The Transfiguration of Mister Punch (6 page)

Leaping ahead to the late nineteenth century, there may be found a startling parallel between the late Victorian, early twentieth century revivals of the Great God Pan, as a design motif, and the popularity of Mr. Punch. Both of these roguish imps turn up on button-hooks...

... tea sets...

... match safes...

... knife hilts, pipes carved of meerschaum, tin boxes...

... brass ashtrays and in the ethereal and perfumed poetic literature of the time.

The two beings were inextricably linked during the fin de siècle period by the reclusive Welsh Poet, mountain-climber and Arts and Crafts Stained Glass pioneer, George Rhys Fenwick Slwch. His exceedingly rare, wonderfully fanciful book: ‘Punch and Pan In Arcady,’ was possibly self-published under the mysterious pen name ‘Thanatosis’ (Simon Hobbs; Publisher, (possibly a pseudonym? Self published? London, 1903.) Those lucky enough to have read these exquisite and slim 97 pages will never forget them. That would amount, now, to six living individuals, for that is how many copies are known to exist today. Until now, for you are about to drink a rare, green gulp. I wish your eyes could bat their lashes above the Beardsleyesque, gilded cover, rendered by the author himself. The exotically crude interior illustrations are suspected, also, to be by Slwch. A brief taste, alas, for our space and time is limited here:

‘Without a whisper,

The Great God Pan,

With Cloven Hooves a’spark

Met Great Punch on the reedy banks

Of the Laughing Brook at Dark,

There they played the strange game called “Man,”

As the Silver Sun set upon the Tann...’

‘With Hoof and Hook’
from G.F. Slwch’s ‘Punch and Pan in Arcady - pg. 45’

and these menacing lines:

‘I see Him on the hill,

I see Him in the tree,

I see Him in the Sea Foam,

I pray he sees not me...’

‘With Haunch and Hunch’
from G.F. Slwch’s ‘Punch and Pan in Arcady - pg. 27’

One final note of interest re. G.F. Slwch. There is not a single photograph of the author extant. Much like that reclusive and excellent Mexico-based author B. Traven, Slwch favored public embracement of his work over any form of fame. This fame never came, save for a favorable bon mot in a Cambridge college magazine. The same little review reveals to us that, ‘despite his pronounced hunchback, Slwch thrived amidst the college boating organizations.’ It appears that the strange poet identified with Punch physically, if not morally.

There was a time in the very early part of the 20th Century when it was rumored that there were only twelve Punch and Judy men on the planet, working full time, living the traveling Puppeteer-gypsy life. This may be an exaggeration, for Punch was always sleeping. It seems he awakens when he is most needed, when the world itself has fallen to ruins and needs to see itself reflected in Mr. Punch’s own violence and gleeful despair. Citizens flocked to the Grand Guignol theatre of Paris in great numbers between world wars. When the streets ran scarlet with real blood, the theatrical horror show tends to dry up. Things are different now. The world is looking, fearlessly at last, at its own reflection. It is beautiful, funny, sad, ultra-violent, gentle as a puppy, tender as a wife, soft as a baby and as piercing as its cry.

The Punch and Judy show asks us how can we make sense of the dreadful errors and mistakes of our life? Could the nightmare past be overcome by repeating it in hushes and vibrant squeaks, His eternal comic tragedy, a folkloric cycle, a twisted mantra. It moves fast as lightning, with such perfectly realistic comic speed. Uncanny, for a little, deformed, hunchbacked man about a foot high. I wonder what his skull looks like?

Speed is of the essence, and clarity of the frenetic lead-player’s voice. These are the two keys to a great puppet show, a great life. His bestial squawk must not distract, it must be heard and vibrate within the belly.

Several years passed. No great finds were made until, one day, I was scanning the files of an Italian Newspaper and found this:

La Grotta di Pulcinello DISCOVERED

‘Hidden from the general public for centuries, a remarkable discovery has been made beneath the fabled Monster Park of Bamarzo, Italy. A tunnel, discovered by two local boys, led to a large, round chambered underground grotto devoted to Punchinello, as the main God, and all manner of aquatic and forest hybrid creatures rendered amazingly well of stone. When lit by torches, thinly veiled by a haze of frankincense, this place talks of an unforgettably compelling atmosphere.’

La Gazzetta, Rome
August 7th, 1932

I gasped as I read on:

‘The unique and intriguing iconography includes a fresco from the time of Caesar, stucco reliefs from the time of Augustus and unprecedented Sarcophagi scenes. The hook-nosed figure appears over and over in dizzyingly varied motifs. First as Sun God, now as rampaging tyrant Caesar, then as unknown forest deity. Again, unclad and chasing maidens. Outstanding and completely unique are the violent and erotic mosaics adorning the chamber, which archaeologists have confirmed is a “cult room.” Figures that suggest ancestral forms of our Commedia and the British Punch figure, are displayed in the midst of primal carnage and lust that cannot be in any manner described here. Other, veiled female figures surround a nameless sacred object, evoking “Hierophantic” connections. These mosaics have been traced back to the Algerian site—Djemila-Cuicul. Their transportation and connection is a thing of mystery. The room has full evidence of having served for decades as the seat of a hitherto unknown religious rituals and initiations. Large stacks of massive deer antlers and crumpled stacks of woven, wicker baskets scatter the chamber en masse. Hundreds of ancient oil lamps and amphorae litter the chamber grounds. Researchers already have found a connection between the myth of Psyche seeing her Beloved with open eyes for the very first time—by the light of her sacred lamp.’

Just like seeing a puppet show for the first time, I imagine.

Later, I would learn of a ‘fallen Punchinello’ figure excavated to the southwest of the exterior ‘monster garden.’ The few images I have seen of the gigantic, moss covered face left me breathless. Here was PUNCH made flesh. The
Bosco Sacro
(Sacred grove) or, as it is known to the villagers,
Bosco dei Mostri
(‘Monsters’ Grove’), was created by the Duke of Bamarzo in the sixteenth century, as a tribute to his wife after she died. Thus, we must assume that many of the Greek and Roman antiquities must have been collected, and imported to the underground crypt.

Another underground temple strangely similar to La Grotta di Pulcinello, in that it is dedicated to a large nosed ‘God,’ may be found on the outskirts of Chichen Itza, Yucatan, Mexico. Here, many years ago, my father and I were exploring the region. He had a passion for archaeology, and dreamed of retiring and becoming an amateur rock picker in Mexico. In a rented automobile, we saw a sign. ‘CAVE: Balankanche - 6 KMS.’ An entrance fee is paid and a twenty minute walk through a very hot and humid cave ensues. Bats flap overhead in masses. If you look down you will see subterranean streams filled with small black fish. Blind, their tiny eyes are white under the aquatic currents. The walk is well worth it, for one arrives at a spectacular natural formation. Stalactite and stalagmite have joined over countless centuries to form a magnificent column, or ‘tree’ within a large, circular chamber. This, the ancient Mayans discovered and came to feel represented an underground ‘World Tree.’ It has become a place of shamanic initiation and ritual, and still is, although it uncomfortably juggles as a tourist attraction. At the base of this living, constantly dripping and growing natural limestone formation, offerings have always been placed. Chunks of amber-like copal incense are placed, and the cloying scent fills the thin cave air. Jugs filled with home made liquors, figures and baskets foodstuffs, corn surround the earth-pillar.

Even today, fresh and bright yellow candle wax splatters the cave soil. When candlelit, the cave returns us to an ancient time. The same, bright yellow wax drips upon El Baul, the ‘world head,’ in a field in Guatemala. Most noticeable in Balankanche is figure after figure of a curious deity with a huge, hooked nose. This is Chaac, or Chac, the Mayan rain God. He stands vigilant with an axe made out of a lightning bolt, designated as God K. He slams his weapon into the clouds and makes it rain. Rain for the corn, the maize. Rain for survival. How incredible that an underground channel thousands of miles from rural Bamarzo would have a similar, awesome shrine devoted to a pendulously hook-nosed, mischievous force of ancient nature, of the laughter heard in the woods.

Over the course of a lifetime, and especially in preparing this manuscript, I have surrounded myself with Punch and Judy miscellanea. This includes a variety of objects fashioned into things such as door-knockers, nut-crackers and toy banks...

It was a Victorian bookend, or doorstop, fashioned of brass in the form of Mr. Punch that contained the thing. Contained is the proper word here, in several ways. Later research would prove that this was one of a set. There was another pair of Punch and Judy bookends that are far more commonly found. I would argue that one set of these must be bookends, for Mr. Punch sits upon a stack of books.