Tissues are to Crying, as Handkerchiefs are to Anal Sex
Submitted by: Charlotte Carbone
Submitted on: October 26 2023
Submitted for: GGRA-6002-001 Contemporary Research Methods
Submitted to: Amish Morrell
Tissues are to Crying, as Handkerchiefs are to Anal Sex
This object story is not a happy one. In full candor, these past two weeks have been difficult. I experienced something only describable by myself and my therapist as a psychotic break. However, if we are to be politically correct, the art institute would call it an artist retreat. I skipped classes and evacuated town in order to remove myself from the harm I was/am/continue to experience and process. With my wife at home with the cats, I was relieved of all my earthly duties and performances of self (cue Goffman). I share this because my break has completely reoriented what object I wish to explore. I originally proposed a technical and cultural look at my artistic practice of tattooing, but I have uncovered and recentered a more important throughline of my practice: crying. Crying loudly, heavily, and frequently. Crying out in pain, clarity, and relief. Emotional attunement is integral to my practice and personhood. However, the institute often attempts to sever, stratify, and sanitize the emotional qualities embedded in research, despite the inherent emotional matters such as the -isms and -phobias of the world. I challenge the dichotomy between intuition and reason, emotions and academia, because of the gray area in between that my existence and practices play in. I embrace my emotions to lead to important areas that beg a deeper look and critical consideration. I honour the visceral reactions of my body when feeling extreme emotion. As a way to explore these emotional extremes and the effects that follow, I will tell the story of the humble facial tissue that we wipe our tears and blow our noses with. I will explore the tangible utilitarian and intangible emotional qualities through a historical literature review of the handkerchief and Kleenex™, a semiotic analysis of handkerchiefs in gay communities and tissues in therapy, and embodied research of tissues.
Firstly, with academic literature I will examine the origins of facial tissue from the original reusable cloth handkerchief to the registered trademark Kleenex. The earliest known use of the word handkerchief dates back to the 1500s, but I will extend the use of the term when I describe similar technology pre-1500s (Oxford English Dictionary 2023). The handkerchief is a small piece of cotton cloth carried for personal hygiene. The ancient civilizations of Egypt, Rome, Greece, and China all have documented use of small cloths for wiping away sweat or dirt from the hands or face. As the handkerchief increased in popularity for its practicality, people also began to use them for aesthetic and symbolic purposes. The advancement in textile technologies brought new decorative stitching techniques and materials, allowing the handkerchief to become a fashion symbol in medieval times amongst nobility. In the 1700s, the handkerchief's use as a fashion accessory grew in popularity as a way to display personal style and societal status. Handkerchiefs were often embroidered, monogrammed, hand painted, and trimmed with lace (Grunder, 2017). These technologies were laborious and expensive, and therefore a signifier of high class and leisure. The handkerchief lives on in royal portraiture as a display of wealth and virtue (see appendix, figure 1). Notably, in the late 1700s handkerchiefs were taken up by the royal French court. Solidified as a symbol of “feminine honour, promised remembrance, and material signals to the outside world” (Gruner, 2017), the French added the emotional quality of the handkerchief by using it as a tear wiping device and therefore tear signifying device that welcomed sympathies. Conversely, 1700s France also introduced the tradition where spectators would dip their handkerchiefs in the blood of the executed bourgeois as a souvenir. Recently, a handkerchief surfaced from a collector and was verified as a part of this tradition, testing positive for the DNA of none other than notorious King Louis XVI (Chappell, 2013). In America during the 1800s, handkerchiefs held a more practical political purpose in spreading propaganda, such as printing and distributing a candidate's image on a handkerchief as with Andrew Jackson’s 1835 campaign (Clark, 1955). In the 1900s, the handkerchief's primary use shifted away from the symbolic and towards the practical as personal hygiene and public health became a priority. This era was a scientific awakening to the importance of sanitization in order to prevent death and disease (Institute of Medicine, 1988). The dominance of the reusable handkerchief came to an end with World War I with the need for better sanitation and therefore disposability of wound dressings. In 1917 the world’s first mass produced single-use disposable handkerchiefs were designed by army researchers, experimenting with ultrathin Cellucotton filter lining for gas masks (Heinrich & Batchelor, 2004). Cellucotton, the base material for Kleenex™, was a by-product of the pulp and paper industry. Kleenex™ was introduced to the mass markets in 1924 and trademarked in 1925 by Kimberly Clark. It was initially marketed as a cold cream remover until 1930, when surveys showed that consumers preferred it for wiping noses. These consumer affordances turned Kleenex™ into one of the most profitable consumer disposables of the 1930s (Heinrich & Batchelor, 2004). Kleenex™ is a household name that has cemented itself in North American vernacular, as many refer to facial tissue as Kleenex regardless if it is actually Kleenex™. The story of this tissue is of a commodity.
Secondly, through semiotic analysis I will examine the subjective meaning and power of facial tissue in specific contexts. The semiotics I connect most to are the contexts and effects of the handkerchief in queer spaces and the tissue box in therapy spaces. As a very queer and very therapized person, these semiotics are important storytelling tools for this object in my life. To start, the handkerchief in 1970s gay communities. Note that I intentionally use the term “gay” when referring to events and people of the era because the slur “queer” was not reclaimed by the community until post-2010. As mentioned previously, the handkerchief was a symbolic fashion accessory of social status, aesthetic style, and political preference. In 1970s gay spaces such as underground gay clubs, it became a coded sexual signal. The handkerchief code (hanky code) was a form of non-verbal discreet communication used between gay community members during an era of homophobia, stigma, and police brutality. The Stonewall Riot of 1969 was a watershed moment for the gay and trans* community, but there remained significant barriers to equity, justice, and freedom in their everyday lives. The hanky code involved wearing a colored handkerchief in the pocket of your jeans to signify sexual interests and fetishes to others. The handkerchief’s colour represents a specific meaning (see appendix, figure 2). The meanings can vary by locality, but some of the common codes include red for fisting, black for BDSM, navy blue for anal sex, and green for sex workers (Fischer, 2015). The handkerchief placement in the left, right, back, or front pocket also has significance. For example, wearing it in the left pocket means that you are a "top" (dominant, the penetrator), and wearing it in the right pocket means that you are a "bottom" (submissive, the penetrated). The hanky code has evolved and is not universally understood or followed today within modern queer communities. The digital era of dating apps such as Grindr and increased tolerance for public queer gatherings has decreased the necessity for overt visual codes. Regardless, the handkerchief remains a historical artifact of queer history, a symbol of an era when discretion and coded communication was necessary for the safety of gay communities. I referenced the photography work Gay Semiotic by Hal Fischer which examines the hanky code in San Francisco. I laughed when I read his interview, because he definitively shared that “[he] did read some Roland Barthes” (Fischer, 2015). The story of this tissue is of a community.
Lastly, in tandem to the continuation of tissue semiotics, I will also explore tissue by using my body as a sensor. To start, I need to lay additional semiotic groundwork for tissue in therapy spaces. There is significant discourse between therapists about the use and etiquette of tissues with clients in their practice. For example, to leave the tissue box in sight can imply an evocative space, and to leave the tissue box hidden can imply a neutrality of the space. In addition, for a therapist to offer a tissue can be a provocation of further crying that would not have occurred otherwise, but it also can be a sympathetic giving of permission to cry more and therefore unlock more. The discourse goes on, including debate of the tissue’s colour, box design, and disposal options (Cleantis, 2010). In general, tissues can signal a client’s intrapsychic state and its developments because they “function as a veritable Rorschach test” (Kahr, 2008). How tissues are used, when tissues are used, and how tissues are noticed during a session are all potential indicators of this intrapsychic state. These unspoken behaviours can fill in the gaps between conscious dialoguing, even in the dedicated safer spaces of therapy between therapist and client. Tissues can “both regulate and reveal the messy…the paradoxical relationship between cleanliness or propriety and filth or bodily disorder” (Gruner, 2017). This mundane object affords us the opportunity to see deeper than self disclosure. Now, allow me to bring you into my embodied research of tissue during my bi-weekly psychotherapy sessions. For today’s session I bring my notebook so I don’t forget any of my thoughts, including my mad scribbles during my break (see appendix, figure 3). The session begins at 12:30 pm sharp in my therapist Wendy’s office. The tissue box always sits within reach of my chair on a side table. The tissue box is the Royale® brand and features a realistic mountain-sky landscape. It seems mostly full, no shortage of tissue in sight. I check my watch as the first tears arrive at 1:05pm. I speak through my trembling breaths and tightening throat. I allow heavy fat tears to roll down my face, but I don’t reach for a tissue until my nose is so full of snot I can’t breathe. I blow my nose with one, two, three, sheets. I enjoy the immediate absorption of the tissue, opposed to the delayed wicking from my sleeve or a cloth. I squish and grip the tissues in a wad. I acknowledge the awkwardness of not knowing where to dispose of my tissues, and the tension of having my externalized sobs crumpled in my lap. I feel icky holding on to them, so I locate the bin and chuck them all into it. I laugh at my ever-present scarcity mindset as I must use each tissue to its highest degree, blowing and wiping multiple times until it cannot be effectively used again. The idiom goes that “where there’s smoke there’s fire”. I argue that idiom should be “where there’s Kleenex there’s snotty tears”. The story of my tissues are Sorrow, Confusion, and Release.
Facial tissue can be seen through the lens of global history, subculture semiotics, and modern individual emotions and relations. There is different insight to be gained by these different frameworks, and connectivity to explore in between. Inspired by Hazel Meyer’s work No Theory No Cry (2009) which explores the role of emotions in academia, I offer the customized phrase Less Theory More Cry. Less theorizing and intellectualizing our feelings for gold stars and grants, more crying out and experiencing our feelings deeply for the sake of bodily health and spiritual peace. Less theorizing about the horrors of the world from far removed places of protection, more crying out in solidarity and humanity on our local streets. Since beginning grad school in September, I have cried in class twice because of these contradictions preserved in the institute. If you only take one thing from this paper, please have a tissue box ready for me because the third cry is coming. I believe to be a strong researcher you must be a strong empath, so Less Theory More Cry.
WORKS CITED
Clark, R. (1955). HISTORICAL HANDKERCHIEFS. New York History, 36(2), 189–196
Cleantis, T. (November 24, 2010). The Tissue Issue: Klein and Kleenex. What are the psychoanalytic issues of the humble tissue?. Psychologytoday. Retrieved from https://www.psychologytoday.com/ca/blog/freudian-sip/201011/the-tissue-issue -klein-and-kleenex-0
Chappell, B. (January 3, 2013). DNA Links Bloody Handkerchief To French King's Execution. NPR Services. Retrieved from https://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-wa y/2013/01/03/16855 6303/dna-links-bloody-handkerchief-to-french-kings-execution
Fischer, H., & Bryan-Wilson, J. (2015). Gay Semiotics Revisited: Hal Fischer in conversation with Julia Bryan-Wilson. Aperture, 218, 32–39.
Gruner. (2017). Materiality, Affect, and the Archive: The Possibility of Feminist Nostalgia in Contemporary Handkerchief Embroidery. Material Culture Review, 86(86).
Heinrich, T., & Batchelor, B. (2004). Kotex, Kleenex, Huggies: Kimberly-Clark and the Consumer Revolution in American Business. Columbus: The Ohio State University Press.
Institute of Medicine (US) Committee for the Study of the Future of Public Health. (1988). The Future of Public Health. National Academies Press, 56-73.
Kahr, B. (2008). Tissues. American Imago 65(2), 299-308.
Meyer, H. (2009). No Theory No Cry. Hazel Myer. Retrieved from https://hazelmyer.com/ No-Theory-No-Cry-2009
Oxford English Dictionary. (2023). “handkerchief, n.” Oxford University Press.
