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Welcome to Back of the Napkin, musings from Serviette for the cultured world. Two weekends ago, I spent the afternoon in the Picture Collection at the New York Public Library, a curious archive containing thousands of folders filled with photographs, illustrations, and clippings organized simply by subject.
The system is wonderfully literal. Tiger hunting? There’s a folder. Ancient tombs? Another. Hands, fountains, chandeliers, embroidery, silverware—entire visual worlds filed alphabetically inside bristol board envelopes just waiting for a curious ‘researcher’ (the designation one receives the moment they pass through the doors) to discover.
Because much of the collection has never been digitized, the only way to see these images is to open the folders and flip through them yourself. It is the ultimate antidote to the algorithm, the dredge of what everyone is pinning on Pinterest, or the cyclical visual inspo accounts on Instagram. Just a table, a stack of pictures, and the slow pleasure of discovery! (Plus, you can scan any of your favorites in 300dpi and have them sent to your email for $0.)
I arrived with a small personal curiosity. Since the symbol of Serviette is, naturally, a serviette, I wondered whether the archive might contain anything related to napkins or textiles. The closest match was handkerchiefs, so I pulled the folder. Inside were pages of embroidered patterns, lacework, and folded fabrics: delicate monograms, elaborate borders, florals creeping across linen like tiny botanical studies. Each image felt like a small meditation on ornament.
Aside from their visual splendor—it’s an art that has lessened in popularity as fabric napkins and printed handkerchiefs have been replaced by disposable squares of brown paper and Kleenex tissues, respectively—there were histories of their uses. Many we have published in previous sends, specifically in regards to how Victorians would cover their nose and mouths with scented fabrics to combat foul odors. However, a more romantic storyline emerged: business cards, calling cards for an unwitting crush with compliments sewn into the hem, and these “good luck” hankies (above) for someone in need of comfort.
Spending time with these images brought to mind something the sociologist Pierre Bourdieu wrote in Distinction. Taste, he argued, is not innate, but rather develops through exposure—the gradual accumulation of references that allow us to recognize patterns across cultural objects. Put simply: the more you see, the more you’re able to see.
Someone who has encountered hundreds of examples of furniture, textiles, architecture, or clothing begins to notice relationships others might miss. A motif reappears across centuries. A pattern echoes something seen elsewhere. Or at the very least, one quickly gets an idea of just how much effort went in to creating aesthetic accoutrements that are now sorely missed.
Until next time, feel free to cultivate your own archive of references, whether in a library, a museum, or a humble drawer of linens. One never knows what good taste might be hiding inside a folder labeled handkerchiefs.