Joshua Adair
Rarely a day passes anymore when I don’t come across Beauport, the Sleeper-McCann House, and especially its Belfry Chamber, on social media somewhere. The house has a life of its own, both online and in real life. In fact, Beauport (1907) has long been an object—and subject—of desire, originally constructed as an architectural love letter from its designer Henry Davis Sleeper to his beloved, and next-door neighbor, A. Piatt Andrew. Aptly, Howard Mansfield has charmingly deemed it “a dream that a house might have if it dreamed.” What most of its admirers don’t say, at least not outright, is how sexy some of those dreams turn out to be.
Fifteen years ago, I published one of the first academic studies calling for Historic House Museums (HHMs hereafter) in the United States to represent queer lives accurately and authentically. Since then, I have published a handful of other works chronicling that progress (or lack thereof, depending) as institutions grapple with the complexities of gender and sexuality across and within various historical contexts and against the backdrop of myriad cultural pressures and backlashes. Where my research found silences and suggestiveness in the 2000s, I now encounter some of those closet doors literally and figuratively thrown open for all the world to see. What doesn’t often seem to survive (or emerge, as the case may be) these queerings, however, are these sites’ sexiness. Indeed, in telling these stories truthfully, it’s possible that we’ve allowed ourselves to get a bit too serious.
Except for Beauport, that is. As one of the first U.S. HHMs to come out (in 2008), it continues to seduce by insisting that style is content by instructing us that sex is fun. I made this realization on a recent visit upon encountering our Founding Father, George Washington. Of course, in this context it might make more sense, despite its less alliterative appeal, to deem him our Founding Daddy instead. Just steps inside the front door, I encountered a nearly life-size, Washington-shaped cast-iron stove. An unusual object in itself, it was made more so when the docent began to talk joyfully about the local lore that Sleeper had placed the first president there strategically so that he might joke about Washington’s “hotness” with his guests. She went on the say that the object often invited discussion about visitors’ sudden desire to manhandle Mr. President once he became the subject of their newly sexual gaze. While many of us may have never thought of him that way before, suddenly he became a new man. Sexiness, to be sure, goes off script. Who wants reverence when we can have ribaldry?
As we moved further into the fantasy space that is Beauport, it became apparent that Washington, as well as many other famous (and handsome) men, enticed Sleeper endlessly. In fact, the entire place operates as a kind of exercise in desire that feels utterly tangible – and often more than a little transgressive. In the kitchen, for instance, a larger-than-life Washington painting that seems more like a circus or theater backdrop towers over a small breakfast table. In this instance, his presence takes on a comical whimsicality utterly at odds with the sedate seriousness we so often associate with HHMs. Queer, we are reminded, can be fun—especially if we can remember to laugh at the men we make great. Better yet, we may even objectify them to the point that they become catalogued curiosities in our own collections. Who’s narrating history now?
Of course, the best time to be had at Beauport obviously happens in that Belfry Chamber bedroom, where beauty meets bawdy and we all find ourselves considering sleeping over. Light, the most ephemeral of its features, sets the mood and sends signals. Stagy by design, Beauport’s light, both artificial and natural, operates as its own language, with various dialectical inflections existing in each respective room. Sleeper ingeniously employed mirrors, colored glass, and object placement to tell stories, command attention, and, most importantly, evoke feelings. In the Belfry Chamber, this evocation takes its most forceful form in red lanterns installed to sensualize the environment in his beloved A. Piatt Andrew’s favorite color, according to our guide.
Of course, the associations with the color red and sexuality are far-reaching and well-established, but what struck me as particularly noteworthy about this discussion in the chamber was the docent’s own emotional intensity and sense of connection to the space. She spoke openly about her desire to spend the night there, looking dreamily around. When I inquired about the quality of the red light in the darkness—whether or not it might be a tad creepy—she rhapsodically defended its cozy, beckoning character. In short, Sleeper designed a space that a century and some decades later still manages to seduce by association and experience.
And the experienced will gladly relate that the best part of sexiness often proves to be humor and a robust sense of unruliness. When the house museums that did so “came out,” as it were, many of them seemed to do so with great gravitas and a newfound (albeit deserved) sense of self-congratulation. I don’t necessarily want to name their names in this case as I’m still hoping they may eventually lighten up somewhat, but their approach can definitely kill the mood. That’s not to say that seriousness isn’t sometimes warranted or worthwhile, or that their work isn’t good, it’s just that I suspect these HHM’s original owners might not have desired such a funereal self-representation. Sleeper, a man who installed hidden mirrors to reflect and refract light at its most flattering, likely sought encounters with guests that proved a bit more satisfyingly shocking and sensual.
Beauport, in all its queerness, catalyzes frisson and laughter. Longing stares and knowing gestures characterize the deep desire that decorates its every corner. It is evocative and provocative in ways that engage all our senses, like the best lovers do. And, perhaps most tellingly, it draws its most ardent admirers in again and again, with docents and other staff repeatedly asking visitors not if they have visited before, but how many times?
Ah, touché—my assignations may not have been nearly as anonymous as I’d once imagined. I don’t necessarily like to keep count, but I do appreciate their recognition of my perennial passion.
Joshua G. Adair is Professor of English at Murray State University, where he also serves as the Humanities+ coordinator. Adair’s work, whether in literary, cultural, or museum studies, interrogates the ways we narrate – and silence – gender, sexuality, race, and class; it has appeared in over seventy scholarly and creative nonfiction books and journals. His most recent book, edited with Amy K. Levin, is Museums, Sexuality, and Gender Activism (Routledge 2020).
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