Jonathan Safran Foer - Convergence of Birds

THIS BOOK WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN POSSIBLE without the tremendous knowledge and generosity of Jennifer Vorbach at C&M Arts, John Mason and Margaret Richardson at PaceWildenstein, Mary Anne Orszag at the Des Moines Art Center, and Geraldine Aramanda at the Menil Collection, all of whom bent over backward to make sure we were provided with what we needed (and didnt even know we needed). Their assistance was always prompt, thorough, and downright charitable. It is absolutely no exaggeration to say that this book would not have been possible without them. Robert Lehrman has been the epitome of givingas a collector and enthusiast nonpareil, and as a friendand for this I am extremely grateful. Similarly, Lindy Bergman, the wonderful Lindy Bergman, deserves to have her name sung very loudly from some high place. Thanks are also due to Russell Banks for his early encouragement and help, to James Seawright, for introducing me to the art of Joseph Cornell and for reminding me of the urgency of needing to know how things work, to the Greensfelders and Segals for giving me beautiful places to work and make phone calls, to DG, KE, MS, SC, KJ, JJ, MJV, JK, and RF for insisting on intangibles, and to the good people at D.A.P.particularly Sharon Gallagher, Avery Lozada, and Craig Willis, who are nothing less than heroes (and virtuosos) of contemporary publishing. I could never give enough thanks to all of the writers who contributed to this book. Their faith in the project was as extraordinary as the stories and poems they wrote for it. I hope that they are pleased with the results. And I can only hope that this book would have pleased Joseph Cornell. His art has dramatically changed my life, given me a sense of purpose and directed joy, and shown me that certain feelings can be given certain embodiments. Thank you is not enough, so I hope to give more. And finally, I thank my parents and my brothers, who continue to teach me that laughter is not secular, and that imagination is life.

Joseph Cornell

UNTITLED {HOTEL DE LA MER}

c. 1950-53

19 x 12 x 4.5 in.

Glass-paned, stained wood box with drawer, chromolithographic cutout, mirrors, postage stamp, plastic ball, and steel rod and string.

RESPONSE AND CALL

LETTERS WERE WRITTEN. Stamps were licked, envelopes addressed, mailboxes fed like starving animals. CHILDRENS PREVIEW of the exhibition JOSEPH CORNELLCOLLAGES AND BOXES. It was to be his first museum show dedicated to children, and the last show of his life.

Hundreds went that spring, 1972. Many were entranced by Cornells works (which were displayed only a few feet off of the ground), and many by the chocolate cake that was passed about on plastic platters. Some cried, some fell asleep on the parquet, and some left with party favorscomplimentary posters, signed by Cornell.

Fifteen years later, a young woman received one of these posters in the mail. It was from an ex-lover she hadnt thought about since college. Just above Cornells signature he had written: I love this. You will love this. When the young woman died in a car accident the following summer, the poster was rolled up and forgotten about.

1992: The young womans brother asked a friend (who would, years later, become a friend of mine) if he would help him sift through a roomful of boxes in an Upstate storage facility. It was time to save what was worth saving and part with the rest. He couldnt do it alone. When they came upon the poster, both were surprised: the friend because of the rare artifact of his favorite artists life, the brother because above the two pieces of handwriting (Cornells signature and the love note), was a thirdin shaky blue ink: This belonged to Beatrice. He didnt know if it had been written by his father, or mother, or by his sister herself. And because he was alonehis parents having passed away the previous winter, within a month of each otherthere was no way to find out.

By the time I saw the posteron an August 1995 visit to my friends studiothere was another text: this one, like the first two, of known origin. The brother had written: A gift of a gift of a gift. He needed to get rid of it, my friend told me. It was that kind of gift. My friend had attached the poster to a large canvas, hoping to make good use of it in a painting he was working on for an upcoming show. In the brief conversation that ensued, I learned the history of the poster, and learned, for the first time, about Cornell, who was not quite a Surrealist, and had exhausted his medium, as all geniuses do.

That afternoon, following something between a whim and a premonition, I went to the New York Public Library and found the catalogue for MoMAs 1980 Cornell retrospective. On the withdraw card was a roster of names: those belonging to the eleven people who had already taken the book out that year. I remember Elena Salter, and I remember Donald Franks. I remember a Henry, a Theresa, a Jennifer and a James. Each name was written in a different script, each with a different pen, held by a different hand. I signed my name into the registryas if the catalogue were a hotel, as if I expected to meet the eleven others in some metaphysical lobbyand took it home. My life began to change.

By the end of the summer, I was pursuing obscure references, tracking down essays about essays about essays. When the new school year began, I spent afternoons in the university art library, sifting through the precious few books that had Cornell images. I hunted for more images, more stories, and spent weekends in Manhattans rare art book stores, flipping through the pages of limited edition gallery catalogues that I would never be able to afford. Of course I read Deborah Solomons biography (dedicated to her husband, Kent Sepkowitz) when it came out in 1997, and even gave a copy of it to a girl I was then interested in. I love this, I wrote on the title page, and, You will love this. (What was the this? The biography? Cornell? The love of Cornell? Of gifts? Of inscriptions? The love of the beginning of love?) It wasnt until two years and hundreds of hours of research latera quarter of a century after those first letters were sent outthat the seeds of the simple idea were planted: I must do something with my lovefor Cornell, for my love of Cornell, for gifts, inscriptions and the beginning of love.

I began to write letters.

Dear Mr. Foer:

Your letter, which covers a whole page, contains only one line about what you want: a story or poem that uses Joseph Cornells bird boxes as the source of imaginative inspiration (but) which need not make any explicit reference to either Cornell or the art itself Since I dont know what this means, since you mention no fee (is there one or not?), since the whole issue seems to be a question of getting contributions, for nothing, from various well-known people to suit your own ends (vague as they are), and since for some reason you seem to think Id be as excited about this project as [you] are, how can I say yes, even with the very best of wills?

This was one of the first responses I received. My father read it to me over the phoneI had given my permanent address in D.C., rather than my college address in New Jersey, thinking I could skirt at least the most obvious challenge to my legitimacy. I shook with excitement as he began the reading, and disgrace by the time he had finished. What a jerk, he sighed, and I sighed: Yeah. Although I wasnt sure just whom we were talking about.

The letter was troubling. Needlessly nasty, perhaps, but no less accurate for its tone. Sadly, I was inclined to agree with its author: my project was naive, ill-defined and blatantly unnecessary.

Naive in that I was completely unfamiliar with the publishing world and what it takes to put together a book. I had no agent, no prospective publisher, no notion of fees or photo permissions.