O Say Can You See?

From ancient Egypt to Tiffany vases: A tour of the Syz porcelain collection

As the curator for the museum’s collection of ceramics and glass, I’m responsible for tens of thousands of fragile artifacts from all over the world—from ancient Egyptian glass to fabulous Tiffany vases, from rare 18th century German porcelain to everyday Fiesta tableware.

Meissen Chinoiserie teapot and cover, catalog 74.130ab, 1724-25. Much of the Chinoiserie (decorated in the Chinese style) pieces made at the Royal Manufactory at Meissen were tea, coffee and chocolate services, items that made excellent diplomatic gifts to other European courts.

Meissen bowl, 1983.0565.43, about 1735
This bowl features images of the still-existing Königstein Fortress and Sonnenstein castle, both in the Dresden region of Germany, painted in enamel colors after engravings done in 1726 by Johann Alexander Thiele. Meissen’s use of sources from the work of contemporary artists was made possible through the increasing volume of printed works supplied to the manufactory.

Why does the National Museum of American History have artifacts made in countries other than the United States? By the time the museum opened in 1964 (then named the Museum of History and Technology), the Smithsonian had been collecting objects from around the world for almost 120 years. When the name of this building was changed to the National Museum of American History in 1980, to acknowledge the museum’s focus on examining the American experience, we didn’t get rid of objects that weren’t made in this country. However, the name change did encourage curators to think about existing, or legacy, collections in new ways.

Meissen figure of a rhinoceros, catalog 69.82, about 1750. Few people had seen a rhinoceros in early 18th century Europe. This figure bears a close resemblance to Albrecht Dürer’s woodcut of a Rhino that was brought to Portugal in the sixteenth century. Dürer did not see the animal himself, but devised an image from descriptions, and possibly from sketches that reached Nuremberg in 1515.

One of these legacies is a wonderful collection of over 630 pieces of European porcelain given to the museum by Dr. Hans Syz in 1961. While not made in the United States, these objects help us delve into the fascinating history of collecting and the story of immigrant collectors in America.

Swiss-born psychiatrist Hans Syz (1894-1991) came to the United States in 1921 and soon began working with Trigant Burrow, a pioneer in the field of group therapy. Dr. Syz began to collect porcelain in the early years of World War II, when he purchased 18th-century Meissen table wares from the Art Exchange run by New York dealer and recent immigrant Adolf Beckhardt. Beckhardt was one of many Jewish antique dealers who emigrated from Germany in the 1930s, a period of increasing Nazi pressure.


Hans Syz examines a piece of porcelain in his home, 1965.

Dr. Syz learned a great deal about porcelain and collecting from Beckhardt. Both men came to the United States with a sensibility for European cultural artifacts, and the desire to communicate their enthusiasm to others. Dr. Syz’s work in psychoanalysis and human behavior contributed to his belief that cultural artifacts have an important role to play in enhancing our awareness and understanding of human creativity and communication. His collection grew to represent this conviction, and is an example of an exceptionally active period of collecting porcelain in the United States.

Hans Syz (right), his wife Emily, and museum curator Paul Gardner in the newly installed Ceramics Hall in 1966. The year before, the Smithsonian named Dr. Syz an Honorary Fellow in recognition of his lifelong contributions to the fields of psychology and art.

The museum is working to get this important collection onto the Web to make it available to researchers, collectors, and others around the world. Take a closer look at the museum’s collection of Syz’s work.

Bonnie Campbell Lilienfeld is Deputy Chair and Curator, Division of Home and Community Life with the National Museum of American History.

 

A gathering of Peace Corps volunteers, past and present

Current and former Peace Corps volunteers gathered in Washington, D.C.during the weekend of September 24-25, 2011, to commemorate the agency’s 50th anniversary. Earlier in the week, the Peace Corps formally donated a collection of historical documents and memorabilia to the museum, a sampling of which were displayed at the museum during a special objects out of storage event.

Returned volunteers share their memories and experiences

Many volunteers had fascinating stories as to how the program had shaped the course of their lives, and expressed excitement that the museum is collecting this history. Reflecting on the legacy of the program, Arnee Blaver spoke of returning thirty years later to the school in Thailand where she taught from 1973 to 1975. She described her visit as an “awesome experience,” and seeing many of her former pupils teaching at the school left her with a sense of pride. Another former Peace Corps teacher, who volunteered in Tanganyika, recognized a training guide on the table as one which she had used at the time which she has preserved as a memento.

The Peace Corps gathered this collection by reaching out to its membership for objects representing the experiences of volunteers stationed around the world. Donated items included a training manual from Tanganyika (Tanzania), a congratulatory letter from President John F. Kennedy, buttons and general memorabilia from the first cohort of volunteers. Smithsonian curators and Peace Corps volunteers were on hand during the objects out of storage event to explain the significance of the items and to answer questions. The items were displayed informally on two tables with no cases, creating a more intimate experience. The artifacts went on display for one afternoon only, and within minutes of setting up, a long line had formed.

Left: Former Peace Corps volunteers line up to examine the new collection. Right: A Peace Corps pin in the museum’s collections.

The display was not just about showing the physical artifacts, but also about collecting the personal experiences and memories of former volunteers on a bulletin board. One volunteer from the 1976 to 1978 cohort reflected on how the opportunity to teach at a community development centre in Liberia “allowed [her] to see the U.S. from another pair of eyes, both positive and negative.” Another volunteer from 1988 to 1990 reflected that the experience of helping as a small business advisor left him with a “lifelong commitment to doing what you can to help people.”

On the occasion of the 50th anniversary, we want to know: what role do you think the Peace Corps should play today? Tell us on our TalkBack website.

Stephanie Powell is an intern with the Division of Armed Forces History and Jane Ashford-Thom is an intern with the Office of Special Events at the National Museum of American History.

 

 

How should John Brown be remembered?

An  actor portrays abolitionist John Brown

This summer, the National Museum of American History’s History Alive! Theater program brought visitors the Time Trial of John Brown. A controversial character in American history, John Brown was a radical abolitionist in the mid-19th century. Brown advocated violence to combat slavery and led armed insurrections that would lead to his execution.

This is the second show in the Time Trials series, which invites visitors to serve as jurors in a short hearing for a historical person. In the Time Trial of John Brown, audience members deliberate on John Brown’s contested legacy and decide how he should be remembered in American history.

Check out the video below to get a sense of the process behind the show and why we’re so interested in getting people talking about history.

How do you think John Brown should be remembered?

Susan Evans is Daily Programs and Theater Coordinator and Julia Imbriaco is Floor Manager at the National Museum of American History.

Pregnant in uniform

In the year since the beginning of the Military History Collections Inventory project, other  members of the team and I have seen just about every type of military uniform we could conceive of. We have learned to identify branch, rank, even time period of different uniform pieces with relative ease, which is why we were surprised to come across a uniform unlike any we had seen before. It was a blue smock top paired with a white blouse and blue skirt, and it turned out to be a United States Air Force officer’s maternity dress uniform.

USAF Officer’s Mess Dress similar to the one in our collection. Air Force Instruction 36-2903: Dress and Personal Appearance of Air Force Personnel.

Of over 6,000 military uniforms in our collections, there are only three maternity versions. The one mentioned above is the Air Force officer’s uniform, belonging to medical officer Captain Carol Rupe in the 1980s; two others belonged to Navy Petty Officer Second Class Geraldine Beecy, who also served in the 1980s. Beecy’s uniforms include a working uniform consisting of dungaree pants and a chambray shirt, and a service dress uniform of a blue coat, slacks, and a white blouse. These uniforms enable us to talk about an issue that the military finally confronted in the 1970s: how a once entirely male force addressed the integration of women—and their unique circumstances, such as pregnancy—into their ranks.

Petty Officer Second Class Geraldine Beecy’s USN working uniform.

While pregnant servicewomen had been a reality since the integration of women into the armed forces in 1948, recognition of the special accommodations that needed to be provided for those women—and the potential impact on both military readiness and military families—did not become prominent until the late 1970s. Until then women were automatically discharged from the military when they became pregnant. These uniforms illustrate how the military recognized that, in order to keep women interested in the now all-volunteer armed forces, it needed to accept the possibility of pregnancy, and, ultimately, to change its policy. Beginning in the 1970s, women’s pregnancies were addressed according to the discretion of their commanding officers. Standard practice at the time was to leave the women in their existing positions for as long as possible, and then transfer them to light duty or sick leave. However, practice often ranged from one extreme (Army women making forced marches carrying all of their usual heavy equipment) to the other (Rear Admiral James Hogg recommending that a woman in the Navy be “transferred before she becomes a burden to her shipmates”).

The Pentagon addressed one major issue between 1978 and 1980, which was the complaint that pregnant women undermined morale by coming to work in their civilian clothing when they outgrew their uniforms, which led to the introduction of maternity uniforms such as the ones on display in our collection today. In fact, the two women who donated their uniforms were among the first generation of women to have the option of a military maternity uniform. Those three uniforms raise questions about how the military addressed pregnancy in the past and how it is handled today. Even in these times of increased military awareness, with so many of our service members deployed or called to active duty, the complications of being both pregnant and in the military aren’t readily visible to civilians.

USN maternity service dress, summer whites and winter blues. Our service dress uniform represents the pants option not pictured. Navy Uniform Regulations 6701 – Maternity Uniforms.

The reality is that the military is still grappling with the best way to integrate pregnant women into their ranks. At the moment, pregnant servicewomen are subject to duty restrictions based on their branch of service, their health, and the recommendations of their physicians. Women are given six weeks of maternity leave after the birth of their child, and are barred from receiving transfers or deployment orders, depending on their branch of service(four months in the Army and Air Force, six months in the Marine Corps, and twelve months in the Navy), unless the servicewoman waives those rights. This can make planning incredibly difficult for many military families, especially during a time of war when deployments are to be expected, and could happen when sons or daughters are as young as four months old. Recently, there have been calls for reforms to the military’s policy regarding pregnancy and maternity leave that would allow both active duty mothers and fathers more time with their newborns).

The three military maternity uniforms in our collections offer a catalyst for discussions of women in the service, in the evolution of uniforms, and for the question of what effect pregnancy has on military readiness. With just a few objects representing a small sliver of the collection, we can illustrate several decades worth of women’s and military history, and promote discussion of the future role of women in uniform. Thankfully, one of the roles of the museum is to preserve and present these aspects of history that may not be glamorous or well known, and one of the many ways in which we have done so is by accepting custodianship of three military maternity uniforms.

Bethanee Bemis is a museum specialist working with the Armed Forces History Collections renovation and inventory project at the National Museum of American History.

 

 

The boys of Dogtown

“Two hundred years of American technology has unwittingly created a massive cement playground of unlimited potential, but it was the minds of 11-year-olds that could see that potential.”
- Craig Stecyk, 1975, Dogtown and Z-Boys

Stacy Peralta, around 1976. Courtesy Forgetaboutit4000, Wikimedia Commons

You have heard of Silicon Valley, right? That iconic place of invention usually conjures visions of creative geeks, high-tech, and lots of capital coming together to create the future. But about 350 miles south of Silicon Valley, a completely different place of invention emerged and thrived.

Have you heard of Dogtown? If you haven’t, I recommend Dogtown and Z -Boys, a 2001 documentary film directed by one of the Z-Boys, Stacy Peralta. The movie follows a semi-wild group of “punk kids” from an economically depressed section of West Los Angeles who revolutionized skateboarding in the 1970s. 

Innovative places like Dogtown thrive on cultural diversity and the interplay of the artistic and the technical. But constraint, too, is often a factor that drives invention. In important ways, the rise of skateboard culture in Dogtown shows striking parallels to the birth of hip-hop in the Bronx, one of the stories the museum's Lemelson Center is exploring for a future exhibition, “Places of Invention.” In both places, innovation flourished in spite of its surroundings as inspiring proponents of problem-solving, risk-taking, and creativity appeared.

The Z-Boys (actually eleven teenage boys and a girl) took their name from the Zephyr surf shop, known for its radical designs of surf- and skateboards. Seizing on new technologies like urethane wheels, the kids on the Zephyr skate team pushed performance in totally new directions, mostly vertically, with spectacular aerials that blew away the competition and redefined the sport.

While a documentary tour de force, Dogtown and Z-Boys is also a compelling piece of mythmaking. But, like all myths, it has a core of truth—in this case about the power of place. The film’s lessons apply not only to sports inventions, but to the rise of virtually any innovation hot spot—including, yes, Silicon Valley—a theme we will be exploring in "Places of Invention."

The film delivers its message of place immediately in its brilliant opening sequence. From a view of Earth from space, the camera zooms in on a rundown beach community in Santa Monica known as Dogtown—a “place where America’s Manifest Destiny collides into the Pacific Ocean,” says narrator Sean Penn. The once-thriving amusement park and surfing mecca centered on Venice Beach, which was modeled after its Italian namesake, canals and all. In the mid-1960s, this coastal strip fell on hard times, and what a fall it was. Much of the area became a slum; abandoned roller coasters and piers deteriorated.

The Z-Boys, most of them from broken homes, found a positive outlet and fierce group identity as surfing outcasts. The challenge of navigating derelict pilings, twisted rebar, and chunks of broken concrete produced a daring new style of aerobatic surfing. In the afternoons, when winds shifted and waves quieted, they transferred the same artistic and aggressive style to skateboarding. The group was “infamous for their aggressive localism,” notes Penn. As Skip Engblom, a cofounder of the Zephyr surf shop, ironically recalls in the film, “[Dogtown] was dirty, it was filthy, it was Paradise.”

Dogtown was a hot spot characterized by a kind of technical adaptation that only transgressive, highly resourceful minds would think of. Berms in elementary school playgrounds served as asphalt waves for testing new maneuvers. Severe drought in the 1970s resulted in empty backyard swimming pools and, jumping neighborhood fences, the Z-Boys converted these empty pools into proto-halfpipes until chased away by local security. It was in these spots that they invented the spectacular aerials that are the essence of today’s competitions.

The ethnically mixed Zephyr skate team, self-described “freaks of the sport,” styled themselves as artist-athletes, with graffiti being the preferred genre of board decoration. They reveled in “having their own thing going on,” while sticking to the values of the group. They offered mutual support and honored a hierarchy of talent. Driving them was the sheer joy of invention, regardless of money or fame: “The bottom line is, all we wanted to do was skate,” said Z-Boy Wentzle Ruml. Once that changed and materialistic goals emerged—some of the Z-Boys became stars and even millionaires—group spirit, and the hot spot that was Dogtown, went into decline.

Airborne skateboarder. Photo by Bengt Nyman, courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Invention happens anywhere that imaginative minds see a different way of doing things, from the labs of Silicon Valley to the surf shops of Dogtown and the playgrounds of the Bronx. And through these variations on “skunkworks”—those loosely structured teams that technology firms like to set up to push radical innovation—the world changes.

Art Molella is Director of the Lemelson Center for the Study of Invention and Innovation at the National Museum of American History. This column originally appeared in the August 2011 issue of Prototype, the Lemelson Center’s newsletter.