The Tradition of the Freak
Is it okay to be fascinated
with human deformity?
Susan Kruglinski
Using long tweezers, Val Duarte, manager of the Freakatorium, plucks a tiny worm from the sand in a little white cup, and gently places it into one of the mouths of the two-headed turtle. She then calls affectionately to the other turtles to come get their lunch. There is a turtle with only one head, but the head has two faces -- two mouths, four eyes, side by side. The third is an albino, all lemon yellow.
"Oh, you look hungry," she says. "There you go. Good boy."
Each of the five mouths in the turtle tank gets its own worm. Three stomachs are satiated.
The turtles are a recent acquisition at the Freakatorium, a small storefront exhibition space at 57 Clinton Street on the Lower East Side. Cluttered from floor to ceiling with curiosities, it is meant to replicate the 19th century dime museums once popular in New York City, where medical anomalies shared exhibition space with historic artifacts, works of art, wax replicas, and theatrical performances.
"People are just amazed," says Duarte's husband, Johnny Fox, director of the 3-year-old Freakatorium and founder of the collection. "Their mouths open and their eyes pop out and they say, 'Holy cow.'"
There are a few other exotic living inhabitants of the museum, such as the Madagascar hissing cockroaches, the tarantulas, and the nine-foot boa constrictor, but most of the creatures are dead -- the pickled piglets who are joined at the belly and whose jar lights up and rotates, the two-headed calf, the shrunken human heads.
But perhaps the biggest draw for the museum is the collection of antique photographs that depict the most astonishing oddities of nature. Covering the walls and shelves in vintage frames are sepia-toned photos of dozens of human "freaks": Jo-Jo the dog-faced boy, Laloo and the parasitic twin attached to his chest, several famously conjoined twins, and many other side show celebrities.
"We're purveyors of unique, unusual curiosities," says Fox of his room full of weird stuff. "People love it. People say, 'Why aren't there more places like this?'"
Perhaps because it has become an American taboo, there has been something of an underground revival of interest in the lives of freaks and the rich history of freak culture. The American Dime Museum in Baltimore, which opened around the same time as the Freakatorium and is even larger, has movie director John Waters on its board and one of its administrative directors, James Taylor, issues a popular magazine about freaks. There is a Cabinet of Curiosities in Hartford, Conn., and someone in Boston has called Fox, asking for advice so that he can open a similar museum. Dime museum and side show memorabilia now command top dollar on the auction block -- original side show banners painted with "half-man, half-woman" and the like now sell for tens of thousands of dollars. But despite this public attraction to all that is freakish, the authentic freak show experience of yesteryear is generally frowned upon in the 21st century. Nowadays you might find a blockhead nailing spikes into his ears, or a contortionist twisting his body grotesquely, but it is largely unacceptable to display, for profit and entertainment, people born with physical abnormalities. Dignified medical establishments like the Mütter Museum in Philadelphia or the Walter Reade Army Medical Museum near Washington DC display similar exhibits for the purpose of educating the public (the Mütter Museum just released a slick coffee table book of photos of their exhibits). But when it comes to "freaks," who are real people and who continue to walk among us, where to draw the lines between medical curiosity, nostalgic interest and exploitive gawking has never been clear, and is even less so in today's politically correct culture. And yet the attraction, for many, is irresistible.
"I think it's the rare person who is, if not fascinated by this stuff, at least curious about it," says Taylor of the American Dime Museum, who is a historian of freak shows. "I think the species just needs this stuff. Acts that cater to the human basics: sex, curiosity, thrill-seeking. And although support -- or rabid interest -- in this type of amusement seems to ebb and flow, it always comes back."
A fascination with "freaks" can be traced back for centuries. Historians theorize that many mythological characters and legendary monsters were based on conjoined twins and other anatomically deformed people. In 1100, the "Biddenden Maids," conjoined twins Mary and Eliza Chulkurst of Kent, England, made such a positive impression on their community, their legacy is still celebrated every Easter by the distribution of cakes imprinted with their image. At English fairs in the early Renaissance -- most famously the Bartholomew Fair -- a variety of human oddities were displayed for a fee. Illustrated literature on "monstrous births" can be found from the sixteenth century, some clinically written, some sensationalized. There survives a sermon from 1637, given by a Protestant minister speaking against the displaying of "monsters" in the marketplace, and by the late seventeenth century, when such characters as the armless and legless dwarf Matthew Buchinger were performing tricks for the court of King Charles II, "the taste for monsters became a disease," according to 19th century historian Henry Morley.
The culture of displaying disfigured people for entertainment waned for much of the 1700s, but exploded again in the 1800s, beginning in European storefronts with their Cabinets of Curiosities, which often featured wax figures and replicas of torture chambers along with human oddities. In New York dime museums sprouted up along the Bowery, and opened with much success in other American cities. These small businesses were packed with a hodge-podge of oddities, including anomalies of nature (multi-limbed farm animals, etc.), amazing feats of humankind, and relics of history.
"It was an era of great discovery, but also an era of great mystery and curiosity," says Taylor. "You'd go to a museum that had all of these Smithsonian-like artifacts and then -- oh yeah -- a Fiji mermaid! But in the 19th century, pretty much all museums had this stuff that was misidentified or kind of like, 'Gee, we're not sure what this is.'"
In 1841, the young P.T. Barnum took over Scudder's Museum down on Broadway and Ann Street in the financial district and developed the rechristened American Museum into a million dollar business. Many dime museums at the time had midgets, but Barnum, a publicity genius, made his midget General Tom Thumb into one of the icons of the 1800s by means of clever advertising and promotion. The American Museum eventually accumulated a roster of "freaks" that surpassed in notoriety any other group in the world, and in fact many of these performers were the most famous celebrities of their generation.
"Barnum was seen as the Disney of his day," says Taylor.
The earliest circus side shows that included a freak show cropped up in the early 19th century, and were simply traveling museums, working as concessions. When Barnum became involved in circuses, his innovative side show and its promotion advanced the scope of circus entertainment. By the late 1800s, the side show as we remember it, replete with performing freaks and daredevils, had developed into the main attraction of the midway.
But as a new century dawned, and with it a greater understanding of human deformity as the result of faulty genes and disease, the concept of the freak show began to be called into question. In 1908, Barnum and Bailey's Circus canceled its freak show, owing to a spate of letters criticizing the "exhibition of 'human abnormalities'" and requesting that "something more elevating might be substituted." It was several more decades before freak shows were considered a truly inappropriate form of entertainment, and by the 1940s there was little audience left for the few remaining dime museums and old-fashioned side shows.
Perhaps the recent fascination with freak show culture that is bubbling up across the country is simply the result of the passing of time and cyclical tastes. But whatever the reason, it seems to be taking off as a genuine subculture. In New York City, the renewed interest in "freaks" fits right into a current mini-revival of turn-of-the-century low-brow entertainment, which also includes vaudeville and burlesque theater (which some consider the spawn of the dime museums). Recently, old fashioned circus acts are being presented by young performance artists from artsy neighborhoods, and raunchy strip teases are comically danced in night clubs in the East Village. That old-timer, the Coney Island Side Show, has emerged as a hip non-profit, presenting its own film festival and, new this year, a side show school. For $600 and a signature at the bottom of the lengthy Hold Harmless Agreement, beginners can learn fire-eating, "fundamental sword-swallowing," how to lie on a bed of nails, broken glass walking, and how to hammer spikes into one's nose. In a mere two weeks, students emerge as skilled carnival freaks.
And on 42nd Street, a modest window display at the Palace of Variety advertises a flea circus and spicy vaudevillian comedy circus. Near the ticket-seller hangs a dark, velvety curtain with a sign that reads, "Witness the Horrors of Drug Abuse! $1.00" Behind the curtain, in the small dark space, are five huge jars filled to the top with what appears to be formaldehyde. Floating inside each is a deformed baby. One has a cyclops eye. Some are conjoined or missing limbs. The house manager, Christine Duenas, claims that they are probably 80 years old, and were originally acquired from the Harmur side shows. Asked if they are real, Duenas starts nodding her head.
"Cops come out of the exhibit saying, 'That will really make you think,'" says Keith Nelson, co-founder of the Palace of Variety. "We have had folks nearly pass out. And some go running out of the museum."
When asked if they are the real deal, Nelson replies, "Of course."
"Well, anything you can drop on your foot that leaves a bruise is real," says Taylor, who seems to know quite a bit about "pickled punks," as these jarred infants allegedly are known in the biz. "Honest to God, fetal remains are a dime a dozen," he adds. "But it's a little hard to show that stuff legally and not get popped."
Taylor is more straightforward about the authenticity of his exhibits in Baltimore. He has no qualms about admitting that the giant Peruvian Amazon mummy at the American Dime Museum was manufactured by the Nelson Supply House in Boston, who specialized in making fake museum and side show displays. And visitors may even cajole him to admit that the preserved final bowel movement made by Abraham Lincoln must certainly be a gaff. But his museum does display hundreds of authentic items along with the "humbug," as Barnum might have said, including the wedding dress of half girl Jeanie Tomaini and the skeletonized foot of a man with six toes, along with the classic two-headed calf.
The Freakatorium, or El Museo Loco, as it is also known, has a similar mix of the real, fake, and things that are in-between. There is the "Feejee mermaid," which appears to be a cross between a mummified monkey and a fish, and the "furry-mink fish," which is rather like a trout dressed for Antarctica. Antique display cases are packed with Americana and exotic relics from far off lands: spooky voodoo dolls, General Tom Thumb's elegant vest and gloves, a giant tusk from a narwhal whale that belonged to Admiral Perry, Napoleon's death mask, Sammy Davis Jr.'s glass eye, and a piece of the True Cross. Or at least that's what the plaques and labels say.
Johnny Fox is a dark-haired magician and sword swallower -- The King of Swords at Renaissance festivals across the country. He has a tough edge, reminiscent of a carnie, but with it an anthropological curiosity about the world of circus side shows and Cabinets of Curiosities.
"The first piece I ever collected, I was nine years old, and my dad bought me a giant ring at a side show," says Fox. It is an oversized plastic ring, fit for a giant's finger. The ring, now on display at the Freakatorium with many others like it, is a mass-produced souvenir of Johan the Viking Giant, from a circus in Springfield, Massachusetts. "I held on to that giant ring like it was an autographed Mickey Mantle ball."
Fox still has a book of medical anomalies that fascinated him as a youth, inherited from one of several of his relatives who were doctors. And then there was the uncle who ran a gun factory and collected shrunken heads. "He was a collector of South Sea Island and African spears," says Fox. "He had Samurai armor and skulls. I grew up with that around me."
Most of the items in the Freakatorium were acquired through antique and novelty dealers, and in many cases Fox only has their word that the items are legitimate. He believes his "Feegee" mermaid may be one of seven mermaids that Barnum owned -- he was told that it was found wrapped in 19th century newspapers. But Barnum's museum burned to the ground twice, so authentic Barnum memorabilia from the museum days are few and far between.
The speciousness and jokiness of many of the items exhibited may, for some, call into question the ethics of the freak show in today's world. Because we have been enlightened by the advances of medicine and civil rights, it is more apparent that displaying armless and legless people next to a mounted jackelope head, as at the Freakatorium, could be perceived as undignified and insulting, especially to people who themselves have physical deformities. But it seems the authorities on the subject are perfectly comfortable with Fox's old fashioned display of human curiosities.
"He's got some fabulous stuff there," says Gretchen Worden, director of the Mütter Museum at the College of Physicians of Philadelphia, the receptacle of over 20,000 objects, including 900 fluid-preserved specimens. Since 1863 the museum has displayed breath-taking anomalies and dissections of the human physiology, such as the preserved slices of a head, Grover Cleveland's cancerous jaw tumor, and preserved deformed babies. As a member of the board of directors of the Dime Museum in Baltimore and a visitor to Fox's business, Worden seems to have no reservations about the nostalgic displaying of freak memorabilia. "People like Johnny and James Taylor have a whole lot of respect for the history of the business," Worden says. "It's still, of course, fascinating to 21st century visitors, but it's because it's so much tied into the history of it all, and it's a very respectful history." She adds, "I sort of came to the conclusion that we just like to look at people. I think it starts out from the fascination of looking at anybody who is a little different, sometimes just as different as having a bigger nose or a strange eyebrow. I think its more a matter of degree rather than that we're just fascinated particularly by extremely strange looking people."
Fox certainly agrees with this take on the tradition of the freak show. And he takes umbrage at the implication that the dime museums and side shows were usually exploiting people who were disfigured and had medical problems.
"Medical problems?" Fox exclaims. "You say it's a problem. I say it's a blessing. I think in many ways it's a blessing to be different. They were able to travel. They made it solely on their looks. Their whole thing was visual. They didn't talk to people and have people throw eggs at them. The guys who really had to work were the talking acts."
He admits that there was some abuse in the biz back in its day. "These are individual cases though," he says. "I know there are also cases where people were taken care of and enjoyed being on the road, traveling. I think if you gave somebody a choice and you said, 'What do you want to do? Do you want to stay in an institution, or do you want to stay here?' Give me a choice like that, and I'll take the carnivals."
Of course, life with the carnies is no longer a viable option for people born "special." In today's world it is easy for parents to discover that their children are medically abnormal well before birth, and so many of the unborn conjoined twins and limbless fetuses never come to term. Those who are born, however, have a better chance of survival than ever before, and some twins are even successfully separated, as were two much publicized sets over the last year. This means that those who survive but cannot be separated have become even more rare. And like their predecessors, many are navigating the world successfully, or at least as best they can. The only difference is that the concept of the freak show, and indeed the "freak" itself, is no longer a part of the mainstream American lexicon.
Philadelphia's Lori and Reba Schappell are joined at the head, and much of the time Reba must be carted around by her sister on a platform with wheels. Recently, Reba has decided to go the controversial entertainment route. She is pursuing a country-singing career full-throttle, and has even made a music video. Her sister Lori has been supportive, graciously appearing in the videos and accompanying her on stage. Worden, who keeps in touch with Lori and Reba, seems proud of the Schappell twins, even though she is vehemently against medically anomalous people displaying themselves for money. "They're making a living on their own terms, without having to go that route," she says of the Schappells.
Another set of famous twins, Abigail and Brittany Hensel, who will be 13 this March, are an even more unique study. They were born with one body but two heads. They have three lungs and two hearts, but their chest is only slightly wider than a normal child's chest and everything below their waist is normal. Although their parents will not reveal their home town, they did appear on the cover of Life magazine and on the Oprah show when they were six.
"That's going to be really interesting," Worden says, pondering the future of the Hensel twins. "They're just getting into adolescence and no one knows how their lives are going to turn out because there hasn't been anybody like them for a couple hundred years."
James Taylor and Johnny Fox would like to see them put their deformity to good use.
"Frankly, I'd like to see them get into the entertainment business," says Taylor. "I think satisfying people's curiosity is not a bad thing. This is an incredible mirror to the species. I don't think exploitation has to be a bad word."
"I want to see them play guitar," Fox says, "and sing harmony." If he were ever to meet them, he says, "I'd invite them over. I'd say, 'Hey, you want to see something really cool? This is a place that's dedicated to the history of people who are different. People who are unique and special like you two.' I'd say, 'Come see my turtles. I've got turtles just like you.'"
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All articles and photographs copyright Susan Kruglinski, 2009.
