how to unfold your heart
on gifts of affection and Victorian puzzle purses
Earlier this year, a detectorist in England found a medieval ring engraved with leaves and the words "Je desir vous Ceruir"—I desire to serve you.
I think of this ring often—the finger that wore it, the hands that gifted it, the choice of leaves, choice of words. An offering, a wish.
Love tokens exist from earlier still, gifts of affection made of bone and shell. We have decorated boxes and combs and vessels, painted miniature portraits with coded messages. In remembrance of love and friendship, we have carved images into tree bark and strung teeth on string.
At fourteen, I drew secret symbols on my saddle oxfords, hid initials in intricate patterns, inked them onto my shoes's soles, laced them around my feet. Do you remember the way we folded lined loose-leaf paper in junior high? The top right corner turned and folded all the way to the paper's edge? I remember how I flipped the paper and folded it again, muscle memory. Making a pocket, I tucked in the final tiny corner and wrote: "For Claire Only!"
My daughter, almost six, cuts love hearts from construction paper. She layers them on top of one another, each progressively smaller than the last, each bearing her name or mine. She presses them close and binds them together with glue and tape, a nesting doll of affection.
Last year, for the New Year's dance, my son made his best friend a gift: pressed flowers, a note, a ribbon. I asked once what he liked most about her. "She makes time feel better," he said. At the beginning of the summer, she moved away.
When he learned she was coming back to town a few weeks ago, he asked me to help him make something for her "to let her know I'm always thinking of her." I understand, I told him. This is the undercurrent of much of the art I make, and the writing I do. I am always thinking of you.
I first came across Victorian puzzle purses in the archive at The Met. Popular in the 18th and 19th centuries, they are intricate paper creations folded in such a way that they form a small pouch or purse. The puzzles are created from multiple layers of folding, beautiful pieces of ephemera. One, decorated with the sun, says, "Shine on my love in all her ways." And another, "Round is my ring and has no end So is my love unto my friend."
What I like best about them is the series of revelations for the recipient, how there are messages to be found at every stage, how it is the unfolding that matters most. I think of centuries-old hidden messages, how we reveal what we hope for. I think of the opening of Hamlet: Stand and unfold yourself.
In September, artist and illustrator Rachel Kim of Leapling Studio shared a tutorial for creating Victorian puzzle purses. On a Sunday afternoon, my son and I sat side-by-side, carefully following Rachel's instructions, cutting paper down to the appropriate size and shape and folding our paper with care. The folds must be in the correct place if the trick of it all is to work. One mislaid fold and the puzzle falls apart, is not a puzzle at all, just a mess of disjointed images, attempts at telling something, not quite getting it right. We assembled first, then painted messages layer by layer, unfolding as we went.
He gifted the puzzle purse to his friend on her visit. I now think of my son telling me about how she tucked the paper into her pocket, how wrong it felt to part with someone he cares so much about, how strange it is to walk through a crowd after saying goodbye. But giving her the gift helped, he said.
The creation of these tokens is full of love and bravery. The attempt to convey the depth of a friendship at all is courageous. Here is the beauty I see in you. Here is how you make me see the world. Here is how I love love. Here is what I have to give you.
After the unfolding, the final message to his friend said this: "I think of you all the time. Remember to love yourself the way I love you, which is totally."
The ending made me cry. Thank you.
This felt like magic, what a loving ending.