"O Say Can You See?" is a blog produced by the National Museum of American History (NMAH). The blog takes readers behind the scenes at the museum, sharing insights and information about our exhibitions, events, collections, research projects, and more. Readers are encouraged to use the comment area to dialogue with us about the work of the museum.
Last month I had the opportunity to walk through the Freer and Sackler Galleries with my three-year-old daughter. Passing by on our way to an event for her school, a glimmer of silver caught her eye.
Spouted vessel with gazelle protome, 4th century, Silver and gilt, H: 15.5 W: 25.4 D: 14.1 cm, Iran or Afghanistan, Gift of Arthur M. Sackler S1987.33
“Mama, what’s that?"
I was eager to get to the auditorium, but she was captivated. So we stopped, and I was forced to use those three little words that grownups can be so scared of:
“I don’t know.”
I checked the label. It was a wine horn, from Iran. OK, so now I knew what the object was, but I still knew next to nothing about ancient Persian culture, and not much about how this wine horn was used, or by whom. We spent a few moments just looking at it, along with the other two horns in the case. I was anxious to get where we were going, but also wanted to reward her curiosity. So what next? I couldn’t tell her a story about the object (“You know how Mommy likes to drink wine? Well…”) so I defaulted to a more general question:
“Which one of these do you like best?” “I like the cat one” “Why?” “It looks happy”
Now, my three-year-old is no different from any other three-year-old. We weren’t going to be able to spend five hours in the museum, or look at the whole collection in great detail, and she wasn’t going to leave knowing everything about the culture of Iran. Many people think this means that little kids don’t “get” anything out of a museum visit, as if museums exist primarily to pour facts into developed minds.
But as my daughter watched me read the label, looked at the wine horn, and pondered my simple questions, she was absolutely learning—about how to find information from objects, notice details, and ask questions. These are important skills we use every day when we encounter new things. Just knowing that her mom doesn’t have all the answers, but knows how to try and find them, is a great lesson in itself.
After a few more minutes of admiring the sparkly animals, deciding which one we’d take home with us, and talking about what we’d use it for, we moved on. It was a small moment, but it captured everything I love about museums. Museums make tangible the beauty of wonder and discovery. Museums are places to encounter things you know nothing about, to ask questions, find answers, and see in new ways.
So don’t be intimidated—bring your little ones to a museum. Not just a children’s museum, but a history museum, a science museum, an art museum. Don’t worry that you won’t know everything. Don’t feel like they have to understand everything. Show them that exploring the unfamiliar is fun, and you’ll give them a gift that will last a lifetime.
Megan Smith is an Education Specialist at the National Museum of American History.
I felt like a kid again. On the morning of April 17, I stood amid a crowd of fellow staffers on the rooftop terrace of the National Museum of American History, waiting expectantly for the flyover of space shuttle Discovery. This shuttle, which flew the final shuttle mission, was taking its victory laps over Washington before retiring to the National Air and Space Museum’s Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center near Washington Dulles International Airport. Just before 10 a.m., Discovery came out of the western sky, strapped to its 747 mother ship and escorted by a single jet fighter that looked puny by comparison. My mind flashed back to a day in April 1981 when I was visiting the Science Museum in London. The whole museum came to a halt to watch a video feed of the landing of Columbia, the first of the shuttles. At once exultant and sad, I knew Discovery's final flight sealed the end of the shuttle program that had for a time thrilled the world.
Space shuttle Discovery, mounted atop a NASA 747 Shuttle Carrier Aircraft (SCA), flies over the Washington skyline as seen from a NASA T-38 aircraft, Tuesday, April 17, 2012. Photo by Robert Markowitz, courtesy of NASA.
As Discovery passed by the Washington Monument, I could hardly imagine anything more, well, patriotic. For 45 minutes it banked majestically over the city. The crowd, gazing skyward through sunglasses, binoculars, and camera lenses, completed the picture in a familiar scene—almost a cliché—from every space launch with humans onboard. But this flight was different. Discovery was not going into orbit but to its final, appropriate resting place in “Museumland.” After three decades, the space shuttles are now history, relics of 1970s technology. Yet, for their day, the shuttles were an amazing feat of engineering. When other American and Soviet orbiters simply parachuted to earth or ocean after completing their missions, the shuttles flew, glided, landed, and went back into space again. Discoverycompleted a record thirty-nine missions.
Eerily, just as Discovery appeared on the horizon, I heard the words of Joseph Henry (1797-1878), the Smithsonian’s first Secretary, echoing from the museum’s Mall entrance. It seemed almost on cue, but it was just a fantastic coincidence. Actually, it was the amplified voice of costumed actor Dwane Starlin, who at 10 o’clock every morning greets visitors at the museum, speaking in Henry’s own words about his vision of the early Smithsonian (and giving a preview of the exhibitions inside the museum). One of Starlin’s special talents is that he never drops out of character. You can’t trick him; I know because I’ve tried. That morning—I couldn’t quite hear—I’m sure he remarked on the sight of the space shuttle, which in fact flew over the Smithsonian Castle, where Henry lived and presided. I’m equally confident that he never let on to knowing anything about the mysterious machines overhead.
Dwane Starlin in character as Secretary Joseph Henry. Smithsonian photo.
The unexpected coincidence of Henry’s words with Discovery’s flyover led me to ponder what the real Henry would have thought about the advances in aeronautical engineering 150 years into the future. Could he have ever envisioned something like Discovery being brought into the Smithsonian collections?
Thaddeus Lowe’s balloon experiment, with crowd watching, c. 1863. Unidentified photographer, Smithsonian Institution Archives, Record Unit 95, Box 54, Folder 09E, negative #SIA2011-0961.
The most famous American physicist of the 19th century and a pioneer in electrical invention, Henry was versed in the latest advances in American science and technology. Though he died a quarter-century before the historic flight of the Wright brothers, he had some involvement with human flight through ballooning. During the Civil War, Henry gave his endorsement to Thaddeus Lowe, a New Hampshire inventor and meteorologist, who offered his services to the Union cause. Lowe said he could use his balloons for aerial reconnaissance of enemy positions, and showed that it was possible to communicate from balloon to ground by telegraph, an invention that owed much to Henry’s experiments three decades earlier. The Smithsonian Secretary supported Lowe to become head of the Balloon Corps, but first insisted on a careful review of his claims and proposals to ensure that they were consistent with meteorological and other physical laws. Henry advised Lowe that only powered, heavier-than-air vehicles, which did not yet exist, could attempt to fly against the direction of air currents; lighter-than-air balloons would always be subject to the winds.
Henry regarded himself a scientist, but he was fascinated by technology and was always willing to give advice to serious inventors. Most prized of all by Henry were technologies of discovery—those at the cutting edge of scientific knowledge. If guided by science, Henry saw no limits to what technology could do. This spirit of discovery was what he instilled into the Smithsonian. So, would he have been shocked by an aircraft called Discovery? On reflection, I don’t think so.
For more on one of Discovery's most beloved crew members, see Margaret Weitekamp’s blog post about the donation of Buzz Lightyear to the collections of the National Air and Space Museum by Toy Story creator, John Lasseter. And in the “Did you know?” department, one of Thaddeus Lowe’s balloons was named Enterprise, just like the shuttle at the Udvar-Hazy Center that Discovery is replacing!
“Black Friday”—the day after Thanksgiving when holiday shopping goes into high gear—promises to start even earlier this year on Thursday, the day previously known as Thanksgiving. Some retailers plan to open at 9pm thereby advancing the midnight rush by three hours. It is perhaps only a matter of time before retailers open even earlier, in a continuing scramble for any advantage, until there are no distinctions left between the days on the retail calendar.
Children’s souvenir booklet, Santa’s Own Story Book, Kresge Department Store, Newark, New Jersey, ca. 1926.
Once upon a time the nation’s retailers were attuned to the rhythm of the seasons. By the turn of the twentieth century it became apparent to most that more goods were sold in November and December than in all other months combined. Retailers planned accordingly and developed creative amenities to thaw hearts and jangle cash registers. The big idea was to make the big store a destination—shopping followed. The store that successfully associated itself with the holiday season became a leading retail institution.
Describing the strategy in 1894, Harry Harman, an “artistic decorator and window draper” from Louisville, Kentucky, noted the “jostling multitude” of sightseers that filled the streets “in front of the most attractive window and the building decorated and illuminated.” Directly addressing reluctant store owners who doubted the efficacy of such a strategy, Harmon explained: “the crowd, dazzled by the grand effect, will enter the store, and purchase, whereas, if your store was not made attractive, the crowd of people would pass by.” By 1913 The Show Window magazine regularly reported on the escalating practice of retail attraction, like the ever-popular Santa Claus parade, that delivered Santa through city streets to the store and installed him (and his helpers) at the back of a well-stocked toy department. The holiday window came into its own as an eagerly anticipated annual attraction in which nothing but the store’s institutional leadership was sold.
Reindeer relax in the kitchen of the Cozy Cloud Cottage, Marshall Field & Company, Chicago, 1948.
But that’s all changed now. By the late 1950s retail observers noted the rise of big box stores that largely abandoned holiday decor. Some characterized the bare-bones economy of display as dispiriting and soulless. At the same time the rise of the suburban shopping mall was changing life downtown, mostly for the worse. The consolidation of the retail industry soon left many towns without a department store and an austere holiday display scene absent of trimmings.
The main aisle, Marshall Field & Company, Chicago, ca. 1956.
With the certain exception of the walking precincts of New York’s Fifth Avenue and Chicago’s State Street, the over-the-top scale of imaginative display has diminished along with the retail amenities of yore. The lavishly-decorated store, the animated window, and other traditions are gone, given over to the big-box anomy of never-ending price markdowns, products on pallets, and shopping on Thanksgiving.
William L. Bird, Jr., is the author of Holidays on Display and curator at the National Museum of American History.
Somewhat late in the summer of 1784, James Smithson embarked on his first scientific expedition. This “expedition” might have seemed a bit odd to a modern viewer—as it consisted of four gentlemen, with their servants, driving north from London in carriages—but in the 18th century science was often a gentleman’s pursuit and this was how gentlemen traveled.
Their goal was to explore the remote island of Staffa, off the Northwest coast of Scotland. Staffa had recently been visited by Joseph Banks, President of the Royal Society in London, and his description of the island’s distinctive basalt columns and remarkable marine caves had captured both the popular and scientific imaginations of the time. In the 19th century Staffa would become a major tourist destination, but in 1784 Smithson’s party would have been one of the first scientific groups—and certainly the first mineralogists—to attempt the rigorous overland journey to see it.
The island of Staffa. In Smithson’s time there was great disagreement about how an island like this could have been formed. Staffa has also inspired a range of artistic works over the years.
Smithson would later become famous for leaving his fortune to found the Smithsonian Institution in the United States. But at this time he was only 19 years old and fresh from his studies at Oxford. The driving force behind the expedition was Barthelemy Faujas de Saint-Fond, a French geologist and mineralogist who planned to use the trip as field-work for a book on Scottish volcanoes. Smithson only learned about the expedition at the last minute from one of his professors, who urged him to join and provided letters of introduction. Smithson dropped everything and rushed to London, arriving just a few days before it departed.
The route Smithson’s group took to Staffa. Today’s highways take essentially the same path.Map by Reginald Piggott from Heather Ewing's The Lost World of James Smithson: Science, Revolution, and the Birth of the Smithsonian (Bloomsbury, 2007).
The events he witnessed, the places he visited and the ideas he encountered propelled Smithson’s early scientific career and influenced much of his later scientific work. As a Smithsonian curator researching the science of James Smithson, I’ve spent much of the last year trying to unravel the story of what Smithson saw on this trip and what it would have meant to him. So much of the story is connected to the specific geology of Scotland and to Enlightenment-era Edinburgh that I came to realize the importance of seeing these places in person. And when I mentioned this idea to my intrepid volunteers Jeff Gorman and Frank Cole, it was not long before we all found ourselves on a unique vacation: following in the footsteps of James Smithson.
Edinburgh
Averaging less than 20 miles a day, it took the expedition several weeks to reach Edinburgh (more than 300 miles from London), and for me this was their first important destination. This is where Smithson encountered the remarkable intellectual flowering now known as the Scottish Enlightenment.
We know that Smithson carried letters of introduction and that he met and later corresponded with the famous chemist Joseph Black. Black was noted for his use of the chemical balance and at the National Museum of Scotland we were able to see some of his actual instruments. Smithson wrote about carrying a balance “of Black’s design” when he traveled in Europe.
The Scottish National Museum's galleries about 18th century life provided a glimpse into the world Smithson explored.
Smithson arrived in Edinburgh at a very interesting time. The city was home to some of the most brilliant men in Europe and they all seem to have been close friends. Smithson was able to meet many of them and although the expedition could not linger more than a few days, he seems to have been strongly affected by the experience and returned for a second visit on his way back to London.
In particular he seems to have been impressed by James Hutton, now known as the father of geology. At the time of Smithson’s visit Hutton would have been just developing his revolutionary theories about underground heat and pressure, and we know that he was recruiting visiting scientists to send him rock samples. Hutton seems to have recruited our hero as well, as Smithson later tried to send him fossils. If Hutton spent any time with Smithson, one of the places he would have taken him was “Salisbury Crags”—an ancient lava flow that literally loomed over the back yard of his house.
The Salisbury Crags, near Hutton's home
This image was taken just a short distance from where Hutton lived, and it’s easy to see why his attention was drawn to this formation. In his time the hard basaltic stone at the top was being excavated for use as paving stones. As new material was exposed Hutton would study it for evidence of structures that could only have been formed by underground lava. To help us understand the unique geology of Edinburgh we arranged a geologic tour of the city, and this turned out to be one of the highlights of the trip. The Edinburgh area was shaped by ancient volcanoes and in Holyrood Park, in the center of the city, we were able to see some of the same formations that Hutton would have studied—and presumably shown Smithson.
On Salisbury Crags, in Holyrood Park, our geology guide Angus Miller points out what Hutton would have called an “unconformity”—a layer of sedimentary rock that has been injected with unground lava.
Inveraray
Edinburgh was the intellectual center of 18th century Scotland, but the expedition encountered a different side of the Enlightenment at the next place it lingered—Inveraray Castle. This was, and still is, the home of the Duke of Argyll, and Smithson’s group reached it only after a long, difficult journey up the west side of Loch Lomand and then overland to Loch Fyne. A modern highway now follows this same route and as we drove we were able to enjoy the rugged beauty of mountains and lochs. But we could imagine the challenge of getting carriages over muddy mountain roads and of finding food and lodging in the rain and dark. We could also imagine the joy of Smithson’s group when they finally reached the Castle.
With large windows and a decorative moat, this castle was never intended for military use, but served as an example of enlightened ideals and manners for this part of Scotland.
Located on the shore of Loch Fyne and situated at the base of a low mountain, the Castle remains today much as Smithson would have seen it. Much more a home than a fortress, the Castle was just being finished when they arrived. The Duke and Duchess were famous for their hospitality and refinement, and Faujas later reported that French was spoken at dinner and that French wines, tableware and manners were at all times employed.
Continuing the tradition of hospitality that Smithson experienced, the Duke of Argyll graciously welcomed us to his home.
For me, Inveraray Castle presents the romantic side of the Enlightenment. The artwork and tapestries, the elaborate gardens and hothouses, even the design of the Castle itself all express something of the idealization of nature and reason that characterized Smithson’s time. And there is also an underlying belief in progress and human improvement, which is an interesting connection to Smithson’s later founding of the Smithsonian.
Sculpture of Perseus and Andromeda by the Flemish sculptor Michael Van Der Voort, 1713. Smithson almost certainly saw this work and one wonders how he would have understood it. Did he see, as many in his time would have, a metaphor of nature and the power of reason?
The expedition could only linger three days at Inveraray, although the Duke urged them to stay longer. They must have looked back fondly to this time during the subsequent days, because they now began the most difficult part of their journey.
Mull
The expedition now headed northwest to the fishing village of Oban, from which they would sail to the island of Mull and, from there, to Staffa. The road was the worst they had yet encountered and they were exhausted by the time they reached Oban.
Our own drive to Oban was much more pleasant and took only a few hours. We arrived in time to visit the local historical society and learn a bit about its history. Oban would have been a small fishing village when Smithson saw it, with a population of only about 600. It began to grow in the 1790s—partly due to interest in Staffa—and today is a pleasant community of about 8,500.
The launching point on Mull to Staffa
Today it’s an easy ferry ride from Oban to Mull, although for Smithson the 33 mile trip could have been daunting—it was the beginning of the stormy season. Once on Mull, Smithson’s group crossed to the west side of the island and the embarkation point for Staffa. They stayed at Torloisk, an estate the Duke had recommended, and from which (on a clear day) they could see Staffa. It took several days before the seas were calm enough to attempt to reach Staffa and even then Smithson reported a harrowing trip. He spent the night on the island, returning the next day with a cache of mineral samples and a genuine sense of accomplishment.
Our own expedition to Staffa was less successful. Modern tour boats leave Mull from the same spot that Smithson used, but on the days we were there the seas were too rough to venture out. The seas around Staffa are notoriously unpredictable—Smithson had to wait almost a week for good weather—but having gotten so close made me determined to come back and try again during another trip.
Leadhills
After Staffa, Smithson returned to Edinburgh for an extended visit and then returned to London. On the way back he visited the important mines at Leadhills, which produced not just lead, but a variety of other metals including zinc, silver and gold.
The Museum of Lead Mining in Wanlockhead. The mine Smithson visited is now closed, but this one is in the same area and dates from the same period.
At the museum in Wanlockhead we were able go a short way into one of the original lead mines, which was an interesting experience. I was intrigued to learn that this area had both lead and zinc mines. Smithson wrote about the chemistry of both minerals and the zinc ore Smithsonite is named after him. Did his interest in these ores begin during this visit?
Northwich
Smithson’s last stop before returning to London was to visit a salt mine in the Northwich area, southwest of Manchester. The underground salt deposits in Northwich have been worked since Roman times and the extraction of salt has led to a series of subsidences (or “fells”) throughout the area. Many of the lakes in Northwich are actually old salt mines that collapsed after the salt was removed.
The Trent and Mersey Canal. Finished in 1777, the canal was one of the first in England.
This was also our last stop, although the mine Smithson visited no longer exists. Instead we visited the Lion Salt Works in Marston which is one of the few remaining 19th-century salt mines. It closed in the 1970s and is now in the process of being restored as an industrial museum. It used a “brine” method of extraction, which is different than the mine Smithson visited, but the site is adjacent to the Trent and Mersey Canal, which was completed just a few years before Smithson’s visit. The canal was built to facilitate shipping salt and, like so much of what Smithson saw on his trip, was what we now think of as the beginning of the British industrial revolution.
London
Smithson returned to London just over three months after he had left. His newfound reputation as an explorer opened doors for him, as did the large cache of mineral samples he brought back. Just 3 years later, in 1787, he was elected to the prestigious Royal Society, becoming its youngest member. Smithson’s scientific career had started.
Washington, D.C.
Historians are more commonly found in libraries and archives than on road-trips, and I must admit to being a bit uncertain about how useful this trip would actually be. But having seen the places Smithson visited and having, in some ways, shared his experiences has proved immensely helpful as I try to piece his story together. In particular, the depth of his interest in geology has been a revelation and my research since returning has been largely devoted to exploring that topic.
Steven Turner is a curator in the Division of Medicine and Science. He’d like to express his appreciation for his “support group” on this trip: Jeff Gorman, Ginni Gorman, Frank Cole and Mary Lou Cole; with a special thanks to Frank, who took on the daunting task of planning this trip and without whom it certainly wouldn’t have happened.
Editor's Note: This is the fifth post in a series exploring the 30th anniversary of HIV and AIDS. Beginning last June 3, the National Museum of American History has been marking the anniversary of the emergence of the HIV and AIDS epidemic with a three-part display and companion website. This blog series provides additional context through the perspectives of people directly involved in the history the museum is documenting.
Miguel Gomez, wearing the AIDS vigil button, stands before his board of buttons.
Miguel Gomez is the director of AIDS.gov, a program of the Office of HIV/AIDS Policy, U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, that works to increase HIV testing and care among people most at risk for, or living with, the disease. In his office in Washington, D.C., Gomez has a bulletin board showcasing an amazing collection of buttons from projects and events related to the HIV and AIDS epidemic. Buttons are an efficient means for documenting history because they distill complex messages into concise language and graphics, and capture diverse points of view (the National Museum of American History has over 33,000 pin-backs in its collection). We asked Gomez to elaborate on his button collection—and here's what he had to say.
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If inanimate objects could speak, the buttons on the bulletin board in my office would tell many stories. Each button has only a few words or a single image to "speak" to those who stop to take a look. But, if you care to listen, these small pieces of metal and plastic tell tales of nearly unbearable sorrow—as well as stories of courage and hope.
Buttons used to do what Twitter does now: share with the world, in a very few characters, an important message about the person who displays or wears them. You might call them low-tech "micro-tweets."
I have collected buttons since I was a child. I think I got my first one at the Detroit Auto Show in 1970; it featured an image of the brand-new AMC Gremlin. Over the years, I collected others. I still have one from my first trip to Washington, D.C. for a march. But the bulk of my collection is made up of the buttons I have collected over the 30 years of the HIV and AIDS epidemic.
I have over 500 buttons, and all of them are meaningful in some way or another—but the one that memorializes an early AIDS vigil is my favorite. The button is black with white lettering. It says "National AIDS Vigil, October 8, 1983" and shows a hand holding a candle, which makes up the "I" in "AIDS."
AIDS vigil button, 1983.
At that time, we still didn't know what caused AIDS. It would be another year before HIV was identified as the cause of so much suffering and death, and many more years before treatments were available. All we knew then was that people we loved and cared for—friends, family members, co-workers—were dying.
Soon after that vigil took place, I came to Washington, D.C. to begin working at an organization that advocated for Latino issues, but they didn't want to address the issue of HIV and AIDS then. The stigma was too great. I am convinced that stigma kept us from responding quickly enough to the epidemic—and caused untold losses that might have been prevented.
The button encapsulates that history for me. It continues to be a stark reminder of how much HIV and AIDS has cost us. When I look at it, memories of the friends and colleagues I have lost to AIDS come flooding in—and I am reminded that approximately 18,000 people still die of the disease in the United States each year.
Miguel Gomez, 1984.
That button continues to inspire me in my work at AIDS.gov every day.
Other buttons remind me of events that have been important in the history of HIV and AIDS in the United States and the world. There are buttons from ACT UP rallies, which pushed the U.S. government to respond more rapidly and effectively to the epidemic here at home. There are buttons from multiple International AIDS Conferences, where I have met with thousands of people from around the globe who are responding to HIV and AIDS or living with the infection.
The buttons are of different colors, shapes, and sizes. They reflect multiple languages, perspectives, and goals.
But they share one, overarching message: we must respond to the HIV and AIDS epidemic, and we must do so in ways that honor those we have lost and protect those who are living with the disease now.
A button may not reach as many people as a tweet—but I would say it performs pretty effective "messaging" for something that can fit in the palm of your hand.
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