Slabs: Hate Them!

There has been much talk about slabs. They are encasing our coins one by one. But it is the plastic – not the grading – that troubles me as a necromancer! I believe that slabs can make us mistreat our coins.

I recently scored a 1795 Flowing Hair half-dollar at auction. It was a charming piece with smooth fields steeped with gray toning that darkened with soot along the edges and depressions contrasting sharply with the stars, legend, and Ms. Liberty’s delicate profile. A few scratches and a tiny rim dent proclaim a history of use that we can never know but fascinates us nonetheless. She is a survivor – a “perfect” relic.

All this “history” was contained in a plastic case that felt light and comfortable in my hand like a playing card. At first, I admired the packaging. It boasted of modernity with its bar code and corporate logo. The label, too, was bold and perfunctory: “1795 half. Genuine.”

As I tapped the plastic and ran my fingers along the edges, my curiosity turned sour. I shook it gently to see if the coin moved, but I fought the urge to drop it on the tabletop to challenge its durability. Suddenly, in a fit of inexplicable defiance, I mashed my oily finger into the circular face where the half resided. As I watched the moist fingerprint gradually fade from the surface, I began to feel indignant.

What annoyed me during my paroxysm of misbehavior was the mismatch of the slab with the half contained within. Whereas the coin was rich with significance, the slab reeked of utility! This hunk of acrylic was nothing more than a trading chip! I was angry that the plastic prevented me from experiencing the magic that makes an original timeworn half “perfect.” I could not touch it!

Not knowing quite how to liberate the coin without a hacksaw, I decided to keep it imprisoned for a stretch. What I discovered alarmed me! The slab invited an interaction pattern that was new to me. I could take it out of the bookcase – with soiled hands – and gaze at Ms. Liberty peering back at me through the thick plastic. I could do this even while eating a roast beef sandwich.

The epiphany came one night when entertaining friends. They asked about my collecting, and so I deftly pulled out the encapsulated half for a round of show and tell. I had become so brazen as to allow the coin to be casually passed about while we picked at cheese and chips like hungry birds. Everyone glanced at the holder: “That’s an old one,” they said, looking only at the label.

Then it struck me; and my stomach turned. I had allowed the slab to siphon away everything that was magical about this half. In that moment, I felt as if I was observing this spectacle from behind a thick plastic pane: we were crunching chips and passing this slab around like an idle amusement. No one was really looking at it, as I had not displayed the respect or curatorial decorum that the old Bust half deserved. Mutely embarrassed, I tucked the slab away.

I reflected on this episode later. What is my responsibility here? Do I really need to take a stand? After all, many of us have experienced the culture of museums where items are juxtaposed with modern fixtures and concession stands. For example, we can view an elegant 18^th century slat-backed chair with all the wonderment of aged paint and timeworn balusters despite it being perched on a plastic stand behind thick Plexiglas. We can admire the chair while devouring a bag of chips.

Should I follow this example? But how can my friends truly appreciate the magic of coins if I profane them? Had I cleared a corner of the table and carefully brought out a small envelope with inked labeling, I could have created enough suspense to allow even the most incredulous onlooker to be entertained. I could put my curatorial rituals on display by gently sliding out the relic, taking pause to insure that a small cloth protected the half from the tabletop. I would have held the coin by its edges and allowed others to step up and view it close. Would all of this have made a difference? Does anyone care?

Well, I do. My coins are sacred. They are perfect in their antiquity, and I want to convey this to anyone who is curious – even if their curiosity is fleeting. I acknowledge that my behavior alone will elicit flabbergasted glances among those who do not know me well. Yet, I heartily accept a certain measure of responsibility for this gun metal half of 1795. Yes, it is mine, and I can smash it if I want to; I would be raving mad to do so! No, instead I appreciate that the whole reason for owning this half is to interact with it in a special way. Otherwise, I would be content to view it in a museum while standing behind a rope, peering through a wall of plastic, and eating chips.

I believe that slabs can shape us to be irreverent and lazy. Slabs demand nothing from us. We can act rudely, turning our coins into commodities if we want. I recognize that slabs can serve a purpose: it is truly embarrassing to chase a rolling coin under the table (I desperately try to avoid this!). But for now, I will liberate my 1794 Bust half from this horrid piece of plastic and let it breath; I will have to finish my sandwich and put the chips away before bringing it out.

I will have to tolerate the muted expressions of impatience when I ritualistically, clear the table, lie out the cloth, and gently slide an old coin from a paper envelope for show and tell. I would not have it any other way! I want to handle my coins. I want to show them. But I also want to show a mastery of curatorial skills that can only come from a devotion that, frankly, still mystifies me. 

*A version of this article appeared in Penny-wise -- Journal of the Early American Copper Society.