Scrimshaw
Some time back, I stumbled into a grim little shop in San Francisco. Windows painted black and peeling, the dusty hold uninviting. Cluttered, shadowed, it was not a place for uncertain intent. Alone in a feral display of meaningless things, I was drawn to an old glass cabinet behind the counter. On the top shelf, on black velvet gone gray and green, were two works of scrimshaw. The display, the work, the grime on the glass all spoke of years locked away. The price tags suggested generations.