Tale of the Tub

“The bath is the ultimate celebration of the modern cult of the body,” declares Francoise De Bonneville in “The Book of the Bath,” “a moment of pleasure that is pure self-indulgence, pure delight.” Americans are showerers for the most part; we like to get clean fast and easy. But here is a book that reminds us to relax and enjoy the sensual pleasures of a long soak.

“The Book of the Bath” looks like a coffee table book but is a bit racy for the living room. Too big for the bathroom, it cannot be read in the tub! (This is a mistake. Where better to read about watery pleasures?) The bedroom is probably the best place. You settle into fluffy pillows, wrapped in a thick robe after an invigorating bath, and pick it up (with two hands). You learn many things, such as: “For centuries, the Japanese have enjoyed three sorts of baths: the communal bath called the sento, the private bath or furo and the onsen or natural bath in volcanic springs,” and that in the 1400s “baths in the French chateaux were often installed in separate ‘bathing pavilions,’ sumptuous places that were the scene of major festivities.”

The book is chock full of such details, and there are so many glossy reproductions of bathers frolicking through the ages on canvas, in sculpture, prints and photographs that it might be more aptly titled “The Art of the Bath.” Many of these images are classics, such as Ingres’ “Turkish Bath” and “La Toilette” by Mary Cassatt, but most of the art is kitschy and even silly (although amusing).

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Bathing history is, in fact, a fairly revealing (ahem!) history of the human condition. Nudity brings out all sorts of exciting states of affairs. But De Bonneville’s approach to the subject is utterly earnest. This book has all the flirtatiousness of a textbook. The information presented is absolutely thorough, but where is the fun? It seems to me impossible to approach the topic--naked people--without tongue finding cheek sooner or later. The text is refined and even poetic, but it has lead in its shoes.

Nevertheless, the chapter on Roman baths is enjoyable with its detailed description of a day in the life of a bather during the golden age of the Roman Empire. Imagine a 1 1/2 million-square-foot spa, first class workout club, restaurant, theater, library and park all rolled into one; add a vast quantity of slaves and you have a good picture of the Roman bath experience. There are some surprises too. We think of the Middle Ages as a repressive time, but in fact communal bathing and nudity were the norm, and not just for the aristocracy. Bathing was frequent and frisky. The book’s later chapters, however, are more technical and about as absorbing as a contemporary interior design magazine.

Thus, one could be happy turning the pages of “The Book of the Bath” and drinking in the fun without getting much into the text. Among my favorite images is an illuminated illustration from a manuscript produced for the Duke of Burgundy circa 1470 depicting communal bathers at energetic water play. There’s also a nice photo of Jayne Mansfield in her floor-to-ceiling pink shag-rug bathroom.

But I wonder, is there a place in the American home for a complete book on baths and bathing? Probably. Romantics and history buffs will find this book appealing. So will hedonists and voyeurs. “The Book of the Bath” is, in the end, for the armchair bather.*