They explain
children's use of paper hats, go-carts, and makeshift clubhouses as a need
to create identities and skills for themselves from the resources in their en-
vironment.
children's use of paper hats, go-carts, and makeshift clubhouses as a need
to create identities and skills for themselves from the resources in their en-
vironment.
Childens - Folklore
net/2027/usu.
39060010034923 Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives / http://www.
hathitrust.
org/access_use#cc-by-nc-nd-3.
0
? ? is art and craft (often also discussed as part of play), and occasionally body
ornamentation commonly applied to hair, nails, and face. Other subjects are
neglected, yet could easily be part of the study of children's folk culture.
Foodways, clothing, and ephemeral architecture (treehouses, for example),
indeed the connection between children's labor and play, still await studies
in depth. As material, the objects and environments under study provide
tangible evidence that especially suggests considerations of form and creative
process (see Bronner 1986a, 1986b). As evidence of shared tradition, the
material suggests social interaction and culture in process. Here I am con-
cerned with the ways that the tradition works at a given age, keeping in mind
that influencing factors of gender, ethnicity, and region, to name a few vari-
ables, have a bearing on cultural expression. In the following discussion, my
use of material culture centers on things made or altered by children for their
use.
A primary task taken up in some of the first studies of the material
folk culture of children was to describe through American history the vari-
ety of skills and crafts children have engaged in. In 1898, Alice Morse Earle
wrote a chronicle of Colonial everyday life that covered the rounds of
children's life. Looking through diaries and travelers' accounts she found that
demands were put on boys and girls to be "useful. " A young girl from
Colchester, Connecticut, wrote in her diary in 1775: "Fix'd two gowns for
Welsh's girls,-Carded two,-Spun linen,-Worked on Cheesebasket,-
Hatchel'd flax with Hannah, we did 51 lbs. apiece,-Pleated and ironed,-
Read a Sermon of Dodridge's,-Spooled apiece,-Milked the cows,-Spun
linen, did 50 knots,-Made a Broom of Guinea wheat straw,-Spun thread
to whiten,-Set a Red dye,-Had two Scholars from Mrs. Taylor's,-I carded
two pounds of whole wool and felt Nationly,-Spun harness twine,-
Scoured the pewter" (Earle 1898, 253). Beyond the chores of the house and
farm, girls were expected to indulge in decorative crafts such as embroidery,
paper cutting, and lace making. Many of these activities were taught to chil-
dren by adults. The private world that children made is often harder to un-
cover. Earle implied, however, that the association of children's material cul-
ture almost totally with play is a modern one. She spotlighted material cul-
ture as an important part of American social history of family and commu-
nity life.
The use of a historical outline to describe children's culture persists
to the present. Bernard Mergen's survey of play, for example, included a
chapter on the artifacts of play (see also Heininger 1984; Graff 1987; West
and Petrik 1992). His outline showed a movement from handmade toys
taken from nature to games and toys increasingly mass-produced. To cat-
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? ? egorize the early period, he quoted Dorothy Howard's turn-of-the-century
reminiscence: "A 'plaything'-a stick, for example-was not a stick but
(metaphorically) a horse to ride, a thermometer for playing doctor, a writ-
ing or drawing tool for marking on the ground, a log for building log cab-
ins, a boat to float down a rivulet from a spring shower, play candy, a shot-
gun for hunting, or another person. " "To the bounty of nature," Mergen
wrote, "the Industrial Revolution added a vast toy store of play objects:
washers, tires, clothespins, coat hangers, tin cans, ball point pens, paper
plates, bottle tops, rubber bands, and paper clips" (Mergen 1982, 104).
Modern toys, he claimed, are dominated by the mass culture; factory-made
toys by this reasoning have overshadowed folk toys in the twentieth cen-
tury. His linear model harks back to the notion that progress inevitably
marches forward and eliminates folk culture. It is problematic to assume that
folk culture does not adapt to changing surroundings, or that moderniza-
tion necessarily means that industry replaces the influence of the handmade
object. To be sure, more interaction takes place between folk processes and
mass-produced products today, but then again there has always been an in-
teraction between folk and popular culture. Modern toys have also attracted
more attention since maintaining childhood as a separate generation of lei-
sure through specialized products has been a recent commercial preoccupa-
tion of adults.
Research of artifacts greatly informs the social history of childhood,
but the prevailing scholarship tends to overrepresent popular toys and fur-
nishings associated with middle- and upper-class living because they have
remained in the historical record (Schlereth 1990; Carson 1989). An addi-
tional problem is the tendency to structure history in an exclusively linear
and progressive direction. Folk culture scholarship often portrays simulta-
neous trends toward tradition and change, and examines local worlds for
differences. For the subject of playthings through time, the child's hidden
folk technics and their interaction with popular culture demand a closer look.
A social-historical study by Miriam Formanek-Brunell, for instance, claims
that contemporary popular culture has obscured the traditions of doll play
in America enacted by both boys and girls during the nineteenth century,
before the toy industry commercialized doll play, and, in the author's view,
girlhood. A similar argument emerges from Karin Calvert's study of children's
furnishings and clothing from 1600 to 1900. Her book brings out the ma-
terial ways that a nurtured childhood as a separate stage of life developed.
As a context for children's creativity, the creation of the child's room, the
differentiation of rooms and furnishings by gender, and the dressing of chil-
dren to encourage special kinds of activities provide critical contexts for ways
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? ? that children make things and view their surroundings.
The resources of art history have promised to provide some fresh his-
torical perspectives on childhood. Recent studies by Anita Schorsch, and
Sandra Brant and Elissa Cullman, outline attitudes of adults toward chil-
dren by analyzing images of children and their surroundings in painting and
sculpture-by some folk, but mostly nonfolk artists. Children's attitudes were
more difficult to interpret, since scant evidence remains of children's wares.
To their credit, Brant and Cullman include more of this evidence-samplers,
drawings, and even hair wreaths made by children-in Small Folk than
Schorsch did in Images of Childhood. But Brant and Cullman stressed the
unusual aesthetic quality of the objects, rather than, as would have been
called for by folklorists, the typical folk objects of social and psychological
significance.
Many museums have aided historians and folklorists by preserving
children's folk artifacts and publishing catalogs and essays based on their
collections (Mergen 1980, 173-77; Hewitt and Roomet 1979). Some, like
the Children's Museum in Indianapolis and the Children's Museum of the
Brooklyn Museum, emphasize children's culture and collect folk toys and
artifacts. Others are general-history museums that include children's mate-
rial, although the folk artifacts are commonly not clearly identified. Included
in this category are the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D. C. , the
Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan, and the Shelburne Museum
in Burlington, Vermont. America also boasts folk museums that collect his-
toric artifacts of childlife. Especially strong are the Farmer's Museum and
Fenimore House in Cooperstown, New York, Old Sturbridge Village in
Sturbridge, Massachusetts, and Conner Prairie Pioneer Settlement in
Noblesville, Indiana. Generally, such museums are concerned with describ-
ing children's toys and playthings as part of children's social life in the dis-
tant past (see Carson 1989; Heininger 1984).
Another historical approach, oral history, documents the more recent
past by recording childhood memories of the elderly. Among the most in-
formative and compassionate is folklorist Roger E. Mitchell's biography of
his Maine father, "I'm a Man That Works. " The childhood he describes in
Maine, as elsewhere, separated tasks appropriate to either boys or girls. Girls
worked inside, especially with fabric and food. Boys worked with wood; they
were outdoors. Mitchell recounts making sleds on the model of the bigger
bobsleds (Mitchell 1978, 27). Similarly, Thomas Yukic recalls boys build-
ing boats in Niagara Falls, New York (Yukic 1975, 211-28). This is what
boys did, after all, he says. But with modern social changes in sexual roles,
questions now arise about the actual persistence and variation of such pat-
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? ? terns. The memory that people recount becomes itself a kind of object to
be manipulated to fulfill an image of present selves. Material folk culture
of childhood is often remembered as an index of attitudes toward and ide-
als of sexual roles and symbols.
Having compiled the objects of childhood, many researchers opt to
compare their textual and formal qualities, much in the manner of literary
critics. In a groundbreaking folkloristic report on American children's ma-
terial culture, Fanny Bergen in 1895 published reports of children making
paints from plants. Pigweed gave a green liquid; bloodroot produced orange;
keel yielded red. She wanted to know the circulation of such customs. Play
fights with violets, for instance, she found in the United States, Canada, and
Japan. She saw some significance in the similarity among customs of soci-
eties around the world, and used the distribution of children's customs to
illustrate variation within the unity of culture.
In her valuable inventory of childhood practices, Bergen also men-
tioned children who produced the figure of a baby or an old lady out of an
ox-eye daisy, made trombones of the prickly leaf-stalks of pumpkins, strung
horse-chestnuts on dogwood berries, and created boats out of peapods
(Bergen 1895c). To many, these practices reflect children's fascination with
the shape and life of the plant world. Often parents report that their chil-
dren notice details of the vegetation around them that the parents took for
granted. Bergen reported the practices as curiosities; to her, however, they
were surprising customs showing a combination of social tradition and primi-
tive creativity. Even today, a patronizing attitude sometimes shows in treat-
ing children's things. But since those things train the youngster to consider
manipulating the environment, solving problems, and building symbols,
more than inventorying objects is necessary.
Many folklorists of the period encouraged comparing the types of the
objects after inventorying them. But collecting comparative data on objects
for the ultimate purpose of interpretation had pitfalls. Analyzing often ig-
nored the object's setting and cultural context. Looking back, folklorists now
realize that they should have been sure that sufficient background informa-
tion existed on the objects, so that mere conjectures on relations among
objects were avoided. The maker, locale, and setting of the objects needed
to be taken into account. After categories are drawn, researchers today check
more carefully whether objects assigned to the category are indeed compa-
rable.
Stewart Culin, a comparative folklorist of the period, looking closely
at material culture, claimed that similarities between American Indian games
and sacred rites were so close as to suggest an origin of children's gaming
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? ? objects in religious ceremonies (Culin 1898). One type was related to the
common practice of drawing lots-making or notching sticks to be pulled
from the hand. Culin reported, "The Pima employ three twigs with a finger
loop at one end, and among some of the tribes of Arizona and southern
California, where the game receives the Spanish name of peon, the lots are
attached to the wrist with a cord fastened to the middle. This is done to pre-
vent the players from changing them. The four bones, two male and two
female, like the sticks in the four-stick game, probably represent the bows
of the twin War Gods" (Culin 1907, 267). The critic today would ask if Culin
was too quick to assume cultural similarities among different tribal cultures.
Are the categories of play and religion comparable in these societies? Can
the conclusion really be extended to Western society because of some kind
of cultural evolution?
Although open to criticism, comparativists like Bergen and Culin were
successful in pointing out the importance of the object in affecting the be-
havior of people and reflecting their mores and values. Today, researchers
still compare objects in their studies, especially for archival collections, but
the claims for such analysis are more modest. Comparative study today
serves to highlight the continuity and vitality of local traditions (see
Abernethy 1989; Page and Smith 1993). Jan Harold Brunvand's recent guide
for Utah folklore collectors illustrates the use of textual collection among
children. He included as prominent examples of material folk culture two
reports of children's folk creations. The first is recounted from the memory
of an elderly woman, a doll made from hollyhocks, clothespins, and thread.
The second is from a college woman who remembered making gum-wrap-
per chains in junior high school. She recalled that a girl added to the chain
until it was the height of the boy she liked. Then if she set fire to one end
and it burned all the way up without going out "it meant that he liked you
too! " (Brunvand 1971, 102-3). Brunvand emphasized the need for docu-
menting the background and custom attached to folk technics as well as
noting the maker, locale, and setting of the object. The researcher outside
Utah can consult this material to confirm the circulation of the custom, and
to note differences and similarities in form and practice.
The attention to the local setting and people as a defining character-
istic of a unique culture is informed by many anthropologists who have ex-
amined differences in the childhood of aboriginal groups and "bounded"
societies as a result of cultural nurturing even more than biological nature.
The differences, and often the apparent exoticism, of customs are the result
of the different functions that such customs serve. The stories, rhymes, and
objects may serve the society by instilling values in children that will be im-
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? ? portant to them as adults and will help solidify the society as a bound com-
munity. Sister M. Inez Hilger, for example, studied Chippewa child life on
reservations in the upper Midwest of the United States during the 1930s.
When she observed children playing house, she noted that girls tended not
to emphasize possessiveness. "One-room 'houses' with walls of 1-inch-deep
ridges of soil were marked off on well-scraped ground in the yard," she
wrote. She continued, "These houses were equipped with household furni-
ture, such as is found in their own meagerly furnished homes, made of most
perfectly modeled clay forms-the gumbo soil in the area (western section)
being well adapted to modeling. Although models were only 2 or 3 inches
in length, tables had grooved legs and rounded corners; chairs had curved
or straight backs; rockers had runners; and sideboards, designs on doors!
None of the furnishings were considered precious enough to be saved for
the next day's house playing; new ones were made three successive days"
(Hilger 1951, 110).
The application of this functional attention to behavior and context
can frequently be found as well in the so-called "open" or "complex" in-
dustrialized settings of Europe, Australia, and America. Mary and Herbert
Knapp's book One Potato, Two Potato is comparative to an extent, but they
divided their collections primarily by what function the lore served. Does it
give prestige and power to the teller? Does it primarily serve to teach a skill
or value? Does it help organize and structure children's social interaction?
Two categories in the Knapps' book that feature material culture are "Cop-
ing with the Here and Now" and "Coping with the Unknown. " In the first
category are reactions to the troubling present that express hostility or al-
low a creative escape. The Knapps report on reflections of the violent times
in which we live, such as soda-straw blowguns for spitballs and elaborate
rubber band and bobby-pin slingshots. Rapid technological change becomes
evident now in children's making of rockets from the silver paper around
sticks of gum (Knapp and Knapp 1976, 225-31). Citing functions of lore,
however, does not explain origin or emergence, although finding the con-
scious and unconscious uses to which folklore is put sheds light on its per-
sistence, appeal, or transformation (Bronner 1979, 1988; Factor 1988).
"Coping with the Unknown" refers to the lore that predicts the fu-
ture, or present events out of view. The lore thus helps to alleviate fear or
give a sense of control lost by the unpredictable. The widespread gum-wrap-
per chain is an example of predicting a boyfriend's emotions. Another is a
fortune-telling device called by the Knapps a "wiggle-waggle," although I
have heard of it too as a type of "cootie catcher. " Paper is folded to allow
one to unveil predictions for the future. After a certain number or color is
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? ? read aloud to the beat of folding and unfolding movements, a flap is lifted
to reveal a crystal-gazing message. As a cootie catcher, the device can be used
to remove dreaded cooties-imaginary insects, disease, or ritual dirt mak-
ing some person or trait undesirable-from your body. Indeed, the obses-
sion of post-World War II children with cooties has spawned a host of ma-
terial folk preventatives and cures (Samuelson 1980).
The functional approach of the Knapps tends to lump together a va-
riety of settings under the rubric of "American. " Some critics have argued
that folk traditions respond more immediately to the physical environment
of the neighborhood, urban or rural. Further, they point out that many of
the traditions created in response to this environment are emergent and spon-
taneous, such as Bernard Mergen's fanciful "Gropper," which opened this
chapter. An enlightening survey of such response in New York City is found
in City Play by Amanda Dargan and Steven Zeitlin. "Play can happen on a
stoop, a box on the sidewalk, a small part of one block, on one street, in
one neighborhood, in one borough, in one city, at one point in history. Yet,
it is in this highly localized activity that our experience of the city is shaped,"
they write (Dargan and Zeitlin 1990, 2; see also Nasaw 1985).
They explain
children's use of paper hats, go-carts, and makeshift clubhouses as a need
to create identities and skills for themselves from the resources in their en-
vironment. The results are varied and often individualized; the emergence
of tradition anew is emphasized rather than the lineage of texts.
In many past studies of material folk culture, a tendency existed to
celebrate the old in childlore. Items and informants need not be old to be
folk, but researchers often sought to find lore they could trace back in his-
tory, instead of noting the emergent culture. Much of today's material cul-
ture research calls for getting in there with children to see and illuminate
processes as well as grasp objects. Keen eyes and a quick hand are neces-
sary to note and preserve creative events. More so than the tape recorder
so precious to the scholar of oral traditions, the camera and notepad become
primary aids. Of course, the words and gestures must be recorded as well.
Research on the material folk culture of children lags behind work
done on children's language, belief, and narrative. This dearth of research
stems historically from the largely verbal orientation of folklorists and his-
torians in their studies of adults and children alike. In addition, things made
by children for their own use are commonly private and ephemeral; they are
regularly discarded, forgotten, or hidden. Further, adults are generally easier
for the adult researcher to talk to. Indeed, much of our knowledge of
childlore comes from the memories of the elderly. When children are ap-
proached, they are commonly "interviewed" rather than observed. The re-
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? ? searchers didn't know what to ask about material culture, because they typi-
cally were not aware of it.
Revisionist approaches to the material folk culture of childhood are
based on the uses and perceptions, rather than the mere appearances, of
objects. Objects are considered part of human thought and behavior. Newer
folkloristic approaches offer an interdisciplinary mix of cultural perspectives
drawn from anthropology, social psychological methods and ideas, and the
legacy of analyzing traditions informed by the history of folklore studies.
Whether the object is traditional is of less concern than whether the use is
informally shared by others. Although varied situations are observed, so that
a comparative method might be suggested, usually it is the differences, rather
than similarities, of style and behavior observed in natural contexts that are
stressed.
Let's begin with the developing child. As the child develops, he or she
can do more; on the other hand, adults often can't do what they could as
children. By looking at creative behavior with objects across the lifespan,
one can organize study developmentally. Such behavior can reveal cultural
beliefs about aging. Many may "analytically" assume that the organization
of development proceeds according to age, but Hilger, in her study of
Chippewa child life, found that "culturally" children's growth was not
counted in years. Childhood among the Chippewa began with birth and
ended with puberty, and it was divided into two periods. She writes, "Be-
fore it reached the dawn of reason, it might be described as having been 'just
old enough to remember,' or 'before it had any sense. ' Children between the
age of reason and puberty were designated as having been 'so high'-a ges-
ture of the hand indicating the height" (Hilger 1951, ix).
An "analytical" rather than "cultural" approach to organizing devel-
opment has often been borrowed from the observations of Jean Piaget, who
made the argument that at the outset of life, the child's awareness is of a
singular, central object-the child's own body. This argument moves away
from the common assumption of children's society as a unified culture and
suggests instead that childhood exists as part of a changing system of rela-
tions. A decentering process gradually occurs whereby the child becomes
aware of other objects and spatiotemporal relations. The development of that
awareness and a sense of tradition become related. In the early stage of life,
children's own actions dominate their perception. Within eighteen months,
children learn of actions outside their own, and of causal relations between
other actions, such as a bottle being brought and their own feeding. Touch
is important in the early going, as the child cognitively grasps the three di-
mensionality of the environment and seeks the comfort and meaning of
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? ? physical and social contact (Bronner 1982, 1986b). Children's objects in-
vite movement and stress texture.
Two behavioral scientists, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi and Eugene
Rochberg-Halton have pointed out that children's objects require some physi-
cal manipulation to release their meaning, whereas adult things like art and
books stress contemplation (1981, 96-97). They added, "The importance
of objects of action in the early years is a reminder of the powerful need
children have to internalize actions and to define the limits of their selves
through direct kinetic control" (p. 100). As cultural critics, they are con-
cerned with objects, because the "most basic information about ourselves
as human beings-the fact that we are human-has been traditionally con-
veyed to us by the use of artifacts" (page 92).
The infant learns to recognize people as a category separate from
things. The child indeed then notices differences in the form and feeling of
individuals and their surroundings. From this springboard comes the idea
that a personal environment can be shaped. You can have "your" things and
have the space be consequentially "yours. " You can even manipulate the
things to control the space, to form an identity. A couple with a one-year-
old recently reported to me that their baby would no longer just find a place
on the floor to play. The infant's sense of place and surroundings emerged-
in the crib. There he would experiment with different arrangements of ob-
jects in relation to his own position. When unhappy, he called for his own
space and things. The child made meanings take shape.
The shape of the space is in many ways a social aesthetic that the child
inherits. The early spaces in the Western child's experience are rectangular-
the crib, the room, the house. Straight lines and sharp angles become stan-
dards of balance, proportion, and order (Toelken 1979, 227-28). Indeed,
some argue, the plan of the child's surroundings largely mirrors the shape
of the body, with its paired and symmetrical design (Bronner 1983; Glassie
1972). Later the child develops an identity based on the space he or she
knows or alters. Play space, for example, can be formally defined by play-
grounds and parks, but is mentally drawn, too, in public streets, buildings,
parts of the house, and lots, according to the perception of what is appro-
priate and aesthetically pleasing to the play group (R. Hart 1979; Mergen
1982, 85-90).
Around the child's second year, Piaget claimed, the child shows be-
haviors that imply creativity-the formation of, or reference to, objects and
events not already present. Aware of a social aesthetic, the child nonethe-
less develops more personal designs by altering and rearranging physical
materials. The loss of control from decentering is being compensated for by
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? ? a technical control over operative things. The child takes something apart
to see what is inside or how it works, and the child rearranges the line and
color. Often, children create things for the thrill of creating itself (like the
sand mound on the beach); they delight in the power to change shapes and
to build anew. The achievement of a product offers its own reward. Moth-
ers like to tell me, for instance, of the amazing things children do with their
food-mashed potato mountains and string bean designs. This is not to say
that children's creations are not purposeful. With concept in mind, the child
rigs together an object for his personal world: the wooden boat, the stickball
bat, or the clover chain. Jonah is a boy I know, for example, who shaped a
boat out of clay. It didn't fit into any pattern his mother could recognize,
but Jonah worked and reworked the boat according to a blueprint he had
in his head. His sisters shared the excitement he felt over the creation, and
gave advice. Playing along the nearby river days later, they piled variously
shaped rocks to make elaborate sculptures jutting out of the shallow water.
Each child worked on an individual design, yet they carefully consulted one
another on the form and function of the sculptures and ultimately the sculp-
tures resembled one another. The children used the creations to express their
ideas in material form.
Beyond the interaction between the child's unique mind and his cre-
ation are the influences of region, ethnicity, and class. Differences also exist
between the experiences of rural, suburban, and urban children. How much,
for example, can be inferred from folklorist Henry Glassie's observation: "Of
the flotsam of the streets and back alleys, Philadelphia boys construct a va-
riety of traditional weapons: bows and arrows, 'top shooters,' bolas, sling-
shots with subtypes for bobby pins or rocks, spears, whips, slings, and-
when they are a little older-zip guns. A coat hanger after a little bending
becomes a 'key' with which simple locks can be jimmied" (Glassie 1968,
217-18). Befitting the intellectual image of cities as ugly, decadent places,
material culture research has overstated the importance of objects represent-
ing the seedier side of urban life. In contrast, Americans are accustomed to
romanticized accounts of harmless whittling and dollmaking among rural
children. An honest inventory of childhood's objects-both innocent and
unchaste, delicate and crude, sacred and profane, is warranted.
Although folk processes will continue to hold sway in children's lives
because of the basic needs and demands of human development, commercial
influences add a powerful variable in the modern world. Through various
media, companies specializing in children's toys try to persuade the parent and
child of what a particular age should have, rather than answering the ques-
tion of what they might need. To be sure, the borders between folk and com-
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? ? mercial culture are fuzzy at best, but some distinctions are possible.
Commericial or mass culture stresses consumption and novelty; folk culture
values construction and reuse. Mass culture's products tend toward unifor-
mity and faddism, folk culture toward variation and tradition. In the mass
culture you can be told what the fashion is. Companies therefore consciously
attempt to control the material culture of children and discourage the suppos-
edly jerry-built folk culture. Often, folk products like the stickball bat, go-cart,
and wooden puzzle are usurped and repackaged. Companies depend too on
the exploitation of media heroes and fads. The very persistence of creative self-
exploration and traditional play among children outside of commercial inter-
vention attests to the developmental entrenchment of folk practice.
One reaction to mass culture is to alter the factory-made product to
suit one's tastes. A deck of cards became to my childhood friends a marvel-
ous thing with which to show off the patience and prowess needed to build
a house or create a design. They took Erector sets and communally figured
out ways to use the steel rods and bolts from the sets in their homemade
carts and boats. Such experiences emphasized their control, their personal-
izing of things around them. By allowing them to conceive, control, create,
or alter things informally, their things helped them identify more with the
object, and ultimately externalize their identity better.
The relation of object and action underlies what Brian Sutton-Smith
called "a developmental psychology of play and the arts. " His idea was to
"ask not whether play and art are serious or nonserious, real or unreal, but
to ask rather what sort of cultural adaptation they are" (Sutton-Smith 1971b,
8). Folk arts emerge as communication systems for various segments of so-
ciety. Using dramaturgical terminology, Sutton-Smith describes the sequence
of structures in play and art. The props used in performance become sym-
bolic; the dramatic patterns become expressive structures. In some cases, like
puppetry, the theatrical metaphor directly reveals "an existing understand-
ing of being on stage, having imaginary characters, changing affects, antici-
pations and dramatic properties" (Sutton-Smith 1971, 13). But also, in other
expressive encounters of creative play, the child enacts roles, conceptualizes
form, overlays meanings to representation, and unfolds situations (M. Jones
1980; Sutton-Smith 1979a). At around two years old, objects become sym-
bols; at three, toys become properties; from four to seven, such properties
are used freely in dramatic play. Children's folk play and art are not trivial,
therefore, but the central spine of learning and development.
Beyond the questions posed about specific situations and the condi-
tions for creativity are queries about humanistic continuities of children's art.
The word "childlike," used to describe pictures, triggers among most adults
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? ? similar ideas about relations of line, proportion, and color. Intuitively, at
least, a shared idea exists about the basic structures of children's expressions
of form. This problem has primarily sparked psychological discussion rather
than study of art history for most art historians generally see the artworld
as an adult concern. Yet the precedents in children's work demand atten-
tion for what they say about consistencies in artistic traditions. Rhoda
Kellogg ambitiously reduced the children's art of several societies to basic
pictorial motifs. She then suggested that distinct similarities of line and shape
found among children throughout the world lend support to the existence
of a limited number of designs. Compare all those children's drawings on
refrigerator doors, for instance, and you would come up with more of an
organized set of repeated forms than you think, she implied. Does the com-
bination of competence at a certain age and social contact thus produce
universal and culture-specific sets of folk forms upon which all art is based?
The debate over such a provocative question revolves around how
one conceives that structural concepts of folk forms are inherited. Do they
spring from a common response to growing up, or rather to the culturally
diverse situations of social interaction? Some Freudian advocates claim that
childlike forms emerge from anxiety-producing conflicts---especially sexual
ones (Kris 1962). Anton Ehrenzweig, for example, claimed that at age five,
"libidinous scribblings" surface just when Oedipal conflict typically occurs
in childhood (Ehrenzweig 1965, 169). Although tensions and conflicts com-
monly spark artistic expression, the production of children's art is more com-
monly explained as a development of creativity and identity through expres-
sion (Rank 1945, 276; Bronner 1981b, 65-83).
And what about children's consistent choice of bright or clashing
colors? The child generally feels less restricted by adult standards of con-
formity (which usually stress duller and darker shades) and is allowed more
freedom to combine clashing colors. As American children grow, for ex-
ample, so usually do their conformity to more conservative ideas of color
coordination and reliance on linear form. When I wear somethihg particu-
larly bright or outrageous, I am disparagingly accused of acting like a kid
(and couldn't that be another reason we often find ourselves denying or for-
getting the material culture of our childhood? ). Besides psychological de-
mands, then, persistent structural and aesthetic models present in the envi-
ronment and patterned socializing that takes place in childhood probably
lie at the foundation of children's consistent pictorial creations.
Yet with the rush to identify the collective child, we are in danger of
neglecting the individual who, in shape and vision, tells of a personal side
to creativity. Material is too often collected from a youth and ascribed to a
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? ? faceless category of "children," rather than to a real name and personality.
Why, after all, is the lore-that learning that includes technical skills and
creations-in the possession of that particular child? What happens to the
lore later in life? We are anxious to record Granddad before his memories
die with him, but we can also turn to the critical task of documenting our
children before early experiences fade from view.
The core of any approach is to arrive at meaning. Why do children
do what they do? Why does their world look the way it does? Why do they
become who they are, and will be? Objects provide tangible expressions of
ideas and feelings, and thus give a telling symbol of meaning dramatized in
three dimensions. In my work on chain carving, for instance, I observed eld-
erly men making chains out of a single block of wood (Bronner 1984). They
were men who grew up on farms but who now lived in Indiana factory
towns. As children they learned to use a pocketknife from a father, uncle,
or grandfather. To show their prowess and creativity, they made a chain-a
visual riddle-to impress other boys, even elders. They learned to use tools,
work with wood, and operate outside the home-all masculine values.
? ? is art and craft (often also discussed as part of play), and occasionally body
ornamentation commonly applied to hair, nails, and face. Other subjects are
neglected, yet could easily be part of the study of children's folk culture.
Foodways, clothing, and ephemeral architecture (treehouses, for example),
indeed the connection between children's labor and play, still await studies
in depth. As material, the objects and environments under study provide
tangible evidence that especially suggests considerations of form and creative
process (see Bronner 1986a, 1986b). As evidence of shared tradition, the
material suggests social interaction and culture in process. Here I am con-
cerned with the ways that the tradition works at a given age, keeping in mind
that influencing factors of gender, ethnicity, and region, to name a few vari-
ables, have a bearing on cultural expression. In the following discussion, my
use of material culture centers on things made or altered by children for their
use.
A primary task taken up in some of the first studies of the material
folk culture of children was to describe through American history the vari-
ety of skills and crafts children have engaged in. In 1898, Alice Morse Earle
wrote a chronicle of Colonial everyday life that covered the rounds of
children's life. Looking through diaries and travelers' accounts she found that
demands were put on boys and girls to be "useful. " A young girl from
Colchester, Connecticut, wrote in her diary in 1775: "Fix'd two gowns for
Welsh's girls,-Carded two,-Spun linen,-Worked on Cheesebasket,-
Hatchel'd flax with Hannah, we did 51 lbs. apiece,-Pleated and ironed,-
Read a Sermon of Dodridge's,-Spooled apiece,-Milked the cows,-Spun
linen, did 50 knots,-Made a Broom of Guinea wheat straw,-Spun thread
to whiten,-Set a Red dye,-Had two Scholars from Mrs. Taylor's,-I carded
two pounds of whole wool and felt Nationly,-Spun harness twine,-
Scoured the pewter" (Earle 1898, 253). Beyond the chores of the house and
farm, girls were expected to indulge in decorative crafts such as embroidery,
paper cutting, and lace making. Many of these activities were taught to chil-
dren by adults. The private world that children made is often harder to un-
cover. Earle implied, however, that the association of children's material cul-
ture almost totally with play is a modern one. She spotlighted material cul-
ture as an important part of American social history of family and commu-
nity life.
The use of a historical outline to describe children's culture persists
to the present. Bernard Mergen's survey of play, for example, included a
chapter on the artifacts of play (see also Heininger 1984; Graff 1987; West
and Petrik 1992). His outline showed a movement from handmade toys
taken from nature to games and toys increasingly mass-produced. To cat-
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? ? egorize the early period, he quoted Dorothy Howard's turn-of-the-century
reminiscence: "A 'plaything'-a stick, for example-was not a stick but
(metaphorically) a horse to ride, a thermometer for playing doctor, a writ-
ing or drawing tool for marking on the ground, a log for building log cab-
ins, a boat to float down a rivulet from a spring shower, play candy, a shot-
gun for hunting, or another person. " "To the bounty of nature," Mergen
wrote, "the Industrial Revolution added a vast toy store of play objects:
washers, tires, clothespins, coat hangers, tin cans, ball point pens, paper
plates, bottle tops, rubber bands, and paper clips" (Mergen 1982, 104).
Modern toys, he claimed, are dominated by the mass culture; factory-made
toys by this reasoning have overshadowed folk toys in the twentieth cen-
tury. His linear model harks back to the notion that progress inevitably
marches forward and eliminates folk culture. It is problematic to assume that
folk culture does not adapt to changing surroundings, or that moderniza-
tion necessarily means that industry replaces the influence of the handmade
object. To be sure, more interaction takes place between folk processes and
mass-produced products today, but then again there has always been an in-
teraction between folk and popular culture. Modern toys have also attracted
more attention since maintaining childhood as a separate generation of lei-
sure through specialized products has been a recent commercial preoccupa-
tion of adults.
Research of artifacts greatly informs the social history of childhood,
but the prevailing scholarship tends to overrepresent popular toys and fur-
nishings associated with middle- and upper-class living because they have
remained in the historical record (Schlereth 1990; Carson 1989). An addi-
tional problem is the tendency to structure history in an exclusively linear
and progressive direction. Folk culture scholarship often portrays simulta-
neous trends toward tradition and change, and examines local worlds for
differences. For the subject of playthings through time, the child's hidden
folk technics and their interaction with popular culture demand a closer look.
A social-historical study by Miriam Formanek-Brunell, for instance, claims
that contemporary popular culture has obscured the traditions of doll play
in America enacted by both boys and girls during the nineteenth century,
before the toy industry commercialized doll play, and, in the author's view,
girlhood. A similar argument emerges from Karin Calvert's study of children's
furnishings and clothing from 1600 to 1900. Her book brings out the ma-
terial ways that a nurtured childhood as a separate stage of life developed.
As a context for children's creativity, the creation of the child's room, the
differentiation of rooms and furnishings by gender, and the dressing of chil-
dren to encourage special kinds of activities provide critical contexts for ways
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? ? that children make things and view their surroundings.
The resources of art history have promised to provide some fresh his-
torical perspectives on childhood. Recent studies by Anita Schorsch, and
Sandra Brant and Elissa Cullman, outline attitudes of adults toward chil-
dren by analyzing images of children and their surroundings in painting and
sculpture-by some folk, but mostly nonfolk artists. Children's attitudes were
more difficult to interpret, since scant evidence remains of children's wares.
To their credit, Brant and Cullman include more of this evidence-samplers,
drawings, and even hair wreaths made by children-in Small Folk than
Schorsch did in Images of Childhood. But Brant and Cullman stressed the
unusual aesthetic quality of the objects, rather than, as would have been
called for by folklorists, the typical folk objects of social and psychological
significance.
Many museums have aided historians and folklorists by preserving
children's folk artifacts and publishing catalogs and essays based on their
collections (Mergen 1980, 173-77; Hewitt and Roomet 1979). Some, like
the Children's Museum in Indianapolis and the Children's Museum of the
Brooklyn Museum, emphasize children's culture and collect folk toys and
artifacts. Others are general-history museums that include children's mate-
rial, although the folk artifacts are commonly not clearly identified. Included
in this category are the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D. C. , the
Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan, and the Shelburne Museum
in Burlington, Vermont. America also boasts folk museums that collect his-
toric artifacts of childlife. Especially strong are the Farmer's Museum and
Fenimore House in Cooperstown, New York, Old Sturbridge Village in
Sturbridge, Massachusetts, and Conner Prairie Pioneer Settlement in
Noblesville, Indiana. Generally, such museums are concerned with describ-
ing children's toys and playthings as part of children's social life in the dis-
tant past (see Carson 1989; Heininger 1984).
Another historical approach, oral history, documents the more recent
past by recording childhood memories of the elderly. Among the most in-
formative and compassionate is folklorist Roger E. Mitchell's biography of
his Maine father, "I'm a Man That Works. " The childhood he describes in
Maine, as elsewhere, separated tasks appropriate to either boys or girls. Girls
worked inside, especially with fabric and food. Boys worked with wood; they
were outdoors. Mitchell recounts making sleds on the model of the bigger
bobsleds (Mitchell 1978, 27). Similarly, Thomas Yukic recalls boys build-
ing boats in Niagara Falls, New York (Yukic 1975, 211-28). This is what
boys did, after all, he says. But with modern social changes in sexual roles,
questions now arise about the actual persistence and variation of such pat-
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? ? terns. The memory that people recount becomes itself a kind of object to
be manipulated to fulfill an image of present selves. Material folk culture
of childhood is often remembered as an index of attitudes toward and ide-
als of sexual roles and symbols.
Having compiled the objects of childhood, many researchers opt to
compare their textual and formal qualities, much in the manner of literary
critics. In a groundbreaking folkloristic report on American children's ma-
terial culture, Fanny Bergen in 1895 published reports of children making
paints from plants. Pigweed gave a green liquid; bloodroot produced orange;
keel yielded red. She wanted to know the circulation of such customs. Play
fights with violets, for instance, she found in the United States, Canada, and
Japan. She saw some significance in the similarity among customs of soci-
eties around the world, and used the distribution of children's customs to
illustrate variation within the unity of culture.
In her valuable inventory of childhood practices, Bergen also men-
tioned children who produced the figure of a baby or an old lady out of an
ox-eye daisy, made trombones of the prickly leaf-stalks of pumpkins, strung
horse-chestnuts on dogwood berries, and created boats out of peapods
(Bergen 1895c). To many, these practices reflect children's fascination with
the shape and life of the plant world. Often parents report that their chil-
dren notice details of the vegetation around them that the parents took for
granted. Bergen reported the practices as curiosities; to her, however, they
were surprising customs showing a combination of social tradition and primi-
tive creativity. Even today, a patronizing attitude sometimes shows in treat-
ing children's things. But since those things train the youngster to consider
manipulating the environment, solving problems, and building symbols,
more than inventorying objects is necessary.
Many folklorists of the period encouraged comparing the types of the
objects after inventorying them. But collecting comparative data on objects
for the ultimate purpose of interpretation had pitfalls. Analyzing often ig-
nored the object's setting and cultural context. Looking back, folklorists now
realize that they should have been sure that sufficient background informa-
tion existed on the objects, so that mere conjectures on relations among
objects were avoided. The maker, locale, and setting of the objects needed
to be taken into account. After categories are drawn, researchers today check
more carefully whether objects assigned to the category are indeed compa-
rable.
Stewart Culin, a comparative folklorist of the period, looking closely
at material culture, claimed that similarities between American Indian games
and sacred rites were so close as to suggest an origin of children's gaming
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? ? objects in religious ceremonies (Culin 1898). One type was related to the
common practice of drawing lots-making or notching sticks to be pulled
from the hand. Culin reported, "The Pima employ three twigs with a finger
loop at one end, and among some of the tribes of Arizona and southern
California, where the game receives the Spanish name of peon, the lots are
attached to the wrist with a cord fastened to the middle. This is done to pre-
vent the players from changing them. The four bones, two male and two
female, like the sticks in the four-stick game, probably represent the bows
of the twin War Gods" (Culin 1907, 267). The critic today would ask if Culin
was too quick to assume cultural similarities among different tribal cultures.
Are the categories of play and religion comparable in these societies? Can
the conclusion really be extended to Western society because of some kind
of cultural evolution?
Although open to criticism, comparativists like Bergen and Culin were
successful in pointing out the importance of the object in affecting the be-
havior of people and reflecting their mores and values. Today, researchers
still compare objects in their studies, especially for archival collections, but
the claims for such analysis are more modest. Comparative study today
serves to highlight the continuity and vitality of local traditions (see
Abernethy 1989; Page and Smith 1993). Jan Harold Brunvand's recent guide
for Utah folklore collectors illustrates the use of textual collection among
children. He included as prominent examples of material folk culture two
reports of children's folk creations. The first is recounted from the memory
of an elderly woman, a doll made from hollyhocks, clothespins, and thread.
The second is from a college woman who remembered making gum-wrap-
per chains in junior high school. She recalled that a girl added to the chain
until it was the height of the boy she liked. Then if she set fire to one end
and it burned all the way up without going out "it meant that he liked you
too! " (Brunvand 1971, 102-3). Brunvand emphasized the need for docu-
menting the background and custom attached to folk technics as well as
noting the maker, locale, and setting of the object. The researcher outside
Utah can consult this material to confirm the circulation of the custom, and
to note differences and similarities in form and practice.
The attention to the local setting and people as a defining character-
istic of a unique culture is informed by many anthropologists who have ex-
amined differences in the childhood of aboriginal groups and "bounded"
societies as a result of cultural nurturing even more than biological nature.
The differences, and often the apparent exoticism, of customs are the result
of the different functions that such customs serve. The stories, rhymes, and
objects may serve the society by instilling values in children that will be im-
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? ? portant to them as adults and will help solidify the society as a bound com-
munity. Sister M. Inez Hilger, for example, studied Chippewa child life on
reservations in the upper Midwest of the United States during the 1930s.
When she observed children playing house, she noted that girls tended not
to emphasize possessiveness. "One-room 'houses' with walls of 1-inch-deep
ridges of soil were marked off on well-scraped ground in the yard," she
wrote. She continued, "These houses were equipped with household furni-
ture, such as is found in their own meagerly furnished homes, made of most
perfectly modeled clay forms-the gumbo soil in the area (western section)
being well adapted to modeling. Although models were only 2 or 3 inches
in length, tables had grooved legs and rounded corners; chairs had curved
or straight backs; rockers had runners; and sideboards, designs on doors!
None of the furnishings were considered precious enough to be saved for
the next day's house playing; new ones were made three successive days"
(Hilger 1951, 110).
The application of this functional attention to behavior and context
can frequently be found as well in the so-called "open" or "complex" in-
dustrialized settings of Europe, Australia, and America. Mary and Herbert
Knapp's book One Potato, Two Potato is comparative to an extent, but they
divided their collections primarily by what function the lore served. Does it
give prestige and power to the teller? Does it primarily serve to teach a skill
or value? Does it help organize and structure children's social interaction?
Two categories in the Knapps' book that feature material culture are "Cop-
ing with the Here and Now" and "Coping with the Unknown. " In the first
category are reactions to the troubling present that express hostility or al-
low a creative escape. The Knapps report on reflections of the violent times
in which we live, such as soda-straw blowguns for spitballs and elaborate
rubber band and bobby-pin slingshots. Rapid technological change becomes
evident now in children's making of rockets from the silver paper around
sticks of gum (Knapp and Knapp 1976, 225-31). Citing functions of lore,
however, does not explain origin or emergence, although finding the con-
scious and unconscious uses to which folklore is put sheds light on its per-
sistence, appeal, or transformation (Bronner 1979, 1988; Factor 1988).
"Coping with the Unknown" refers to the lore that predicts the fu-
ture, or present events out of view. The lore thus helps to alleviate fear or
give a sense of control lost by the unpredictable. The widespread gum-wrap-
per chain is an example of predicting a boyfriend's emotions. Another is a
fortune-telling device called by the Knapps a "wiggle-waggle," although I
have heard of it too as a type of "cootie catcher. " Paper is folded to allow
one to unveil predictions for the future. After a certain number or color is
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? ? read aloud to the beat of folding and unfolding movements, a flap is lifted
to reveal a crystal-gazing message. As a cootie catcher, the device can be used
to remove dreaded cooties-imaginary insects, disease, or ritual dirt mak-
ing some person or trait undesirable-from your body. Indeed, the obses-
sion of post-World War II children with cooties has spawned a host of ma-
terial folk preventatives and cures (Samuelson 1980).
The functional approach of the Knapps tends to lump together a va-
riety of settings under the rubric of "American. " Some critics have argued
that folk traditions respond more immediately to the physical environment
of the neighborhood, urban or rural. Further, they point out that many of
the traditions created in response to this environment are emergent and spon-
taneous, such as Bernard Mergen's fanciful "Gropper," which opened this
chapter. An enlightening survey of such response in New York City is found
in City Play by Amanda Dargan and Steven Zeitlin. "Play can happen on a
stoop, a box on the sidewalk, a small part of one block, on one street, in
one neighborhood, in one borough, in one city, at one point in history. Yet,
it is in this highly localized activity that our experience of the city is shaped,"
they write (Dargan and Zeitlin 1990, 2; see also Nasaw 1985).
They explain
children's use of paper hats, go-carts, and makeshift clubhouses as a need
to create identities and skills for themselves from the resources in their en-
vironment. The results are varied and often individualized; the emergence
of tradition anew is emphasized rather than the lineage of texts.
In many past studies of material folk culture, a tendency existed to
celebrate the old in childlore. Items and informants need not be old to be
folk, but researchers often sought to find lore they could trace back in his-
tory, instead of noting the emergent culture. Much of today's material cul-
ture research calls for getting in there with children to see and illuminate
processes as well as grasp objects. Keen eyes and a quick hand are neces-
sary to note and preserve creative events. More so than the tape recorder
so precious to the scholar of oral traditions, the camera and notepad become
primary aids. Of course, the words and gestures must be recorded as well.
Research on the material folk culture of children lags behind work
done on children's language, belief, and narrative. This dearth of research
stems historically from the largely verbal orientation of folklorists and his-
torians in their studies of adults and children alike. In addition, things made
by children for their own use are commonly private and ephemeral; they are
regularly discarded, forgotten, or hidden. Further, adults are generally easier
for the adult researcher to talk to. Indeed, much of our knowledge of
childlore comes from the memories of the elderly. When children are ap-
proached, they are commonly "interviewed" rather than observed. The re-
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? ? searchers didn't know what to ask about material culture, because they typi-
cally were not aware of it.
Revisionist approaches to the material folk culture of childhood are
based on the uses and perceptions, rather than the mere appearances, of
objects. Objects are considered part of human thought and behavior. Newer
folkloristic approaches offer an interdisciplinary mix of cultural perspectives
drawn from anthropology, social psychological methods and ideas, and the
legacy of analyzing traditions informed by the history of folklore studies.
Whether the object is traditional is of less concern than whether the use is
informally shared by others. Although varied situations are observed, so that
a comparative method might be suggested, usually it is the differences, rather
than similarities, of style and behavior observed in natural contexts that are
stressed.
Let's begin with the developing child. As the child develops, he or she
can do more; on the other hand, adults often can't do what they could as
children. By looking at creative behavior with objects across the lifespan,
one can organize study developmentally. Such behavior can reveal cultural
beliefs about aging. Many may "analytically" assume that the organization
of development proceeds according to age, but Hilger, in her study of
Chippewa child life, found that "culturally" children's growth was not
counted in years. Childhood among the Chippewa began with birth and
ended with puberty, and it was divided into two periods. She writes, "Be-
fore it reached the dawn of reason, it might be described as having been 'just
old enough to remember,' or 'before it had any sense. ' Children between the
age of reason and puberty were designated as having been 'so high'-a ges-
ture of the hand indicating the height" (Hilger 1951, ix).
An "analytical" rather than "cultural" approach to organizing devel-
opment has often been borrowed from the observations of Jean Piaget, who
made the argument that at the outset of life, the child's awareness is of a
singular, central object-the child's own body. This argument moves away
from the common assumption of children's society as a unified culture and
suggests instead that childhood exists as part of a changing system of rela-
tions. A decentering process gradually occurs whereby the child becomes
aware of other objects and spatiotemporal relations. The development of that
awareness and a sense of tradition become related. In the early stage of life,
children's own actions dominate their perception. Within eighteen months,
children learn of actions outside their own, and of causal relations between
other actions, such as a bottle being brought and their own feeding. Touch
is important in the early going, as the child cognitively grasps the three di-
mensionality of the environment and seeks the comfort and meaning of
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? ? physical and social contact (Bronner 1982, 1986b). Children's objects in-
vite movement and stress texture.
Two behavioral scientists, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi and Eugene
Rochberg-Halton have pointed out that children's objects require some physi-
cal manipulation to release their meaning, whereas adult things like art and
books stress contemplation (1981, 96-97). They added, "The importance
of objects of action in the early years is a reminder of the powerful need
children have to internalize actions and to define the limits of their selves
through direct kinetic control" (p. 100). As cultural critics, they are con-
cerned with objects, because the "most basic information about ourselves
as human beings-the fact that we are human-has been traditionally con-
veyed to us by the use of artifacts" (page 92).
The infant learns to recognize people as a category separate from
things. The child indeed then notices differences in the form and feeling of
individuals and their surroundings. From this springboard comes the idea
that a personal environment can be shaped. You can have "your" things and
have the space be consequentially "yours. " You can even manipulate the
things to control the space, to form an identity. A couple with a one-year-
old recently reported to me that their baby would no longer just find a place
on the floor to play. The infant's sense of place and surroundings emerged-
in the crib. There he would experiment with different arrangements of ob-
jects in relation to his own position. When unhappy, he called for his own
space and things. The child made meanings take shape.
The shape of the space is in many ways a social aesthetic that the child
inherits. The early spaces in the Western child's experience are rectangular-
the crib, the room, the house. Straight lines and sharp angles become stan-
dards of balance, proportion, and order (Toelken 1979, 227-28). Indeed,
some argue, the plan of the child's surroundings largely mirrors the shape
of the body, with its paired and symmetrical design (Bronner 1983; Glassie
1972). Later the child develops an identity based on the space he or she
knows or alters. Play space, for example, can be formally defined by play-
grounds and parks, but is mentally drawn, too, in public streets, buildings,
parts of the house, and lots, according to the perception of what is appro-
priate and aesthetically pleasing to the play group (R. Hart 1979; Mergen
1982, 85-90).
Around the child's second year, Piaget claimed, the child shows be-
haviors that imply creativity-the formation of, or reference to, objects and
events not already present. Aware of a social aesthetic, the child nonethe-
less develops more personal designs by altering and rearranging physical
materials. The loss of control from decentering is being compensated for by
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? ? a technical control over operative things. The child takes something apart
to see what is inside or how it works, and the child rearranges the line and
color. Often, children create things for the thrill of creating itself (like the
sand mound on the beach); they delight in the power to change shapes and
to build anew. The achievement of a product offers its own reward. Moth-
ers like to tell me, for instance, of the amazing things children do with their
food-mashed potato mountains and string bean designs. This is not to say
that children's creations are not purposeful. With concept in mind, the child
rigs together an object for his personal world: the wooden boat, the stickball
bat, or the clover chain. Jonah is a boy I know, for example, who shaped a
boat out of clay. It didn't fit into any pattern his mother could recognize,
but Jonah worked and reworked the boat according to a blueprint he had
in his head. His sisters shared the excitement he felt over the creation, and
gave advice. Playing along the nearby river days later, they piled variously
shaped rocks to make elaborate sculptures jutting out of the shallow water.
Each child worked on an individual design, yet they carefully consulted one
another on the form and function of the sculptures and ultimately the sculp-
tures resembled one another. The children used the creations to express their
ideas in material form.
Beyond the interaction between the child's unique mind and his cre-
ation are the influences of region, ethnicity, and class. Differences also exist
between the experiences of rural, suburban, and urban children. How much,
for example, can be inferred from folklorist Henry Glassie's observation: "Of
the flotsam of the streets and back alleys, Philadelphia boys construct a va-
riety of traditional weapons: bows and arrows, 'top shooters,' bolas, sling-
shots with subtypes for bobby pins or rocks, spears, whips, slings, and-
when they are a little older-zip guns. A coat hanger after a little bending
becomes a 'key' with which simple locks can be jimmied" (Glassie 1968,
217-18). Befitting the intellectual image of cities as ugly, decadent places,
material culture research has overstated the importance of objects represent-
ing the seedier side of urban life. In contrast, Americans are accustomed to
romanticized accounts of harmless whittling and dollmaking among rural
children. An honest inventory of childhood's objects-both innocent and
unchaste, delicate and crude, sacred and profane, is warranted.
Although folk processes will continue to hold sway in children's lives
because of the basic needs and demands of human development, commercial
influences add a powerful variable in the modern world. Through various
media, companies specializing in children's toys try to persuade the parent and
child of what a particular age should have, rather than answering the ques-
tion of what they might need. To be sure, the borders between folk and com-
263
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? ? mercial culture are fuzzy at best, but some distinctions are possible.
Commericial or mass culture stresses consumption and novelty; folk culture
values construction and reuse. Mass culture's products tend toward unifor-
mity and faddism, folk culture toward variation and tradition. In the mass
culture you can be told what the fashion is. Companies therefore consciously
attempt to control the material culture of children and discourage the suppos-
edly jerry-built folk culture. Often, folk products like the stickball bat, go-cart,
and wooden puzzle are usurped and repackaged. Companies depend too on
the exploitation of media heroes and fads. The very persistence of creative self-
exploration and traditional play among children outside of commercial inter-
vention attests to the developmental entrenchment of folk practice.
One reaction to mass culture is to alter the factory-made product to
suit one's tastes. A deck of cards became to my childhood friends a marvel-
ous thing with which to show off the patience and prowess needed to build
a house or create a design. They took Erector sets and communally figured
out ways to use the steel rods and bolts from the sets in their homemade
carts and boats. Such experiences emphasized their control, their personal-
izing of things around them. By allowing them to conceive, control, create,
or alter things informally, their things helped them identify more with the
object, and ultimately externalize their identity better.
The relation of object and action underlies what Brian Sutton-Smith
called "a developmental psychology of play and the arts. " His idea was to
"ask not whether play and art are serious or nonserious, real or unreal, but
to ask rather what sort of cultural adaptation they are" (Sutton-Smith 1971b,
8). Folk arts emerge as communication systems for various segments of so-
ciety. Using dramaturgical terminology, Sutton-Smith describes the sequence
of structures in play and art. The props used in performance become sym-
bolic; the dramatic patterns become expressive structures. In some cases, like
puppetry, the theatrical metaphor directly reveals "an existing understand-
ing of being on stage, having imaginary characters, changing affects, antici-
pations and dramatic properties" (Sutton-Smith 1971, 13). But also, in other
expressive encounters of creative play, the child enacts roles, conceptualizes
form, overlays meanings to representation, and unfolds situations (M. Jones
1980; Sutton-Smith 1979a). At around two years old, objects become sym-
bols; at three, toys become properties; from four to seven, such properties
are used freely in dramatic play. Children's folk play and art are not trivial,
therefore, but the central spine of learning and development.
Beyond the questions posed about specific situations and the condi-
tions for creativity are queries about humanistic continuities of children's art.
The word "childlike," used to describe pictures, triggers among most adults
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? ? similar ideas about relations of line, proportion, and color. Intuitively, at
least, a shared idea exists about the basic structures of children's expressions
of form. This problem has primarily sparked psychological discussion rather
than study of art history for most art historians generally see the artworld
as an adult concern. Yet the precedents in children's work demand atten-
tion for what they say about consistencies in artistic traditions. Rhoda
Kellogg ambitiously reduced the children's art of several societies to basic
pictorial motifs. She then suggested that distinct similarities of line and shape
found among children throughout the world lend support to the existence
of a limited number of designs. Compare all those children's drawings on
refrigerator doors, for instance, and you would come up with more of an
organized set of repeated forms than you think, she implied. Does the com-
bination of competence at a certain age and social contact thus produce
universal and culture-specific sets of folk forms upon which all art is based?
The debate over such a provocative question revolves around how
one conceives that structural concepts of folk forms are inherited. Do they
spring from a common response to growing up, or rather to the culturally
diverse situations of social interaction? Some Freudian advocates claim that
childlike forms emerge from anxiety-producing conflicts---especially sexual
ones (Kris 1962). Anton Ehrenzweig, for example, claimed that at age five,
"libidinous scribblings" surface just when Oedipal conflict typically occurs
in childhood (Ehrenzweig 1965, 169). Although tensions and conflicts com-
monly spark artistic expression, the production of children's art is more com-
monly explained as a development of creativity and identity through expres-
sion (Rank 1945, 276; Bronner 1981b, 65-83).
And what about children's consistent choice of bright or clashing
colors? The child generally feels less restricted by adult standards of con-
formity (which usually stress duller and darker shades) and is allowed more
freedom to combine clashing colors. As American children grow, for ex-
ample, so usually do their conformity to more conservative ideas of color
coordination and reliance on linear form. When I wear somethihg particu-
larly bright or outrageous, I am disparagingly accused of acting like a kid
(and couldn't that be another reason we often find ourselves denying or for-
getting the material culture of our childhood? ). Besides psychological de-
mands, then, persistent structural and aesthetic models present in the envi-
ronment and patterned socializing that takes place in childhood probably
lie at the foundation of children's consistent pictorial creations.
Yet with the rush to identify the collective child, we are in danger of
neglecting the individual who, in shape and vision, tells of a personal side
to creativity. Material is too often collected from a youth and ascribed to a
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? ? faceless category of "children," rather than to a real name and personality.
Why, after all, is the lore-that learning that includes technical skills and
creations-in the possession of that particular child? What happens to the
lore later in life? We are anxious to record Granddad before his memories
die with him, but we can also turn to the critical task of documenting our
children before early experiences fade from view.
The core of any approach is to arrive at meaning. Why do children
do what they do? Why does their world look the way it does? Why do they
become who they are, and will be? Objects provide tangible expressions of
ideas and feelings, and thus give a telling symbol of meaning dramatized in
three dimensions. In my work on chain carving, for instance, I observed eld-
erly men making chains out of a single block of wood (Bronner 1984). They
were men who grew up on farms but who now lived in Indiana factory
towns. As children they learned to use a pocketknife from a father, uncle,
or grandfather. To show their prowess and creativity, they made a chain-a
visual riddle-to impress other boys, even elders. They learned to use tools,
work with wood, and operate outside the home-all masculine values.
