17
he was packed-up and sent off to fight in a war that he did not understand. He was captured in France, then spent the remainder of the war in P.O.W camps in France, Scotland and the United States. When the war was over, he jumped on the first boat he could and immigrated to Canada, where he found work in a Northern Ontario lumber camp.
Needless to say, when I was growing up, the conversations around our kitchen table were not the run-of-the-mill, “So, how was school today, dear?” Instead, Papa told us stories about the War. He told us about life in a lumber camp, where, in order not to freeze to death, he slept with the horses. And he told us stories of human compassion and forgiveness, which he found in the most unexpected of places. His stories fascinated me, and I always thought they should be written down. Today, I cannot help but wonder if he embellished them, or if his stories were more like parables — Papa’s way of teaching us some of life’s lessons.
This, I will never know.
[ Now, before I get back to the beasts, I want to ask you a question. ]
When you are going through a difficult or stressful time in your life, do you have a book that you go to?
A book that transports you to another place or helps to take your mind off of your worries—even for a short
time. I do. It’s Herman Melville’s classic, Moby Dick and the copy sitting on my bookshelf has been read so
many times that it looks like a piece of baklava held together with rubber bands.
[ OK, back to the beasts and to the actual point of this article. ]
What do some toys which were found in an English cottage, my father’s experiences during the Second World War and in a Northern Ontario lumber camp and Melville’s novel Moby Dick have to do with each other?
Well, nothing really. Except, the way my crazy synapses fire, I saw the potential for a fabulous story.
[ Does it sound ridiculous, or does it make you curious? ]
I hope curious is your answer because Kirkus Reviews calls my new book Benson’s Beasts “charmingly off-kilter” (that’s a good thing, right?). It is being published by Chickadee Prince Books soon.
— Barbara Deetz