An ordinary pocket knife became a record of trust between a father and son. The object disappeared beneath the St. Clair River decades ago, but the memory didn't. That's the essence of American Material Memory—ordinary things surviving in us long after the things themselves are gone.
From the Artist:
This was another one of those cool birthday gifts I got as a kid. I actually think it was a promotional item sent to my Dad when he worked at the Willey Sign Company in Mt. Clemens, Michigan, before he quit and went to work for my Mom, publishing her cookbooks.
I remember everything he gave over the years: his penny collection, his high school graduation watch, and his father’s retirement watch from the Packard Motor Company. I still have ‘em all, except this knife, which I lost off our dock in the St. Clair River.
Looking back, what surprises me isn't that Dad gave me a knife. It's that he trusted me with it. Along with the knife came responsibility, and somehow I understood that. Today that kind of trust feels increasingly rare, which is probably why this drawing means so much to me.
That's the essence of American Material Memory. The knife is gone, resting somewhere beneath the waters of the St. Clair River. It survives now only as a drawing, yet every time I look at it, the memories it quietly witnessed return.
An ordinary pocket knife became a record of trust between a father and son. The object disappeared beneath the St. Clair River decades ago, but the memory didn't. That's the essence of American Material Memory—ordinary things surviving in us long after the things themselves are gone.
From the Artist:
This was another one of those cool birthday gifts I got as a kid. I actually think it was a promotional item sent to my Dad when he worked at the Willey Sign Company in Mt. Clemens, Michigan, before he quit and went to work for my Mom, publishing her cookbooks.
I remember everything he gave over the years: his penny collection, his high school graduation watch, and his father’s retirement watch from the Packard Motor Company. I still have ‘em all, except this knife, which I lost off our dock in the St. Clair River.
Looking back, what surprises me isn't that Dad gave me a knife. It's that he trusted me with it. Along with the knife came responsibility, and somehow I understood that. Today that kind of trust feels increasingly rare, which is probably why this drawing means so much to me.
That's the essence of American Material Memory. The knife is gone, resting somewhere beneath the waters of the St. Clair River. It survives now only as a drawing, yet every time I look at it, the memories it quietly witnessed return.
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