In the opening chapter of The Meaning of Things: Domestic Symbols and the Self, Eugene Halton and Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi write: “There are no “people” in the abstract, people are what they attend to, what they cherish and use”. Objects function as an “ecology of signs” that signify the relationships we have with ourselves, with others, and with the world around us. In her latest book, Calendar, Vanessa Berry explores the relationships that are formed between people and material culture, both fleeting and sentimental, and how they can come to represent us.

Berry draws inspiration for this work from the French Republican calendar in use between 1793 and 1805, in which each day was assigned an object associated with rural life. She sets out to construct her own object calendar, adhering to a strict timeline and rigorous habit: she waits for an object to stand out to her each day and by night she writes about it, the journal ensuring that the previous day’s object does not impinge on the next. This methodology is not a consumptive practice fixated on acquiring new things — though op-shops abound and souvenirs or purchases feature frequently. Rather, it is a mindful one, opening her up to deep observation of the material world around her.

Any examination of Calendar cannot be undertaken without first understanding Berry’s creative beginnings as a zine maker, a practice that is deeply entangled with this book’s concept. Berry wrote her first zine in 1996, and continues to create standalone and serialised ones to this day. Perhaps most influential in form for Calendar is the ongoing series I am a Camera, which began in 2000. The first issue comprised of transcribed diary entries, stories from the year of Berry’s life. The most recent volume, #25, features autobiographical narratives highlighting moments from the past year, offering a glimpse into Berry’s travels and observations, accompanied by illustrations, archival images, and photographs.

Calendar is built upon the same conceptual ground  — reflective anecdotes and imagery collated during the span of a single year — only reproduced on a larger scale. Berry describes this as the “album” to I am a Camera’s snapshot. Calendar, then, is the most recent work in an expansive, multidisciplinary bibliography.

The book is structured so as to evoke an experiential similarity to her zines: each object is represented by an illustration drawn by Berry and the associated text never extends beyond a single page. Every object is given a chronological number, but other markers of date or time are removed and remain elusive. Time, consequentially, becomes fluid and progressively more difficult to grasp. Berry explains the decision in her Substack, Calendrical, writing that the temporal obscuration is intended to elevate the reader experience by “presenting time as a succession of experiences, impressions, memories and patterns”. There in fact are some signals as to the passage of time: mentions of the longest night of the year, the appearance of festive markers like carved pumpkins and an advent calendar. Yet generally the book is wholly divorced from its original temporal context, opening the text up to be read in a variety of ways, including those unbound by chronology.

Berry plays with structure and form, not constraining herself strictly to memoir. This is most evident in object 276, the Gamebook Novel. It is among a number entries that take on a stylistic departure, acting like a chapter of a choose-your-own-adventure story:

At the table you look over objects, wanting but too nervous to touch, until you decide on one.
If you pick up the music box turn to number 72.
If you pick up the Glomesh cigarette case turn to number 104.
If you pick up the coin purse turn to number 194.
If the door opens, and a woman wearing a mohair cardigan comes out, turn to 199.

Unafraid to be self-referential, Berry cleverly creates a metatextual game, allowing readers to reconnect with the named objects themselves. There is no explicit invitation to do so, yet through Berry’s recall work I found myself unable to resist engaging in my own mnemonic processes with objects I recognised. In relocating forgotten moments, I follow Berry’s logic: “The memory is as unreliable as any, but finds its anchor with this object”. Her textual rendering of a sawn-off tree branch prompts me to think about the kookaburra that no longer resides at my workplace, after the branches of its tree were pruned back. Secateurs dredge up long-forgotten images of helping out with the gardening, when I, too, animated the tool in my hand into a hungry, bird-like creature. The silica gel pouches evokes a sense of shame as I recall once accidentally cooking one from a packet of tteokbokki into my dinner, only realising what had happened when I scooped out a serving.

Yet not all the stories Berry tells are her own. Certain entries recount events or draw directly from archival sources, a fact only accessible to the diligent reader who pores over the notes. Object 286, for example, features Berry’s retelling of French artist Sophie Calle’s work posing as a chambermaid, documenting the objects left in the rooms she cleaned and later turned into an exhibition. Berry remarks: “The test is how much you can really know of anyone from objects alone”. This prompts further questions: how much do we now know about Berry from the objects she has in presented Calendar? Further still, how much do we know of her from her expansive autobiographical body of work dealing with personal history and objects?

At points, Berry only provides snippets of insight into her connection to a given object, leaving more questions than answers about its origin, connection or significance. Take object 8, the Korea Air blanket, repurposed and spread out on the lawn. It’s never clear who took the blanket from the plane, or why, how Berry acquired it and when this occurred, or how long ago it was. It leaves me hungering for more, but that is beside the point, when the book is simultaneously deeply revealing about the hardships Berry has experienced in the course of the year. This is particularly so of her partner’s cancer diagnosis and the following treatment — represented by objects such as a rock, a computer monitor, and a hospital sticker. Objects certainly recur across her books, zines, and blog posts, including the long-arm stapler used for stapling zines together, featured in Hidden Frequency: 30 thoughts on 30 years of making zines and as object 323 in Calendar. Rivers, eggs, apples, the colour green are just a selection of recurring images through both Calendar and Berry’s other work. The objects interlink and weave Berry’s interpersonal and material associations, building a rich tapestry of the artist and author.

Halton and Csikszentmihalyi acknowledge that, even with the dominance of mass produced items, careful selection of items or components can create a unique expression. Calendar epitomises this sentiment and gives it physical form. It is a unique object in and of itself as much as it is about objects. Berry has constructed a feast of the personal for readers to devour, demonstrating that consumptive habits don’t need to be defined by algorithmic microtrends or unending accumulation. Memory and experience imbue the things we surround ourselves with far greater value.

Image: a detail from the cover of the book