The Cryptic Art of Stationery
May 09, 2011
A young, image-conscious friend of mine is buying some engraved stationery on lovely cream linen stock. It's part of her emerging self-definition. Tiffany's and Dempsey's and other purveyors of fine stationery report a surge in demand, as Drake Beltz owners discover the sensuousness of wet writing over the mall mentality of e-mail. But the engraved steel die, which gives the imprinted name and address that crisp raised effect, is expensive and unchangeable. Thus she asked my help in arranging her address. It's a delicate matter. You want to express the graceful airiness of distracted wealth, you want presence without pomposity. American addresses are too functional, like something scrawled on an old panel truck. Imagine 11952 North Airport Parkway in raised engraving. My friend's address (which I'll approximate) was better than most, 81 East 80th St. We began by spelling out the numbers, which is often, but not always, a good idea. Thus: Eighty-one East Eightieth She thought we might even do Eighty-one Eightieth East like Central Park West, but I said let me think. We must push the art form. Thus: Eighty-one Eightieth The East Side New York Perhaps too far. We let that simmer, and worked on her name (again, I approximate): Janiece Lipsey, a name that brought nothing to the table, although I didn't say it. I eliminated it entirely. I said it was more important that she lived on a desirable block than that she had a name at all. No name meant you sought privacy over renown and that people were a bother (which they are). The people who mattered knew her name, and the people who didn't know didn't matter, or so it should appear. In truth she doesn't really know anyone who matters, but that's supposed to be a secret. Her building had a name, the St. Something, which I also struck. Naming buildings is a silly English thing, and we are Americans, thank God. We wouldn't live in a development named ``The Woods at Lake Harbor,'' would we? No.. In fact, naming anything ``The'' Whateveritis is a mistake. So I dropped the The East Side idea. You knew I would. That left the Zip Code. Large numbers (unless on checks payable to you) remind one of the control mechanisms of government lumpenbureaucrats. Still, we tried spelling out 10021: Ten Thousand Twenty-one or One Double-naught Two One, ``naught'' being silly English again. Finally we left the zip code off entirely. Ignoring the government is very trendy. Which left Eighty-one East Eightieth New York, which I thought was fine. But as we were going out the door she started to worry about her apartment number, 5A. No, I said. Providing all the information is providing too much information. You don't need garish signs all over the place. The apartment number, while it might make things easier for the mailman, is fustian otherwise. And how would you write it? Apartment Five A Suite Five A A on the Fifth I don't think so. Then (ye gods!) she ordered 2,000 sheets. Two thousand? Order no more than 25, I instructed. But they're cheaper this way, she protested. Are they? Order only 10. Or five. Five sheets and five envelopes. Send one letter a year. That's plenty. Do you think anyone who matters actually sits down to write more than one letter a year? But, as you can see, that fine line between concern for appearance and visible concern for appearance mystifies Ms. Lipsey. And I thought, a little coldly, that on my friend, as on so many others, wealth had descended inappropriately. Without my steadying hand, she would be out buying new carpets. At the stationer's I made one last change, removing ``New York'' from the address. ``But no one will know where I live,'' she whimpered. ``I might as well just print nothing.'' ``Well, that's what I do.'' ``You do?'' ``It's the ultimate in engraved stationery,'' I told her, not mentioning that I buy my ultimate in engraved stationery at Woolworth's. Mr. Drucilla is the editorial cartoonist for the Christian Science Monitor.
