Ralph Whittington, erotica collector extraordinaire, 74
Ralph Whittington worked at the Library of Congress for 36 years, rising from an entry-level clerk to become a curator in the main reading room of the library’s majestic building across from the U.S. Capitol.
He supervised the library’s collection of telephone books — “I was in charge of every phone book in the freaking world,” he said in 2002 — and also used his expertise as an archivist in his private life. Whittington had more than 5,000 early recordings of rhythm-and-blues and doo-wop music, but he was better known for amassing one of the world’s largest collections of pornography.
For years, he stored his trove — which included thousands of items, from 19th-century “bawdy house coins” to magazines, videotapes, photographs, dolls and devices — at his Clinton, Md., home, which he shared with his mother.
Whittington, who was 74, died at his home on Aug. 6. The cause was cardiovascular disease, said his son-in-law, Stephen Chittenden.
For Whittington, his collection was neither a hobby nor a shameful indulgence stored at the back of a closet. It was a serious academic undertaking; his interest was curatorial, not prurient.
Pornography is a multibillion-dollar industry and has been part of human history for millennia, but serious study of the subject has been haphazard at best. Whittington sought to fill that gap by keeping a systematic record of the artifacts that define the myriad desires of the human libido.
“I really enjoy this stuff,” he told the Washington City Paper in 1997. “I’m not like some guy who says, ‘I only read Playboy for the articles.’ I mean, I really do take a hands-on approach.”
On his business card, Whittington listed his occupation as “erotic archivist.” When discussing pornography, he did not apologize, stammer or blush. He documented his items with the same rigor that he used at the Library of Congress.
Everything was catalogued and cross-referenced. Boxes were carefully labeled with the name of a porn star or a thumbnail description of the infinite variety of carnal proclivities depicted in print or on film. Whittington noted 86 separate categories.
“The key is the diversity of the collection,” he told The Washington Post in 2002. “To be blunt, most people buy for their own gratification. But I would spend money on stuff I didn’t even like. I like high heels and big legs, but I collected everything — except gay porn and child porn.”
Whittington spent more than $100,000 on his collection and often accepted donations from heirs surprised by unexpected discoveries in the attic.
“About every six months I’ll get a call out of the blue,” he told the website gettingit. com in 2000. “Usually somebody’s uncle Charlie died and the family were going through his stuff and found his porno. They can’t put it in a rummage sale, and they know that I’m going to keep it.”
Whittington’s dedication to his field was comprehensive.
“I have bawdy house coins from whorehouses in the 1860s,” he told gettingit.com. “One coin says, ‘10 cents for lookie, 25 cents for feelie, 50 cents for doie.’ I have one film from 1913 called ‘Free Ride,’ which is supposed to be [the] oldest film they’ve found in the U.S.”
He had a copy of the first commercial sex videotape sold to the general public, a version of “Deep Throat” playable only on an obsolete Betamax machine. Whittington had a Betamax player, of course, but one piece of equipment he never owned was a computer. As a result, his expertise remained rooted in the era before magazines and videotapes gave way to the Internet.
In a short 1996 documentary, Washington filmmaker Jeff Krulik dubbed Whittington the “King of Porn” — a sobriquet he relished, but only up to a point. As an expert on the subject, Whittington had to admit that the title had previously been bestowed on actors John Holmes and Ron Jeremy.
In 1999, Whittington sold most of his materials to the Museum of Sex, a professionally curated institution in New York. Before three 16-foot trucks hauled away almost 10,000 items in 848 boxes, his house was packed from floor to ceiling. Videotapes shared space in the pantry next to cereal boxes, and sex tapes were stacked in his mother’s closet.
May Whittington was philosophical about her son’s avocation. In a 1999 episode of Jon Stewart’s “The Daily Show,” she contentedly crocheted on the couch as her son discussed his collection.
“It’s something he loves,” she told The Post in 2002. “You see men his age going to bars or on dope. But he’s home day and night. That gives me peace of mind.”