At the end of 2010 the last antique store on New York’s infamous Bleecker Street closed. There was a time when over 20 stores thrived in the heart of the Village. On this four block stretch and adjacent streets, such as Christopher & Hudson, passed a pirate’s treasure trove the likes of which the world had never before seen.
“So where are all the antique stores?”
This is a question asked with equal frequency in Chicago as well:
"What happened to Belmont's Antique Row?" What happened to Halsted Street?"
Few wish to acknowledge this, but AIDS happened. Just as it decimated the arts and theater community around the world, some of the finest antique dealers and the best vintage stores were swept forever away. This first wave began in New York City in the early 1980’s, then it slowly began to erode some of the best vintage resources in America... the Gay antique dealer.
Somehow people forgot or did not want to recognize that behind their favorite antique store was a shopkeeper who was a Gay Man. Only when the doors were finally locked and small sign was posted in the window (maybe with a photo, maybe not) did a customer discover that someplace (and someone) quite wonderful had suddenly disappeared. An era had ended. The future stumbled.
In a few instances, a friend or relative stepped in to continue what was once a successful business. But the magic wasn’t in the store; it was in the person who had the vision, the touch, the eye of an antique dealer. Mostly, it was a simple man who liked to discover what was lost… and share it with his friends and customers… and try to make a living along the way. Sometimes a good living, sometimes not.
The consensus of many was (and still is) that we are the caretakers of these objects passing through our hands. It was a calling, a duty, perhaps even an obligation. We always knew that these vintage objects would go on, that we'd help them along in their resale journey. We just didn't know we'd be leaving their antique magic so quickly-- that we'd be gone so soon and they'd live on in the lives of thousands of collectors to follow. Who knew we could be as fragile as the most perfect antique crystal or the rarest bakelite clip?
Jacob Marley knew all this and much, much more. Actually Jacob Marley was an alias of Tom Neniskis, an uber-talented young man from Chicago's near southwest side. How clever he was to adopt the famous Charles Dickens name and create one of the most unusual antique stores the city had ever seen. Jacob Marley, the ex-business partner and infamous ghost who returns to teach his many lessons about life and living. In every depiction of this story, it is Jacob Marley who steals the show. (Can you see where this is going?)
In his own gentlemanly way Tom re-invented the art of vintage merchandising like no one before him. The final Jacob Marley store (circa 1994) was on Clark Street next to the Wrigleyville Antique Mall, of which I was one of the owners. I knew Tom fairly well, or at least well enough to enjoy a regular chuckle when customers came in and asked for Mr. Marley. Tom would grin and say he wasn’t in the store at present, but he would gladly help them. And then the dazzle began.
Tom was an absolute magician of display. Before he had a store he often sold at various outdoor antique markets in the distance 'burbs, setting up a giant tent with various European flags flying at each corner (and especially center) post. You would enter a menagerie of objects, some under huge apothecary domes, others seemingly flying through the air. Harvest tables would be transformed into elaborate displays that defied description. He most assuredly had the greatest collection of early church artifacts, from silver chalices to shrines of vintage religiosity. In fact, many of the Chicago stores that people now worship for their use of creative display are really sad copies of what Mr. Marley created in the 1970’s & 80’s.
Ask any antique veteran about Tom: They will tell you that there was never anything like Jacob Marley before... or will be again. Victorian bird cages filled with Bakelite crucifixes. George Jensen sterling jewelry resting in half an ostrich egg. A Normandy Cocktail Pitcher filled with fresh lillies. (Tom was also an incredible florist.) It was, quite simply, the most unusual antique store in Chicago. Celebrities stalked his wares; his clientele was 14kt Gold Coast and destinations from NY's Central Park West to Hollywood (California), not Avenue.
He sold the best of the best… to the best. He would also take the time to educate the most inquisitive mind that didn't have a dime. Money appears to not have meant much to Tom, and not because he had much; he had some inventory and the love of the rarity hunt. But he bought well and donated much of his modest funds to Chicago's Gay Chorus, always knowing that Jacob Marley was in show business as much as they were. Tom wanted everyone to enjoy life through antiques, history, flowers and music and in the beauty of others.
Tom produced The Latin School Show for many, many years, bringing together the very finest dealers he could find. To be chosen to do his show was a huge feather in one’s cap… and I’m proud to say that Tom gave my business partner and I our very first break. We had Tom’s blessings; we had arrived. Many would agree that Tom's shows were considered the best antique venues ever created in Chicago. Nothing before or since could match Tom's showmanship... and his ghostly motivator, Jacob Marley.
My final memory of Tom is this: A customer came into my store one afternoon and told me they’d just been to Jacob Marley’s; that the door was open… that they’d walked around and seen many things they liked, but couldn’t find Mr. Marley.
I excused myself and went looking. I too went completely through the labyrinth of his shop, but no Tom. Then I noticed, sitting in the very middle of the room, under an amazing Indian blanket, Mr. Marley (Tom) himself. He was asleep and I must confess, looked very much like one of the incredible displays for which he was so famous. The customer had mistaken him for a mannequin… and so almost had I.
Of course, I knew he hadn’t been well, as a number of dealers checked in on him from time to time. I gently shook him awake and he opened his eyes and smiled.
“Oh, Danny,” he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I just wanted make sure you were OK, if you needed something.”
“Could you close the store for me?” he said, pulling the blanket back up to his chin. “I’m cold.”
“Of course.” I locked the door, turned up the heat, then came back to him. I took his hand.
“You know,” he said, with a dimming twinkle in eyes, “I’m an old dinosaur.”
“Oh, no you’re not. You’re amazing and you will always be amazing!”
“No, I’m an old dinosaur.” he insisted. “I’ve done so many things, done so many shows. I’ve had many shops. I’ve done it all. I’m done. And now there’s nothing left to do. And that’s OK.” He pulled the blanket over his head and turned away.
I checked in on him the following day, but he was already hospitized. A few days later Jacob Marle and Tom… were gone.
Now the shiny new stores, be they on Bleecker or Halsted, are filled with $50 T-shirts and $4.00 cups of coffee. But unseen in the air, just above the heads of a generation of beautiful men, are hundreds of Jacob Marley’s, tens of thousands of Toms. They made the world better, happier, smarter, more beautiful than how they found it. How few people can make that claim?
"So where are all the antique stores?" they ask. Mostly they are gone, their owners transitioning beyond their own treasures. Jacob Marley, The Brokerage, dozens more in Chicago, countless more in New York, LA and every city across the country.
But in millions of homes across these cities and around the world are those treasures they were first to unearth, living on beyond the discoverer’s find. Today's Americans eat at their antique dining tables. Sit in their vintage club chairs. Light their Art Deco torchieres, glow in their lost-futuristic Mid Century lamps.
Their influences are everyone, their touch unmistakably magically. As are their treasured souls.
God Bless Them, Every One.
AliasDanny@Rocketmail.com
www.WhenDannyMetSally.com
Copyright WDMS, 2012
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