The Mütter Museum

Located at the edge of Center City Philadelphia, the Mütter Museum is one of the city’s most peculiar institutions.  Part of the College of Physicians of Philadelphia, the Museum is home to a collection of more than 25,000 objects and artifacts relating to the study and practice of medicine.  Packed tightly in the vitrines that line the walls are an odd, and often unsettling, collection of specimens.  

The Mütter is a science museum with the disposition of a sideshow.   Here, the visitor comes face to face with faces and pieces of faces, skulls and brains both whole and cross-sectioned, and diseased tissue and swollen organs of all shapes and sizes (including an ovarian cyst the size of a watermelon).  There are displays devoted to the “Natural History of Crime” and Teratology (the study of malformed fetuses).  There is the skeleton of an “American Giant” (at 9’2” the tallest skeleton on display in North America), the plaster death cast of Siamese twins Chang and Eng, and a selection of books bound in human skin.  It’s enough to make even the sturdiest of visitors a bit squeamish.  

Most of the Mütter’s specimens are from the nineteenth century and early-twentieth century and reflect the strange impulses and interests that mark the evolution of science and medicine.  The museum’s permanent collection is housed on two floors and situated in the center of the building.  The open floor plan allows the visitor to see what is above and below. The layout recalling surgical auditoriums of old, the crowded display cases the back room of a medical laboratory or library.  The collection is presented using an open storage model.  The cabinets are filled – nearly overflowing – with artifacts.  Objects are arranged according to subject in heavy glass cases.  Informational text identifies the objects and situates them in terms of medical history.  There is little separating the visitor from the specimens, a distinct lack of artifice. 

    

Two additional exhibit halls are located adjacent to the permanent collection and host a revolving series of exhibits that draw on the museum’s extensive holdings.  Currently on display is a Civil War centered exhibit that uses Lincoln’s assassination and the aftermath, as the starting point for an examination of the medical practices of the period.  The assassination of Grover Cleveland is also discussed.  In the next room – “Rarely Seen: Hidden Collections from the Mütter Museum” – an exhibit highlighting some of the museum’s many medical objects.  Here, visitors can view “strange medical devices” including an iron lung and a device that uses x-rays to fit shoes (dosing everyone involved with high levels of radiation).   

A large cabinet with many drawers sits beneath the staircase in the lower gallery.  In it, the Dr. Chevalier Jackson collection which contains some 2,000 foreign objects removed from the throats of his patients.  There are pinbacks (one touting “Perfect Attendance” and another promoting traffic safety – “B-A 2-Way Looker”) and metal jacks, a reed from a toy saxophone and half a radiator key, safety pins and carpet tacks, and on and on.  It is an astounding (and meticulously documented) collection, which serves as both a testament to Dr. Jackson’s dexterity and as a catalog of early twentieth century (mass-produced) material culture. 

There is humanity in the Mütter’s specimens that is absent at other science museums.  The exhibits tell the human story of science and medicine.  Further, it is a place that stokes visitor’s sense of wonder and curiosity.  In this way it recalls the Wagner Free Institute of Science.  Further, it serves as an extension of Charles Wilson Peale’s impulse toward “rational amusement” – the combination of education and entertainment characteristic of his American Museum.  It also reflects the collection and display practices of the sixteenth century Wunderkammern.   Stephen Greenblatt describes the cabinets of wonder as places where the “expression of wonder stands for all that cannot be understood, that can scarcely be believed.  It calls attention to the problem of credibility and at the same time insists upon the undeniability, the exigency of experience.”  Greenbaltt’s description provides a sense of the Mütter experience.  It is a place that combines the natural and the man-made, the fantastic and strange, and instills awe, wonder, and often doubt in the visitor.  

For more information, check out the College of Physicians and the Mütter Museum on Facebook.com.

Steven Lubar @ Temple University "Record, Preserve, Document, Shape: Talking About the Public Humanities"

Temple University Libraries recently hosted a talk with Dr. Steven Lubar as part of their Beyond the Page series.  The conversation, facilitated by Temple’s own Dr. Seth Bruggeman, centered on the idea of public humanities, the challenges facing contemporary museums, and the role of technology vis-a-vis museums and public humanities.   

As Bruggeman observed, Steven Lubar has had an “incredible influence on how Americans understand the past” and the ability to make accessible to a broad audience complex problems and ideas.  He spent 22 years at the Smithsonian Institute’s National Museum of American History, developing some of their most significant exhibits including Engines of Change (1986), The Information Age (1990), and America on the Move (2003).  He has written several books and many essays dealing with American history and material culture, including History from Things: Essays on Material Culture (1993).  In his current role as Director of the John Nicholas Brown Center for Public Humanities and Cultural Heritage at Brown University, Lubar is helping shape the next generation of historians and museum personnel.   

Bruggeman described Lubar’s influence on him as a young student – through an essay in which Lubar put for the idea that “technology is politics by other means” – which sparked his interest in material culture studies.  He went on to add that Lubar “has remained on the forefront of writing about technology and how it shapes what historians do and how we can use it to reach broader and broader public.”  In his discussion Lubar focused a great deal on the ways in which technology can be employed in the field of public humanities.  

The conversation began with the question:  What does “public” mean and why do we care about it?  Lubar described the notion of “public” disciplines as those that initiate and rely on conversation, that invite audience participation, and which break down traditional notions (and sites) of expertise.  He described the field of public humanities as “public history plus” – a broader, more inclusive program of study that incorporating elements/concerns of an array of disciplines that serve the public, including history, anthropology, archeology, folklore studies.  It is part-public history, part-museum studies, and part-some other things which in combination reflect the evolving needs and concerns of twenty-first century museums.  Lubar observed that the museum and the way that people think about history are constantly changing and that students need to be prepared for the challenges ahead.  The public humanities field provides the flexibility necessary to meet these challenges, accommodating a diversity of fields, technologies, and interests. 

Referencing a recent New York Times article on digital technology and the humanities, which suggested that the “next big idea in language, history and the arts [is] data,” Lubar discussed the role of technology in the field of public humanities.  He described “digital” as a “tool” suggesting that it is “another way of doing your work” which fosters new ways of thinking.  Further, the use of technology is not something that should be avoided because it is mechanical or difficult, but used as another tool for understanding and outreach.  That the field of public humanities accepts and uses new media and digital technology seems to be one of its greatest strengths, creating a generation of individuals comfortable with using technology as a tool.   

Lubar described a community history project by Brown students which employed flicker to display photographs and solicited responses from community residents to build its archive on the Fox Point neighborhood.  Here, technology (along with more traditional oral history techniques) was used to create a collaborative exhibit which explored the evolution of a neighborhood in relation to the University.  Further, the “Faces of Fox Point” exhibit was developed as a workshop for local middle-school students, introducing them to oral history and photography “as documentary sources” and allowed them to add their own work to the exhibit.  In the “Faces of Fox Point” we see how technology can be used to democratize curatorial input and expertise, engage its audience through participation, and invite conversation between scholars, students, and the community.  It also suggests It reflects the best aspects of the public humanities and also suggests a broadening of the idea of what museums are and what they can do.

Norwich Calling

Students in the School of American Studies at the University of East Anglia (UEA) in Norwich, U.K. were asked, “What does America mean to me?”  Their responses provide a glimpse of perceptions of the United States abroad and also pushed me to examine my perceptions of my country.       

Reading an outsider’s perspective of one’s country is always difficult.  It is especially so when your country is the U.S.  One is keenly aware of the negative, often bemused, international perception of the U.S.  I would argue that we’ve done much to earn this reputation.  However, regardless of one’s personal feelings the initial response to these perceptions is often defensive.  Moving beyond knee-jerk reaction, I found that I agreed with my peers on many points.  Their responses were often critical of the U.S. and many of them note the disparity between American ideals and image and the political, economic, and social realities of the nation.  I especially agree with the oft-repeated notion that America is difficult to define.  From a vantage point within the United States, I can say that I have difficulty pinning down the essence of America.

What follows is a summary of the key themes that emerged from the nineteen group responses crafted by the students of UEA.  Though I have quoted directly from several of these responses, I have attempted to synthesize the contributions of many individuals into a unified voice.  I invite UEA students to contact me via the comments section if they feel I have misinterpreted or misrepresented their assertions, and also to comment generally on my response to their responses.  Further, I invite UEA students to provide additional information regarding the characteristics of their class.  I am curious to know more about the demographics of their group (age, sex, gender, etc.) and how they feel this might shape their perceptions of the United States.  

Several themes emerged in the student responses to the question, “What does America mean to me?”  Several students described the U.S. as difficult to define, marking it as an almost imaginary place constructed through media and consumer products.  Some pointed to the power and the fallacy of the American Dream.  America was described as a “land of contradictions,” a “concept rather than a country” and “constantly reinventing itself.”  Here a self-created American myth – which includes notions of equality, liberty, justice, rugged individualism, meritocracy, self-creation, and economic prosperity – informs and overwhelms reality.

They described the U.S. as a superpower whose global reach is political, economic, and cultural.  It dominates the global stage, while relying on, and often exploiting, other nations to further its goals.  As one group observed, “America absorbs other cultures before regurgitating and manipulating them to conform” to its own goals.  The U.S. regards itself as an ideal society and forces others to adapt while “protect[ing] its own interests and [obscuring] its own fragilities.” 

Many cited the contradictions between American ideals and the social, economic, and political reality of life in the United States.  Issues of race in America, specifically the oppression of African-Americans, was cited as a chief example of American hypocrisy and the failures of the American experiment.  Also noted was a selective forgetfulness of the more troubling aspects of the nation’s past.  The country’s physical size and geographic and cultural diversity was cited as both strength and a weakness, and Americans of were perceived as unified by a shared national identity.  Patriotism and individualism were identified as traits essential to American identity, and success and wealth marked as important goals. Many students noted the power of American symbols, institutions, and iconography to evoke the American Dream and mythos and unite the nation’s diverse population.  Examples include the American flag, the “Star-Spangled Banner,” Superman (the ur-immigrant), cowboys and the American west, the Statue of Liberty and the New York skyline, Hollywood, and Barack Obama. 

Many pointed to the power of the media in shaping perceptions of America and some of the ideas discussed by the UEA students were shaped by media representations of the country.  The U.S. was characterized as a producer and exporter of culture and these cultural products – literature, film and television, music, and corporate brands – were characterized as transmitters of imagery and values of the U.S. and important tools in decoding American identity.  American film and television programs were described as “inescapable” and, along with corporate entities like Starbucks and McDonalds, are synonymous with America, presenting an image of America based on capitalism, consumption, and materialism. Disney films are cited as symbolic of the American world view and further illustrate the power of American cultural products to transmit ideology.  Further, these products were perceived as often overshadowing those of individual nations and act as a homogenizing influence. (I would suggest that many feel that “Americanization” is a threat to the diversity of the United States.)  What emerges here is a sense of cultural colonialism on the part of the U.S. 

One group “found it difficult to comprehend how America has such a limited knowledge of the ‘outside world’ whilst also having such a detailed knowledge of their own country.”  I would agree with the assumption that Americans have a narrow perception of the outside world.  To say this is to admit that I, as an American, have a limited understanding of the world beyond our borders.  My response to the question, “What does the U.K. mean to me?” would be woefully lacking (and would be derived from a combination of sources that included, in no particular order; Elvis Costello, Ricky Gervais, The Up series, Ealing comedies and Hammer horror films, and Bob Hoskins).  Perhaps this is because of our relatively short history, or our size and our relative geographic isolation.  Or maybe it is because of some ingrained, and misguided, notion of American exceptionalism.  It is not sufficient enough explanation to observe that it is very likely that many Americans lack a detailed knowledge of their own country beyond their immediate region.  We derive our perceptions about our country from many of the same sources that the UEA students describe.  We, too, are sold and believe the American myth.           

I agree with many of the perceptions and criticisms outlined in the responses of the UEA students.  Our principles are often at odds with our actions.  We do practice a kind of cultural colonialism (not to mention economic and ideological colonialism).  We are susceptible to our own mythology.  As a nation we are by turns myopic, self-absorbed, and apathetic.  On the global stage we are alternate between isolationism and imperialism.  I agree that our diversity is our greatest strength.  And that American patriotism is a unifying force, but it can also be destructive when it becomes nativistic or jingoistic in tone.  I agree to some extent that American democracy has become distorted in the twenty-first century and that, depending on the day and who you ask, American’s generally believe they live in some kind of democracy.  I agree that the U.S. is a nation of great contradictions and, despite our wealth, one of great disparity.  That said I am optimistic that the U.S. can act as a force of good in the world, that we have the capacity to recognize our errors and change for the better, and that our political system at its best is responsive enough to facilitate these changes.  It is also a place of great opportunity, but I also recognize that as a middle-class white male I have greater advantages, more opportunity, and can afford to be optimistic

That said, I cannot explain Sarah Palin beyond acknowledging her popularity as a testament to the diversity of opinion in America and the power of the media to shape perception and create celebrity.  And it is my great regret to report that Thurston Moore, with Sonic Youth or without, is not as revered as he should be.

Eastern State Penitentiary

Covering eleven acres of Fairmount Avenue, between 20th and 22nd Streets, the Eastern State Penitentiary is one of “America’s Most Historic Prison[s].”  Designed by John Haviland, the fortress-like structure of the original penitentiary complex opened in 1829 and was considered upon its completion in 1836 an “architectural marvel.”  Recalling the castles of Europe, Eastern State’s design employed the symbolic weight of old world oppression to discipline the citizens of the new world city of Philadelphia.  To those outside its walls, the penitentiary’s architecture posed “a harsh physical threat,” serving as a psychological deterrent for the community.  [This satellite image of the prison gives a sense of the prison’s size and scale, illustrating the way it dominates the landscape and the neighborhoods that surround it.]   

Inside, the prison’s panoptic design and innovative punishment practices became models for prisons around the world.  The impulse behind the prison’s design and practices was reform, its development and construction an extension of “a controversial movement to change the behavior of inmates through "confinement in solitude with labor.”  Interaction with guards and fellow inmates was kept to a minimum.  Solitary confinement and social isolation were used to spur reflection and reform of those housed there.  The thick walled cells further isolated prisoners from each other and the outside world.  In other words, ESP put the penance in penitentiary.  Over time, the methods and design changed and ESP came to reflect the practices and conditions of the twentieth century prison and criminal justice system.  Overcrowding, violence, abuse, and racial segregation were characteristic of life inside Eastern State in the years before its closing in 1971.

ESP is extremely open and accessible and can be experienced in a variety of ways.  There is the standard audio-tour with takes visitors through from one end of the complex to the other, charting the history of incarceration in America and the history and use of Eastern State over the course of its 142 year history.  Once visitors have completed the “official” tour they are invited to wander the prison and accessing site-specific information included audio-device.  This seems a departure from the typical audio-tour experience and is one way in which visitors can “invent” their experience of Eastern State (though this invention/improvisation is, admittedly, limited to sites designated by designers and curator).  Those that want to learn more about specific aspects of the prison’s history and use can participate in special tours dealing with prison life, escape attempts, and the penitentiary’s architecture.  Several cells house video programs, while others are given over to art exhibits and installations dealing with the history and use of the prison are interspersed throughout the sprawling complex.

Narrated by Steve Buscemi, the audio-tour uses the voices and recollections of guards and inmates to craft its linear narrative of ESP’s history.  Sound effects and music are also used throughout the tour.  The best of example of how these different elements work together to create the visitor experience is in Cell Block 4.  Visitors enter Cell Block 4 from the panoptic center of the prison.  Former guards and inmates describe life at the prison in the years before its closing in 1971.  These recollections are paired with photographs (identified by printed quotations) depicting the prison experience.  As the narrative progresses, the visitor is drawn down the hallway and, eventually outside.  The setting, stories, and photographs give visitors a sense of life inside ESP (you ARE inside).  Further, the audio-tour directs the visitor’s attention, moving them through space and time.

ESP manages to be both entertaining and educational.  The information, and the ways that it may be accessed by the visitor, is almost overwhelming.  Accessing and digesting it all would require several visits.  ESP was designated as a federal historic landmark in 1965 and ceased operation in 1971.  Surviving years of neglect and attempts at demolition and commercial repurposing, ESP opened for daily tours in 1994.  It has become one of Philadelphia’s chief tourist destinations and most recognizable landmarks.  It is worth noting that ESP’s annual Halloween fundraiser (know today as Terror Behind the Walls) played an important role in funding subsequent development of the historic site.  I think this provides an interesting model for the ways entertainment attractions can be used to support more rigorous historic preservation and educational efforts.  

The Franklin Institute

Founded in 1824, The Franklin Institute’s initial purpose “was to honor Ben Franklin and advance the usefulness of his inventions.”  The Franklin opened in its present location on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway in 1934, becoming “one of the first hands-on science museums in the United States.”  Its current mission is to “illuminate issues in contemporary science” through its exhibitions and programs, with a strong focus on community outreach and public education initiative geared to girls and urban youth.  Spend an hour or so wandering the halls of The Franklin leaves little doubt as to their target audience.  Most everything here is interactive, and the exhibits and displays engage young people (between the ages of 8 and 14) in hands-on activities which allow them to experience scientific phenomena.  There are few places better suited to thinking about the interactive or experiential museum.

 

In Museums, Media and Cultural Theory, Michelle Henning looks at museums as media.  She discusses the “tendency [of modern museums] to both dematerialize and bring objects closer” through exhibition design, a trend away from the static presentation of (sacred) objects toward the creation of experience through visitor interaction with displayed objects (71).  Discussing hands-on science museums like San Francisco’s Exploratorium, Henning notes that museums have moved away from the presentation of artifacts, developing new display techniques which exhibit abstract concepts (71).   She discusses the emergence of the mediatic museum as a manifestation of the belief that “the museum was the best means to inform and educate a mass audience.”  This principle evolved over time in response to the practical concerns facing museums in the 1980s and 90s.  During this period, museums increased interactivity in order to “compete in a [crowded] marketplace of leisure attractions” often trading education for entertainment (81).  The Franklin recently unveiled Electricity exhibit illustrates the conflict between education (and experience) and entertainment in the interactive museum.

The production literature for Electricity exhibit describes its mission, goal, and objective:

• “To invite the visitor to notice, think about, and question where we find electricity, how we use it, and the impacts of integrating electric technology into our way of life.

• “Visitors discover electricity is derived from how charges interact, properties of which allow us to generate electricity, making us responsible for our choices in usage and gene ration.”

• “Visitors encounter electricity through experiences that allow manipulation of electrical phenomena, contain authentic artifacts, and encourage new connections and collaborations.”

It seeks to achieve these objectives by creating a visitor experiences through interactive exhibits, static objects and artifacts, and striking visuals, in addition to linking thematically to surrounding exhibits on the human body and the Earth.

The exhibit is orderly arranged in sections devoted to Franklin’s electrical experiments, how electricity works, demand and sustainability, and electricity in the human body.  There are several strong visual focal points in the exhibit; the giant Tesla coil (that goes off to great effect on the hour) suspended at the center of the exhibit, a giant wall of LED lights that reacts to the electrical signals of visitor’s cell phones, and a dance floor convert movement to energy.  Another interesting feature of the exhibit is the way designers connect the Electricity exhibit thematically with those around it, using objects and/or displays to transition from one to the other.  The exhibit borders areas devoted to flight, the human body, and the Changing Earth, and the ideas of each – the environment, conservation, and the human nervous system easily overlap.  At these transition points, designers have placed a single object or interactive display marking the visitor’s movement from one area to the next.  Each of these displays (supplemented by striking photographs and quotes) creates a threshold experience for the visitor, clearing their mind and readying them new exhibit and new experience.  The most dynamic example of a threshold displays is the Franklin-style key that, when touched, shocks the visitor.  Indeed, it clears the mind as it zaps your hand and after interacting with the display it is difficult not to be drawn deeper into the exhibit.

The Electricity exhibit balances the static objects with exhibits that foster a dynamic experiences.  The exhibit includes a section devoted to Benjamin Franklin which contains a collection of his scientific instruments.  The section devoted to electricity and the human body includes a defibrillator and a piece from Andy Warhol’s Electric Chair series.  One sees the impulse toward interactivity in the displaying of static objects or artifacts.  The Franklin artifacts on display are supplemented by a touch-screen interface which makes these static objects come alive.  Through this interface you can learn more about the history of the objects and see how they were used.  It is an interesting combination, in a single exhibit of the old and new exhibition modes.

The Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia

Located at the heart of the Museums District The Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia “is the oldest natural science research institution and museum in the Americas.” Established in 1812 and opened to the public in 1828, The Academy moved to its present location on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway in time for the Centennial International Exhibition of 1876.  Established “for the encouragement and cultivation of the sciences, and the advancement of useful learning,” its holdings include one of the ten largest collections of natural history specimens in the United States.  The Academy contains much to recommend it – including the Dinosaur Hall, the active fossil lab, and its contemporary educational programs and research projects. For many, the chief draw is The Academy’s collection of dioramas.  

Housed in the North American Hall, the African Hall, and the Asian Hall, The Academy’s 37 dioramas depict regional animals posed in realistic recreations of their natural environment.  I spent most of my recent visit among the dioramas in the North American Hall.  Most of the dioramas here were created in the 1920s and 30s, using specimens collected through institution funded expeditions and research. 

The North American Hall is a dark and quiet space.  Lit by the glow from the diorama cases, the hall seems a bit mysterious (and for children perhaps a little frightening).  It is a shrine of sorts – a place for quiet reflection upon the natural world not unlike an art museum.  I visited on a Thursday afternoon, an hour before closing, and the hall was virtually empty – certainly not the best time for observing the behavior of others.  It is not difficult, however, to image the hall filled with children and adults captivated by these displays.  The first dioramas contain animals familiar to Pennsylvania, including Black Bears, White Tail Deer, Beavers, Squirrels, Opossums and Striped Skunks.  If you’ve lived in the country, or even on the edges of the city, you likely have more than a passing familiarity with these creatures (and to see them somewhere other than my trash can is nice).  Despite the familiarity of the specimens. these exhibits trigger awe and reverence, through proximity and through an awareness of the craftsmanship involved in the creation of the scene.  The power of the diorama is reinforced in the more exotic displays that fill the rest of the hall.  In these displays the Kodiak Brown Bear, the cliff-dwelling Dall Sheep, the majestically horned Caribou, and the elegant and dangerous Polar Bear are presented close enough for inspection and in expertly constructed environments.  

In Museums, Media and Cultural Theory, Michelle Henning charts the origins and influence of the diorama. A reaction to the overcrowded and impenetrable quality of the Victorian-era natural history museum, the diorama served to organize the content of the natural history museum and make it accessible to the modern viewer. She places the diorama’s emergence “at the point of the decline in popularity of natural history as a practice,” when institutions began to move away from creating science through research toward presenting established scientific ideas.  As institutions began to view “education as the dissemination of already-formed facts and ideas to as large a public as possible” the diorama became a valuable tool in presenting the natural world to a mass audience (46).  The diorama directs the gaze of the increasingly distracted modern visitor, directing “visitors toward a particular understanding of nature whilst, at the same time, positioning them as consumers” of the natural world, rather than active participants (50).  Dioramas replace “the bodily experience of being in nature” and “position the visitor as a solitary spectator…privileged to examine in detail a scene that may have otherwise existed momentarily, or possibly not at all for the human viewer” (51-52).

 As The Smart Set’s Jesse Smith observed in a recent article: “[F]or all their power as symbols of science museums, [dioramas] have strong nods to their art counterparts...their rectangular proportions suggest works of art, [and the] benches in the center of their halls suggest the kind of reflection one is more likely to have” in an art museum than a natural science museum…issues of art and science, and art versus science, often come up in discussions of dioramas.”  The Academy’s website describes their dioramas as “a distinctive fusion of art and science” and “early versions of virtual reality,” marking the diorama’s dual origins and primary function.  Both educational and entertaining, dioramas draw from a number of influences outside the realm of natural science, including panoramic paintings, photography (“a snapshot of a time and place”), and window display advertisements.  Further, “For many, dioramas provided their only opportunity to experience distant places and exotic wildlife.”

Each diorama in composed of three elements – the specimen, the landscape, and the background.   The specimens are the most important part of the display.  They are extremely life-like and are arranged in action (or mid-action) poses.  In many of the dioramas, the main animal is placed with creatures that share its environment.   Sometimes the relationship between animals is friendly, other times it reflects the brutal relationship between predator and prey.  The second feature of the diorama is the landscape.  A specimen is placed in a physical recreation of its natural habitat.  The diorama containing the Bighorn Sheep and the Collard Peccary is particularly complex, containing all the sand and rock, and low scrub flowers and towering cactus one would expect from their arid desert environment.  The final element is the painted background.  This concave painting adds depth to the scene, and is the most perceptibly artificial component of the diorama.  For all of the three-dimensional authenticity of the diorama’s foreground, the painted background is a two-dimensional reminder that what you are seeing is an illusion.  

In short, “The diorama marshals these technologically produced effects of the real into a coherent composition.  In doing so, it manages to be simultaneously modern and popular, addressing a visitor reconfigured as a consumer, and carrying an (apparently) morally uplifting conservationist message, mixing scientific veracity with popular illusionism” (52). 

Combining the techniques of natural history with popular amusement, the enormously popular diorama helped, for better and worse, shape perceptions of the natural world.  They are certainly problematic.  The Academy’s website touches on some of the diorama's issues.  “Today, most museum visitors won't approve of the killing of animals required for the creation of these displays.”  Indeed, the popularity of taxidermy seems to have been waning for quite some time (perhaps since the release of Psycho…).  Henning observes the ways in which “illusionist scenarios” obscure the cruelty of the exhibit, the idyllic scenes eclipsing the fact that animals have been captured and killed.  This is certainly at work in the North American Hall, though several dioramas here depict the cruelty inherent in the relationship between predator and prey.  

The website also observes that “dioramas played a major role in the celebration of Americans in their natural heritage and increased their awareness and appreciation of the loss of wilderness.  The rise of the Conservation Movement and the popularity of dioramas went hand-in-hand.”  This is certainly true, but as Henning points out this was not always a good thing, and if dioramas brought a greater understanding of the need for conservation they also helped legitimize U.S. nationalism, imperialism, and racism.  The questionable ethnography of New York’s American Museum of Natural History dioramas is not present in the North American Hall, however The Academy’s dioramas remain symbols of conquest and colonialism as well as conservation.

Betsy Ross House

What can you say about the Betsy Ross House?  Located in the heart of historic Old City Philadelphia, the Betsy Ross House is one of several attractions dealing with birth of America.  The museum offers a look at the life of Betsy Ross – supposed resident of the Arch Street property from 1773 to 1785, alleged creator of the first American flag, and the best known female figure of the Revolutionary period.  Indeed, Ross often seems the lone female figure of the Revolutionary War, standing alongside Washington in the popular memory as America’s founding mother.  It is hard not to be cynical about such a place.On one hand the Betsy Ross House is an old-fashioned tourist trap, filled with patriotic pabulum/hokum, on the other it is an attempt to inject a woman’s story into the male dominated Revolutionary narrative.  It is in telling the story of a woman artisan, providing a glimpse into domestic and working life at the end of 18th century, that the museum is most successful. 

Betsy Ross as is a 19th century creation.  The emergence of Ross as an iconic American figure parallels the creation of the Betsy Ross House museum.  The origins of both are problematic at best.  The story of Ross as creator of the first American flag and the importance of the house as site of creation and transaction was promoted by her family well after her death.  Ross’ grandson William Canby first brought her story to public attention in an 1870 speech to the Historical Society of Pennsylvania and later, with “other members of Betsy's family signed sworn affidavits stating that they heard the story of the making of the first flag from Betsy's own mouth.”  On the word of her surviving family members, the house was by the late nineteenth century “recognized as the place where [she] lived when she made the first American Flag.”  The image of Ross in her parlor (a more genteel setting than her workshop) presenting the new flag to George Washington comes from this period as well, made famous in Charles Weisgerber’s painting, Birth of Our Nation’s Flag.  By 1898 Weisgerber was living in the house, having helped mount a successful campaign to purchase it in the name of preserving Betsy Ross’ legacy.  Two rooms of the Betsy Ross house were opened to the public – the famous parlor and a gift shop.

Built around 1740, the house itself is an unassuming structure – a two and half story building designed for living and working.  Today, the house is flanked by a “civic garden” (built in 1941) and an annex building (built in 1965) containing a gift shop and exhibit space.  

Entering the annex building places visitors in the gift shop, where all sorts of (anachronistic) Revolution-themed goods can be purchased.  After passing through a small exhibit space and along a short breezeway, visitors enter house proper through a side-door.  Once inside, visitors are lead through a series of period room recreations of the house in use circa 1777.  The first stop is the parlor, the most famous room in the house.  Small and cramped, the room is unremarkable in every way, whatever charm it might possess is squashed by thick piece of plexiglass protecting the objects from the visitors.  The tour moves quickly through the remaining rooms – upstairs to the bedroom, downstairs to the upholstery workshop and storefront (the only room not obscured by plexiglass), into the basement to the storeroom and kitchen, and then to the courtyard.  There is little information about the objects displayed in these rooms.  The objects here gain value from their association with Ross, but what, if anything, belonged to Ross is left to the visitor’s imagination.  The period rooms are supplemented by informational signs dealing with 18th century sewing techniques and dispelling “Myths of Colonial America.”  The Museum prefers to leave the “myth” of Betsy Ross mostly intact, dealing with the dubious second hand history by putting the onus on visitors:  “historical fact or well-loved legend, the story of Betsy Ross is as American as apple pie. After your visit, decide what YOU believe!”

On the surface, the Betsy Ross House is selling the standard issue heroic creation narrative.  It draws visitors in with the familiar image of Ross as the creator of the first American flag, while quietly making a place for women in that narrative in its representation of domestic space.  The bulk of the museum is devoted to representations of domestic and working life at the end of the 18th century, which suggest the ways in which urban women lived and worked in the colonial period.  It establishes within domestic space a social and economic role for women in the birth of a nation.  The significance of this is undermined by its reinforcement of the Betsy Ross legend.  

 Emerging scholarship on Betsy Ross, especially Marla Miller’s recent book Betsy Ross and the Making of America, “demolishes the legend of Ross as our national seamstress, offer[ing] in return someone much more interesting: a real-life artisan, wife and mother whose fortunes and travails were closely tied to the new nation” (for more on this see Marjoleine Kars' review of Miller's book in the Washington Post).  The Betsy Ross House could benefit from the interrogation of legend.  By adding a more complex analysis of Betsy Ross the woman and the legend, the house would become something more than just another stop on the Revolutionary tour of Philadelphia.

Selling the South

In her forthcoming book, Dreaming of Dixie: How the South Was Created in American Popular Culture (UNC Press, 2011), Dr. Karen Cox examines the cultural origins of the concept of the romanticized South.  She discussed her work in a recent visit to the Center for the Humanities at Temple University. 

In her presentation, Cox traced the emergence of the image of the antebellum Southern ideal through the popular culture of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, finding its origins in northern cities.  The locus of American advertising and cultural production, the North is where the romanticized notion of the Old South was created and popularized.  Cox described the emergence of a distinct southern typology in popular culture from the 1880s to World War II which supported this image of the South.  Characters like the mammy and the uncle, and the chivalrous aristocrat farmer and the southern belle, coupled with images of white-columned mansions and King Cotton established an idyllic and imaginary portrait of the antebellum American South.  These images appeared and were repeated through the literature (Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind), print advertising (the Aunt Jemima and Maxwell House brands), film (D.W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation), radio (the radio minstrelsy of Amos N’ Andy, Maxwell House Showboat, and the Aunt Jemima radio show), and popular music (“coon songs” and “back to Dixie” songs of the era) of the period.  

This Southern imaginary was a product successfully sold, not only to Southerners but to Americans generally. They reinforced and shaped heroic notions of Southern history and self, but also Northern perceptions of the region as exotic and other.  Further, the creation of an alternative historical narrative through advertisements, et al. tided up one of the messiest (putting it mildly) periods in American history.  

How does Dr. Karen Cox’s scholarship enhance our understanding of museums?  The way in which popular culture shapes perception is at the core of Cox’s discussion of the (re)creation of the South, and perhaps most relevant to a discussion of museums.  In what ways do these institutions mediate our experience?  How do they shape our understanding of objects and/or the past?  

In her book Museums and the Shaping of Knowledge, Eilean Hooper-Greenhill suggests that, from inception, the museum-going experience has been a heavily mediated one.  A viewpoint is always present, whether it is that of the prince, merchant, institution, or state.  In each of these instances, the choices made by those in power inform how value is assigned, the presentation of objects, and their context in relation to other valued objects.  In the modern museum, it is often the curator (or curators) who decides what will be displayed for the viewer, and how it will be presented.  A narrative is constructed which reflects the ideology and tastes (aesthetic and intellectual) of the dominant culture, and given authority through the institution.  Knowledge is shaped by social, economic, and political forces in the larger culture, and in turn it shapes society through the transmission of these culturally sanctioned narratives.

Why is this important?  In The Presence of the Past: Popular Uses of History in American Life, authors Roy Rosenzweig and David Thelen sift through the survey data collected during a landmark study examining the ways in which ordinary people interact with the past.  Looking at the national sample, 57 percent of total respondents had visited a museum or historic site in the past twelve months.  More importantly, museums where identified as the most trustworthy source of information about the past.  In interviews with respondents, Rosenzweig and Thelen discovered that ”respondents felt there was nothing between them and the reality of the past.”  Their perception of the trustworthiness of museums was rooted in the belief that they were objective places, their artifacts presented without manipulation or agenda. 

What Cox’s work illustrates is the power of culture to shape our perception of the past – the way in which ideas and concepts are rendered credible through repetition, ubiquity, and positive consumer response.  It shows us that we must always be aware of the mediation of our experiences.  An awareness of this power is essential to any critical examination of museums.    

The Wagner Free Institute of Science of Philadelphia

Part museum, part educational center, the Wagner Free Institute of Science is one of Philadelphia’s most interesting places.  Located on the corner of 17th Street and West Montgomery Avenue, it is also one of the most overlooked.  It would be difficult to stumble upon accidentally and its North Philadelphia address places it well off the beaten path for both tourists and locals.  But once you’ve discovered the Wagner it is difficult not to return and bring others with you to this fascinating place. 

A recent visit to the Wagner began in the auditorium with a brief overview of the Institute’s origins, evolution, and current mission from director Susan Glassman.  Born in 1796 to a wealthy Philadelphia family, William Wagner had both the means and opportunity to pursue his love of science.  In her discussion Ms. Glassman pointed to three periods in Wagner’s life which helped shape the Institute.  Beginning in 1817, Wagner, serving as an agent of Philadelphia banking giant Stephen Girard, traveled extensively.  Circling the globe, he acquired the specimens which would form the core of the Institute’s collection.  The 1820s and 30s saw Wagner engaged in a local, national, and international network of science collectors and researchers.  In the early 1840s, Wagner embarked on a two year trip to Europe to visit the institutions and individuals he had been in contact with during the preceding years.  Interested in examining educational institutions devoted to science, he found that most European collections and institutions were extremely private, accessible only to men of certain social classes.  When Wagner came across the rare exception, like a free public museum in Berlin, he noted it as a model to be emulated.    

Shortly after his return to Philadelphia, Wagner began organizing his collection and presenting a number of informal lectures centered on his holdings.  Wagner’s cabinet began to draw visitors, and by 1855 his series of informal presentations of his collection had become an incorporated educational institution.  The Wagner Free Institute moved to its Montgomery Avenue location in 1865. 

Wagner’s model shares with the prototypical museums of Europe – beginning with Florence’s Medici Palace of the 15th century and continuing with the cabinet collectors of the 16th century – the impulse toward acquisition and education.  What distinguished the Wagner from its historical and contemporary European antecedents was access. Where the collections of his forebears were symbols of wealth and power construed through the control of knowledge, Wagner’s lectures and collection, and later the Institute’s educational programs were open to the public, regardless of gender or class.   

The Wagner underwent a second wave of development following the death of its founder in 1885.  Under the leadership of biologist Joseph Leidy the Institute not only actively expanded its collection and continued its educational programs, but emerged as a research organization, undertaking and financing expeditions and generally contributing to the expansion of scientific knowledge.  The changes of the Leidy period, both to the physical structure and to the collection and its presentation, are preserved in the Institute’s current incarnation.  It is in the Wagner’s specimen collection that the influence of Leidy is perhaps most apparent.  

Housed on the second floor, the biological and geological specimen collection illustrates the move toward classification and hierarchical order characteristic of 19th century science.  It also illustrates the Wagner’s shift in use over time, suggesting the problems associated with the contemporary public perception of the Institute and its mission.  Certainly the collection is fascinating in its own right, both for what it contains an in the way it differs from the contemporary museum going experience.  Initially an extension of the Institute’s educational efforts, the collection seems a primary draw for the contemporary visitor.  Filled with natural wonders, methodically organized and arranged in heavy wooden cases, the exhibition hall is a taxonomist’s (and taxidermist’s) dream.  Filled with natural light and the sounds of the surrounding neighborhood, the collection room is warm and inviting.  The arrangement of the collection – hierarchically for biological specimens, chronologically for geological ones – certainly suggests for the visitor a specific path.  For the contemporary viewer, separated from these organizing principles by time, evolving scientific methods, or a lack prior knowledge, the collection can be experienced in a variety of ways.  One can move freely from one exhibit to the next leaping over millions of years in the process.  Here, invertebrate sea creatures give way to crustaceans and large, bony fish.  Winged beasts – moths, bats, and seagulls – sit near fierce looking birds of prey and snakes and squirrels set in action poses.  The skeleton of a draft horse sits near a scattering of Brontosaurs bones, while geological specimens mingle with the fossil record in nearby cases. 

In his 2009 article “Preserving the Future of Natural-History Museums,” Thomas H. Benton (the pen name of Hope College professor William Pennapacker) provides several observational recommendations for natural history museums moving into the 21st century.  Three of Benton’s recommendations suggest the strengths of the Wagner Institute.  The Wagner “foreground[s] the art of science and aesthetics of the museum” by keeping intact the work of Wagner and Leidy, and it is certainly not “ashamed of dead animals.”  Most importantly, Benton observes: “The world is full of simulations.  Natural-history museums should cultivate the aura of the real: the rare and unique, the beautiful, the exotic, and the grotesque.”  This is what makes the Wagner so remarkable.  It is through the exhibition of its collection that the Wagner restores a sense of (analog) awe and wonder to the museum going experience.  

But the collection also draws attention away from the educational mission of the Institute.  Ms. Glassman noted that the Wagner is often thought of solely as a museum, rather than an institution focused on public education in science.  This seems a natural hazard of preserving and presenting a museum’s past.  By presenting the museum as object, one risks elevating static physical qualities over continually evolving ideological mission.    

Ms. Glassman observed that when preservation efforts began in earnest twenty years ago, the Wagner had become something quite rare – a cultural artifact.  A piece of a scientific history well worth preserving.  Indeed, the Wagner straddles two eras.  It is at once a 19th century natural history museum preserved in amber and a contemporary institution with an active educational mission.  It is both a historical artifact and a living institution, and each has its own appeal and set of priorities.  In the first case, the building, library, and extensive specimen collection draw visitors looking for a authentic representation of a 19th century institution, while in the second, it must provide free, contemporary scientific educational programs to the community.  To maintain authenticity requires constant preservation of the Wagner’s structures and specimens.  The educational programs require the development of attractive and relevant programs and continual community outreach.  By engaging the public on both fronts, the Wagner seeks to establish a balance between its past and present, preservation and growth.

Leaving the Wagner, heading toward Broad Street via Montgomery Avenue, one wonders how its location has helped and/or hurt the Institute over time.  Located on the relative outskirts of the city’s most attractive commercial and cultural districts must have had some effect on frequency of use and effectiveness of its mission.  One wonders how it might look if William Wagner had decided to build his educational institute near what are now Independence National Historical Park or the Benjamin Franklin Parkway.  Would it resemble the American Philosophical Society or the Academy of Natural Sciences?  Certainly its relative isolation made it easier to preserve the collection and structure in its 19th century form.  But has it also limited the execution of its mission?  Moving through the construction dust of Temple University’s expansion project, one wonders how current changes will affect Institute’s future.