ATGET, FROM ALAN
“He would, from time to time, gift one of us four kids…one of these coveted objects…”
My Uncle Alan, on my dad’s side, 11 years younger, was a collector of what he called treasures. He would, from time to time, gift one of us four kids—but only one of us, so it became a competition—one of these coveted objects: a quartz rock, an old horseshoe, a magic sea bean (as he warned, once opened, it can never be closed).
We doubted the merit of some of these treasures—news clipping about healthy eating, story of the life and times of Abraham Lincoln. Still, it was the ’70s, and we had no money to go to Spencer’s Gifts. And Uncle Alan made the sharing of treasures a production, fanfaring the occasion days in advance to gauge which kid was showing the most interest.
One of the treasures I’ve saved is a book of photos by the French photographer Eugène Atget. It seems that the book was originally a gift from the Carnegie Corporation of New York to the YWCA of Springfield, Ohio. In June 1939, the YWCA presented it to the Warder Public Library, also in Springfield. Thirty-some years later, it was placed in the library’s discard section, which Uncle Alan regularly perused.
The book has gorgeously aged yellow pages and the old-time smell of the best kind of bookstores. It’s in sad shape—missing its back cover and binding—but it has more than 90 photographs capturing the architecture, streetscapes and still lifes of early-morning, early-20th century Paris. In college, I would tear out a page here and there, give one to a friend, pluck one out and slip it into a mirror frame as inspiration to someday go to Paris myself. When I page through the book today, I’m still transported beyond my life to another place and time. I still feel that almost hypnotic power.
And then there’s Alan. Kind of like a second dad to us when our own dad was on fireman shifts, 24 hours on and 48 off. He never married and, for a time, before he became a prison guard and moved to Florida, was fully committed to participating in our lives, bringing me old National Geographics for my book report on Ireland, driving us to the roller rink at Grayhill School, suggesting I choose Homer for my Ivory soap sculpture in the 5th grade (not a good idea).
And when I did go to Paris, on my 30th birthday, no one was happier. In his later years Uncle Alan, too, became a traveler, sending postcards from cities around the world. Thanks, Alan, and RIP.
—Deborah Athy Guinan
