the unfinished life of phoebe hicks

A g n i e s z k a Ta b o r s k a

the unfinished life of phoebe hicks

Translated from the Polish by

ursula phillips

Collages by
selena kimball

twisted spoon press

prague
2024
 Copyright © 2013, 2024 Agnieszka Taborska
English translation © 2024 Ursula Phillips
Illustrations © 2013, 2024 Selena Kimball
This edition © 2024 Twisted Spoon Press

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be

used or reproduced in any form, except in the context of reviews,
without written permission from Twisted Spoon Press.

isbn 978-80-88628-01-9

This publication has been supported by the ©POLAND Translation Program

To the magic city of Providence
The Victorian period was not only a haunted age; it was also, in
every sense of the word, a hallucinatory age, lending itself to every
type of illusion, even at the level of bricks and mortar. The
Victorian house, the Victorian street, encouraged illusion and hal-
lucination, the Victorian theatre was a hotbed of optical tricks,
only the kitchen escaped the obsession with the manufacture of
articles which appeared to be something else: money-boxes dis-
guised as books, substantial-looking doors that on examination
was merely cunning paintwork, solid-looking chairs that were, in
fact, featherlight, being manufactured from papier-mâché.
Nineteenth-century man and woman were disposed to believe [. . .]
that things were not as they seemed. Their senses had a habit of
letting them down, and they were mentally prepared for any odd
happenings, fugitive visions, the unaccountable thing seen out of
the corner of the eye, the strange sounds in the middle of the night,
the tap on the shoulder that might be a visitation from another
world.

— Ronald Pearsall
The Table-Rappers: The Victorians and the Occult
n o s ta l g i a

It was the year when a vague, indefinable restlessness seized the

inhabitants of Providence and gnawed at their souls. They were
plagued mid-century — as in the first half — by a damp and
sweltering August. The mosquitoes, exceptionally annoying that
summer, made the empty streets after sundown feel all the more
deserted. Their high-pitched whine and the occasional distant
wail of a child trapped in some baking room, reverberated in the
air. The lucky few had left in time for the ocean : for Little
Compton or the islands of Nantucket and Block Island. There the
early mornings and evenings brought fresher gusts of wind and
the fish lying on ice-covered tables in the harbour, caught only
moments before, whetted something resembling an appetite. Yet
even in Little Compton it was hard to walk down the cobbled
streets in the middle of the day. There was nothing to do except
sit on the shore in a wicker strand-chair with one’s back to the
sun and count on the barely perceptible sea-breeze, or seek in a
darkened room answers to the same questions tormenting the
inhabitants of Providence who had remained in town.
Like the rest of humanity, the citizens of Providence would
have gladly devoted themselves to some useful occupation —
the women happily spending sultry evenings crocheting doilies,
the men proudly organizing hunting parties. That summer,
however, even such simple pursuits filled them with nostalgia.
After their death, what would become of the snow-white doilies
painstakingly folded and stored in cavernous chests? Who
would dust the antlers sticking out at such a curious angle over
the fireplace?

11
 Such questions tormented the citizens of Providence, strug-
gling in summer to catch their breath and strolling in autumn
beneath the famous New England maples, whose colours
changed through over thirty shades of scarlet and pink. Thank
God the inhabitants of the harbour town didn’t have to dwell
on dismal thoughts in the long winter dragging on mercilessly
from December to April. The problem resolved itself earlier : in
November 1847.

13
t h e t i m e wa s r i p e f o r s p i r i t u a l i s t s é a n c e s

Half a century meanwhile was passing into oblivion, bearing

away with it long-haired heroines despairing on Romantic can-
vases. What its second half would bring remained an enigma to
minds exhausted by a strange anxiety. At the end of October no
one suspected the time was ripe for spiritualist séances.

15
clam fritters

The theory that a piece of clam, which had found its way into a
culinary delicacy known across New England, gave birth to spir-
itualist photography is no exaggeration. This toxic morsel was
the very root of the madness possessing the hearts and minds of
New England puritans for decades to come.
On 1 November 1847 Phoebe Hicks returned home earlier
than usual. Barely over the threshold, she rushed into her bed-
room, and instead of climbing onto the high and, by today’s
standards, rather short bed ran straight to the washstand. She
leaned over and threw up — once, twice, unable to control her-
self, even after the third time. She vomited all night, occasionally
rinsing her perspiring face in water from the blue-sprigged ewer.
After only an hour, she had nothing left inside but brown bile,
which she continued to bring up. Strands of black hair escaped
from her tightly-wound bun — stiff, sticky, stinking — and clung
to her cheeks like seaweed. She shivered all over — hands numb,
head splitting from the violent convulsions. Her back ached,
jammed like her knees in an awkward position. The skin over her
entire body acquired an unpleasant hypersensitivity, reacting to
the slightest imagined breath of air. Her corset, unlaced by the
last remnants of strength, became an instrument of torture bor-
ing into the secret recesses of her body desperate for sleep. Shoes,
suddenly tight, cut into her toes, her dress drenched in whatever
had missed the overflowing basin. Every new paroxysm brought
the wretched Phoebe to the verge of a faint. Many times in the
night, the thought occurred she might not last until morning and
would die in this non-aesthetic manner, the unexpected victim

17
 of clam fritters. Yet the prospect of death releasing her once and
for all from any obligation to taste the fried fare was not entirely
unwelcome — so dreadful was her memory of the restaurant
serving the harbour specialty, furnished with its round tables
covered in blue-check cloths.
Dusk reigned in the bedroom. Then darkness descended,
until the sun rose again, casting its cold rays onto the washstand.
The dawning of the new day was a slow and painful spectacle.
Phoebe’s thoughts strayed throughout New England. They
chose mid-summer, as if to spite the grey November twilight.
Scurried along the widow’s walks of brown houses, where fisher-
men’s wives waited patiently for boats to return. Ran the length
of white fences around the homes of judges and pastors.

18
Marvelled at rococo gates at odds with spartan façades. Rested in
porches cluttered with wicker furniture. Breathed deeply over the
bay and clung to the red brick of harbour buildings. Frowned at
news of an approaching storm. Lapsed into a reverie over
Providence, its existence forever bound to the ocean. Crashed
into heights that gave the town its shape like the seven hills of
Rome. Flew over the snow-white belfries of Baptist churches.
Landed on windswept beaches and burrowed for fun in the sand.
Scrambled over sharp rocks by the seashore, mussel-covered and
washed by foam. Stumbled over cobbles on the island of
Nantucket. Lost themselves in mists clinging at daybreak to mys-
teriously shaped objects. Hid among flowering shrubs guarding
mansion gateways. Endured without complaint noontides baked
by the sun, the dreaded three o’clock in the afternoon, early eve-
nings heralding relief and nights of short respite alive with the
call of cicadas. Sought the highest point where the State of Rhode
Island stretched out before them. Swept through the mushroom
woods of Vermont and lakes of New Hampshire — too small for
so many fish. Peered into harbours at decks carpeted in shells.
Passed over inns specializing in sea delicacies. Yet did not forsake
the land which had given rise to the fatal clam fritters.
At last Phoebe fell asleep. She collapsed on the bedspread
without undoing her corset or pinching shoes. Lay in a pool of
hair long released from bondage in the bun, but paying for its
unexpected freedom with the stench of the basin’s contents.
Brown fluid had dried on her right hand — icy cold as it
clenched a corner of the sheet. Phoebe was dreaming : wander-
ing down an ever narrower tunnel paved with slimy shells.
When she reached the far end, or what she took for the time
being to be the extent of her roaming, she stood before a green,

19
 pulsating door. She had barely opened it when she realised she’d
let herself be caught in a trap. Then she was falling for hours,
brushing against the undulating walls of the Earth’s aorta as it
dragged her in deeper and deeper, as far as the loud beating
heart. She knew if she was too late and didn’t protect the heart
from the army of sea monsters, the Earth would die along with
her and the people imprisoned in its veins.
But she did not die. The following day she felt better already
and her gruesome adventure would have sunk no doubt into
oblivion, were it not for the talbotype made by an inquisitive pho-
tographer who happened to peer in the late afternoon through
the windows of the houses on Benefit Street. Several factors came
together serendipitously. First, Phoebe Hicks was poisoned by a
piece of clam not long after the process patented in 1841 reduced
the exposure time to three minutes. Her utter stillness over the
washstand sufficed to capture the historic moment.
Second, William Henry Fox Talbot’s invention, in contrast to
the daguerreotype, enabled the multiple printing of photo-
graphic images. Phoebe’s fame was thus able to spread with a
speed unimaginable a few years before.
Third, photographs developed according to this technique
were characterized by fuzziness and gradual fading of the image
caused by chemical decomposition. This fact also contributed
to the consolidation of Phoebe’s legend. Simple minds were
convinced that spirits were bearing away with them into the
Beyond a portrait of their earthly friend. The indistinct photo-
graph in which, in the semi-transparent contents of the wash-
basin, someone happened to spot ectoplasm emerging from the
mouth of the future medium opened for Phoebe the gateway to
an unexpected career.

20
ectoplasm

The unanswered questions mounting around Phoebe Hicks have

their origin in the interpretation of the prying photographer’s
picture. Studies of Spiritualism cite 1894 as the date when the
phenomenon of spiritual energy manifesting itself as ectoplasm
(or “exteriorized matter” from the Greek words ektos and
plasma) was first described. With excessive precision, historians
of Spiritualism record accounts of eruptions of a white, warm,
mucous-like substance unpleasant to the touch, which shines in
the dark, transforms under the influence of light, occasionally
assumes the form of a human face and smells of ozone, oozing
from the mouth, nose, ears, belly-button, nipples and some-
times the vagina of the medium steeped in trance. Among the
conditions conducive to the birth of ectoplasm, they mockingly
list darkness, religious songs that drown out other sounds, and
the physical distance separating the medium from the rest of the
assembly. They describe sadomasochistic photographs, in which
the medium — sitting transfixed in a dark room, her mouth tied
with a gag — emits ectoplasm from between her parted legs.
Occasionally she reclines, her face covered in a semi-transparent
veil, while the “exteriorized matter” gushes from her wide-open
mouth.
Researchers speculate about the speed with which the body
of the guide to the Beyond reabsorbed the ectoplasm at the end
of the séance. They dwell on the contrast between the aura of
nineteenth-century parlours — where every knick-knack had its
appointed place among the flounces, lace, cushions, mirrors,
stuffed birds, footstools, and spiritualists buttoned to the neck

21
 and paralysed in their roles — and the young woman subjected
to such intimate transmutations. They draw attention to the
obvious reason why ectoplasm fulfilled the expectations of those
seeking proof of the existence of the Other Side : thanks to it,
what had hitherto been elusive — had now become tangible.
Why, however, do scholars pass over in silence the earliest
known case, that of Phoebe? Why is it that when discussing
methods practised by frauds to make ectoplasm (from muslin,
cheesecloth, satin, soap, paper, egg white, potato flour, gelatine,
giblets, calf or pig lungs), they suppress information about its
first photographic record? Many historians working inde-
pendently of one another repeat such oversights. Perhaps it’s not
too late though to recreate the history of Phoebe Hicks, restore
her historical significance?

22
the schedule of séances

On 2 December 1847 Phoebe Hicks conducted her first séance

— still tentative, in a room not entirely blacked out, with the
participation of not the most aptly chosen guests, who proved to
be more a hindrance than a help. A second séance followed,
already more accomplished, and then a third, even more suc-
cessful. And as to subsequent ones . . .
During the fourth, guided by an internal impulse, Phoebe
introduced a rule observed afterwards by her successors that
séances should always be held at the same hour and in the same
room. She sensed instinctively that spirits were attached even
more than the living to particular places (hence the ghosts of for-
mer inhabitants harassing the old houses), and that the stale aura
prevailing beyond the grave made them value well-ventilated
rooms. Levitating mediums would take advantage of this knowl-
edge and even in late autumn leave open a parlour window. To
the astonishment of the assembled participants, they could then
fly out of it and back in at will.
Phoebe’s séances — like those of mediums that came after
her — took place at round or oval tables supported by a sculpted
leg (replaced later by frauds with smaller tables on wheels).
Starting from the fifth séance, Phoebe invited an uneven num-
ber of guests. The ideal group, she believed, consisted of four
gentlemen and four ladies, including the medium. Phantoms
apparently favoured clear divisions. If there were more partici-
pants, they never exceeded a total of twelve. The erotic charge
emitted by touching palms, knees and feet conferred an addi-
tional earthly quality on the meetings of spiritualists of both

23
agnieszka taborska (b. 1961) is a writer and art historian spe-
cializing in French Surrealism. She divides her time between Warsaw,
Poland, and Providence, USA, where she teaches art history and litera-
ture at the Rhode Island School of Design. To date, she has published
over twenty books in Polish, translated such authors as Spalding Gray,
Roland Topor, Gisèle Prassinos, and Philippe Soupault into Polish, and
has had translations of her work appear in English, French, German,
Spanish, Japanese, and Korean. Taborska has likewise curated exhibi-
tions of Surrealist art in France and Poland, has written scripts for
plays and documentary films related to Surrealism, and her two liter-
ary collaborations with visual artist Selena Kimball are experiments
that reimagine Surrealism for the postmodern era.

selena kimball is a visual artist who lives and works in Brooklyn,

New York. While her emphasis is collage, she also works in painting,
photography, and film and has exhibited in museums and galleries in
the US, Mexico, France, Poland, and Romania. With Agnieszka
Taborska she coauthored the collage novel, The Dreaming Life of
Leonora de la Cruz, which has been published in Polish, English, and
French. She teaches at The New School’s Parsons School of Design in
NYC.

ursula phillips writes on Polish literary history and is a translator

of literary and scholarly works and has been instrumental in introduc-
ing the work of Polish female authors from the 19th to 21st centuries
to an Anglophone readership, both academic and general, such as
Narcyza Żmichowska’s The Heathen (1846) and Zofia Nałkowska’s
Choucas (1927), for which she received the 2015 Found in Translation
Award given by the Polish Book Institute, and Boundary (1935). Her
translation of Jacek Dukaj’s 1000-page alternative-history-cum-sci-fi
epic Ice (2007) is forthcoming in 2024.
 agnieszka taborska
the unfinished life of phoebe hicks

with collages by Selena Kimball is translated by Ursula Phillips

from the original Polish Niedokończone życie Phoebe Hicks
(Gdańsk: Fundacja Terytoria Książki, 2013)

Layout and design by Silk Mountain

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