by Noelle Beverly
Why bother writing today? What is all this effort for? Why should I keep filling and making books?
These questions have been slinking in and curling up in my mind lately. In an era when it feels like all light and joy and freedom are getting speedily sucked out of this nation and the world, my insistence on making space for a creative practice seems frivolous and selfish, not to mention exhausting.
Still, I keep plodding on. Deadlines push me forward. A company of writer-friends, who encourage and commiserate, pull me through the jungle of doubt. And, on most days, I like what I do when I manage to do it. It feels better to make something than to wallow and worry.
I’m learning to be content with this—writing for my own satisfaction and delight. I would love to find a home for my books, perhaps an audience, but those goals can’t be the why of why I write. Right now, I don’t really have much extra time and energy to keep questing after an agent or publisher, but I’m trying not to let that stop me from moving my projects forward. I’ve found some inspiration for this predicament in an interesting place (or rather, time) …1925.
I’m fortunate to have an interesting day job working at a local history museum, and some colleagues and I recently put together an exhibit that looks back 100 years to 1925. Although the exhibit focuses on social life, the artifacts and stories we’re featuring point to a strong sub-theme: exuberant, irrepressible creative expression. One artifact in particular speaks to this: the Mayo Bass Scrapbook.
Lynchburg native, Mayo Leola Bass, was a young teenage girl still in high school when she began collecting the various papers and pieces that floated into her life and assembling those bits into a scrapbook. She mingled hand-tinted photographs with bright-colored bridge cards, programs, invitations, and party favors. She pasted letters and newspaper articles next to cut out post marks, and dance tickets. One page is filled with the stubs of cigarettes, with the name of each smoker carefully noted beside it. Comprised of ephemera—scraps literally intended to disappear—the scrapbook still has value and meaning 100 years later. It speaks.
The pieces Mayo Bass selected and saved could have just as easily ended up in the trash bin. I imagine someone might have even told her so. But she chose to save them and the result is remarkable. Pages and pages of seemingly inconsequential bits and pieces, which together add up to so much more—a provocative, funny, and informative record of a life. Thanks to this artifact, I feel like I know something about the young woman who created it, as well as the essence and flavor of that time she lived in and that place.
The Mayo Bass Scrapbook, in my opinion, is a piece of art as much as an historical artifact. It is an artfully made collage of the concerns and delights of a young woman living in the 1920s. My guess—Mayo Bass never dreamed anyone would see her creation that way. She likely made it solely for her own satisfaction. Perhaps, also for her daughters to peruse and enjoy one day. But for it to end up on display in a museum as the touchstone for an entire exhibit 100 years later? I bet she would have flicked the ash off her cigarette and laughed at the idea.
Mayo Bass didn’t know the future of her scrapbook or how it would be valued or perceived. This thought encourages me. It also encourages me to think of her cutting and pasting, creating an enchanting object, all just to suit herself. We don’t know the future of our creative work. But if one person finds delight in it, even if it is the artist herself, I think that’s enough. To make something beautiful, or provocative, or funny, even just to please ourselves, is worthy work.
The Mayo Bass Scrapbook will be on display at the Lynchburg Museum, 901 Court Street, through March 31, 2025.
Noelle Beverly writes poetry and prose, supports local writers in the surrounding community, and is a member of the BACCA Literary group. Photos by author.
BACCA Literary 