Art Professor Ed Owre Gives the Gift of Tack

I thought I wanted a Power Mac for Christmas, but since shopping with Ed I’ve changed my mind. Sure, a new computer would facilitate my work, but isn’t that like asking for a sponge mop? I now crave things far less practical. In fact, I want some really cheap, totally useless items. I’ve seen the light; I’m a born-again kitschian. Let me show you my list.

But wait, who the heck is Ed, you’re probably wondering. He’s Edwin Owre — Dr. Owre to some, a tenured professor in the art department at the University of Vermont. Ed is also known in some (very small) circles as the “king of kitsch.” Last spring he helped launch the Kitsch Museum in the formerly normal hallway outside his office — boasting umpteen objets like a glow-in-the-dark Virgin Mary, a hand-crocheted flying saucer, a Mr. T air freshener and, of course, a velvet Elvis. If this museum entered a limbo contest, it could go the lowest. At its inaugural bash, Ed held court in a polyester thrift-shop suit with red suspenders and a wide-load stars ’n’ stripes tie. His sartorial tastes matched the hallway’s contents perfectly.

Hanging out with Ed is, uh, educational. Continuing Ed, you might say. But you have to be a good listener. A little shy and a mutterer, Ed makes a lot of funny and enlightening remarks in the direction of the floor. And he’s got an unerring nose for items that by any other name are junk. He seeks out kitsch with a zeal that some reserve for the rescue of baby seals.

So one day last week it occurs to me that a person with limited means and a warped sense of humor — like me — would do well to shop for holiday gifts with Ed. And, of course, it would be fun. He agrees.

But first, we need a hearty breakfast. We go to the Oasis. Diners, after all, are the kitschiest of restaurants. All that stainless steel makes me want to eat fried food. On our way there, we begin to compose our must-buy-for list. In addition to significant others and a handful of friends who could appreciate — or tolerate — kitschmas presents, we come up with the following beneficiaries, for no particular reason: Bill and Hillary Clinton, Newt Gingrich, the Pope, Ann Landers, David Letterman, Little Richard, Peter Clavelle, Homer Simpson, Althea Kroger, Richard the Clarinet Man, Miss Manners and Brad Pitt. The good thing about kitsch is you can give it to people you like and people you don’t like.

We’ve barely poked at our eggs and home fries when Ed informs me that he not only likes to buy things, he likes to buy presents for his things — like his car and his tools. “For example, gadgets to make my saw go faster,” he explains. “I’m trying to be more efficient.”

This, I decide, is going to be an interesting day.

Ed wasn’t always a kitsch collector. It started four or five years ago when he felt compelled to buy some horrendous ceramic figures from the Salvation Army. “For some reason,” he confesses, “I just couldn’t pass them up.” No 12-step program could fend off his growing kitschoholism.

Gradually Ed’s collections took over his office, and finally graduated to the present shrine. One of the items is an onion-dome jobbie from his wife’s Bulgarian aunt. As he describes it, he sketches it on his napkin and paints its dome with Welch’s grape jelly. “It was this really hateful craft item,” he says. “I gave it to Paul.”

That’s Paul DeCausemacker, woodshop technician at the art department, with whom Ed later organized the museum.

Ed says he and his brother in St. Albans send each other kitsch, especially in the tool department. His latest acquisitions are a “rolling ruler” and a gun-like gizmo that slaps together two flyswatters. “But I don’t like to kill flies,” Ed says, “so I don’t use it.”

Breakfast finished, we’re off to shop. On the way, Ed decides he wants to find an elephant brooch for Newt Gingrich. “I’ll keep my eyes open,” I say.

Our first stop is Architectural Salvage on lower Maple Street, which for some reason is colder inside than out. I guess they haven’t salvaged any woodstoves lately. Ed spots a four-foot iron X with rings on each of its points. “I have a lot of X’s in my work,” he says, momentarily forgetting our mission. “What is it?” I ask. Without missing a beat he says, “It was an early rack used to stretch babies.”

We come upon a perfect vintage pinball machine. “I would buy this in a second if I had a mansion,” he says, fiddling with the knobs excitedly. Ed gets animated when he finds a particularly good treasure. “But $450 — that’s outta sight.” He decides the game would be a good present for Mayor Peter Clavelle. “He could assign different slots to each ward,” suggests Ed.

Before our fingers go numb, he selects a $4 glass brick for Ann Landers to look through “to see the future.” I wonder if Ed realizes she’s not a clairvoyant.

Our next stop is less metaphysical: Dough Boy’s. Little did I know that at this Pearl Street institution more than the doughnuts are glazed. Owner Wilma Boutin has filled a display case with her handmade ceramic items. Ed and I immediately vie for the bust of Elvis — until we find out it costs $55. “Oh, that’s too dear,” Ed says for the first of many times today. But this Elvis is a beaut, and I seriously consider coming back later to get it for the boyfriend. Ed thinks it would be just the ticket for Bill Clinton. “It’s not too much money for the president,” he says. He settles on a $7 ceramic turtle planter for his friend, fellow art professor Bill Davison.

“This is the second turtle I’ve gotten him for his dashboard,” Ed explains. “Does he like turtles?” I ask innocently. “Hates ’em,” Ed replies. “He hates all this crap. That’s why I get it — to loosen him up.”

We dash across the street to Second Hand Rose. For Hillary Clinton, Ed selects a pair of political-wife star-shaped earrings for $2.98. He finds suspenders for art prof Frank Owen but balks when he learns they’re almost 5 bucks. After all, Frank’s not the president. A 98-cent Florida-souvenir tray catches my eye, and Ed buys it for me. “It’s always more fun to shop for yourself,” he concedes.

He spies a quartet of handmade ceramic napkin rings. They’re clunky, brown and look like they belonged to the Flintstones. We think they’re perfect for Miss Manners. I note that thrift shops are the repository of a lot of unsuccessful clay and yarn projects.

While Ed checks out the coats, I locate an unopened Bridge Giftpack with faded Norman Rockwell illustrations on the cards. It’s $1.98. “Who shall we give this to?” I ask. “The Pope,” he responds decisively.

We take a quick spin through the Salvation Army on North Winooski Avenue and turn up the following items: green boiled-wool socks for Ed’s wife, Brenda; a Giants Superbowl XXV cap and matching tumbler for Bill Clinton; a pair of needlework ducks still in their hoops for the museum; three Danielle Steel paperbacks for Little Richard; a musty set of Time-Life books on American history — in digestible 20-year increments — for Rush Limbaugh; and a handmade wooden potty chair in the shape of a rocking horse for David Letterman. “It could be a planter,” I suggest.

At Janet’s Thingamajigs down the street, we discover generations of toys we missed out on, like a Rock ’Em Sock ’Em boxing game between Batman and the Penguin. Ed jumps on a colorful plastic assemble-your-own woodwind kit that looks like Plumbing 101. This, he announces, is for Richard the Clarinet Man. I throw in a Fisher-Price color-coded xylophone to expand his horizons. And I’m thrilled to find a mint-condition game of Clue for 5 bucks — for myself. I’m really getting into the kitschmas spirit now and pick out a like-new bottle of bright red Wet ’n’ Wild nail polish for Althea Kroger. And since we’ve still not found an elephant brooch, I grab a $1.49 pirate sword for Newt to help him slash the budget. “The price is right,” approves Ed.

Next we motor over to Two Women Traders in Winooski, an antique store with high-quality but still affordable stuff. Nice ambience, too, what with all those cherubs. Among a shelf of doggie bric-a-brac, Ed discovers an Avon bottle cum Yorkshire terrier with sequined eyes. “That’s for Princess Di,” he says.

We keep finding things for people not on our list. Like the commemorative plate from the 71st annual convention of the Association of Postmasters in 1975. I want to give that to Harry at the Burlington Post Office. I remind Ed that we still haven’t found anything for Brad Pitt. “Brad’s always been hard to buy for,” Ed agrees.

But Two Women Traders provides inspiration for others: an antique “walking” Popeye for Homer Simpson; an emaciated, ill-proportioned figurine of “David” for art history professor Bill Lipke; a Canada-souvenir candy dish for Ed’s mother — to be filled with her favorite Canada mints; a print featuring two cats wearing ties for Ed’s daughter; and, of course, lots of things for ourselves. “This is a wonderful store,” Ed enthuses. “I’d come here first for people I really cared about.”

This shopping thing is getting a little tiring, but Ed insists on an excursion to Sam’s Liquidation Center in Williston. When we get there, I immediately realize we should have come here first: Sam’s requires a fresh head of steam.

There are acres of shelves of all kinds of stuff, from hardware to damaged breakfast cereal. I start to feel overwhelmed, but Ed is gamely picking through the three-for-a-dollar bin. There we find a thoughtful gift for the Hot Dog Lady — a weenie-dog ashtray — and an inexplicable foam-rubber snowman head with Santa hat. That’s museum quality.

Now Ed’s waxing rhapsodic over rows of steel wrenches from China but concedes he’d rarely use them. “Just knowing they’re here is enough,” he says.

We move on to the video section, where I spot a must-have for George Bush: a movie titled Defying the World about Saddam Hussein. “We should remind him why he’s retired,” I suggest helpfully. Just after picking up a giant street broom with bristles the size of twigs for Frank Owen — “because he likes to sweep” — Ed needs to use the men’s room. He disappears, arms heaped with goodies, while I browse among some really heinous ceramic stuff. Now we’re cooking with gas, I think, when suddenly Sam starts yelling.

“Hey, where are you going? Put that stuff over here! What are you trying to go into a locked room for? It’s down the hall to the left!”

Ed reappears, looking contrite. “Sam scolded me,” he whispers as he heads down the hall to the left. Meanwhile, I find a green ceramic parakeet with big glasses and a bow tie. Would Brad Pitt like this?

Exhausted, Ed and I check out, and he graciously compliments Sam on the nice clean bathroom. On the way home, we review our purchases with satisfaction. He thinks I need to buy my car a present and tries setting the turtle on my dashboard. Unfortunately, it’s got a 45-degree angle. “I’m afraid it would fly off of there every time I stopped,” I protest. “You just can’t be so practical with this stuff,” Ed retorts.

When shopping for kitsch, I’ve learned, you’ve got to leave your Inner Mother at home. Now can I show you my list?

The original print version of this article was headlined “Shopping With the King of Kitsch | Art professor Ed Owre gives the gift of tack — to Newt Gingrich, David Letterman and the Hot Dog Lady”