Discovering the Folk Exhibit at Cantor Arts Center

Recently, I have been having bad luck. In the span of a week, I lost my AirPods, was nearly steamrolled by a Nissan Altima in the Starbucks parking lot, and was even defecated on by a bird, which unfortunately didn’t seem to reverse my stint of misfortune. 

Before consulting an Etsy witch, I decided to seek a remedy by more reasonable means: taking a trip to the Cantor Arts Center’s new exhibition, Cunning Folk: Witchcraft, Magic, and Occult Knowledge.

Walking through Stanford’s palm tree-adorned campus, I approached the tiered staircase leading up to the museum. The building rose with imposing confidence, its sandstone facade supported by four ionic columns, obscuring two sturdy wooden doors, each flanked by a stern security guard. 

Crossing the entryway, I was greeted by an expansive marble foyer. With my camera hung around my neck, I approached the docents situated at the grand bifurcated staircase and asked where I could find the Cunning Folk exhibit. “Past the statue of Minerva, and straight down the hallway,” a docent replied. 

The Cunning Folk gallery appeared. Walking through the doorway, I scanned the dimly lit room, taking in its forest-green walls. A harpsichord soundtrack played faintly through the speaker system, setting the mood. 

The exhibit consisted of artifacts, talismans, paintings, and statues dating from 1500 to the present. 

The word “Folk” was written on the wall closest to the entrance. I approached, reading about how in medieval Europe, “cunning folk” weren’t seen as malevolent sorcerers but rather community healers and fixers—someone you would visit for herbal remedies, charms, and guidance during hardship. Honestly, this was just what I needed. But the text went on to explain how conspiracies against these “cunning folk” quickly defamed their reputations. 

Christian clergymen were concerned that spirituality was antagonistic to the Gospel, turning their fear into persecution. 

The first work that caught my attention was Bartolomeo Guidobono’s “The Sorceress” (c. 1690). The painting was massive, depicting a robed witch surrounded by foxes, deer, magical tools, an open spellbook, and a bubbling cauldron. Her dark hair captivated viewers, referencing the classical sorceresses Medea and Circe. What stuck with me most was the raw, unrestrained depiction of female power, a rare subject for 17th-century artwork.

Meandering around the gallery, I stopped at an intaglio process print labeled “The Sorceress” by Jan van de Velde II (c. 1626). Amidst a thick fog, a congregation of beasts gathered around a witch pouring a libation into her cauldron. Her hair blew in the nocturnal breeze, while her face and torso were illuminated by fire. The excerpt clarified the scene, explaining how the print exemplified the early notions of “Sabbath,” or the clandestine meeting of witches. 

I felt for the women depicted in the similar triptych prints, each promoting the idea that women aren’t to be trusted and are predisposed to scheme behind the backs of men secretly. 

Situated under a wall text reading “spell,” an expansive scroll beckoned to passersby. It was dated from 1790 and believed to be from Southern Germany or Austria. Bizarre symbols and prayers were written in red and black ink. To many, the scroll could appear eerie, but it actually served a wholesome purpose. The accompanying placard detailed how, during this time period, many believed in the power of spoken work, using scrolls such as these to guide incantations. The sigils corresponded to various events and intentions. In this case, the amulet was thought to bring about safe childbirth. 

To the right of the scroll was a rugged ceramic Bellarmine vase. Used to hold libations, its typical contents were suspended in acrylic. Snippets of hair, ribbon, and nails produced an unsettling sight.

I took a final lap around the exhibit, admiring a contemporary bronze statue depicting a witch riding a broomstick. The sculpture recalled erotic elements of “The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa,” a slightly comical juxtaposition concealing a more profound commentary on female sexuality. 

Leaving the exhibit, I felt grounded. Perhaps I didn’t need a protective spell, but the understanding that people have always tried to make sense of misfortune, sometimes it’s just chance. 

Reemerging into the sun, I crossed the parking lot with new caution, scanned for birds, and drove off, glancing at Stanford Memorial Church in my rearview mirror. Maybe I’ll have to turn to God next, I thought.