O Say Can You See?

Collecting an Epidemic: The AIDS Memorial Quilt

Editor’s Note: This is the fourth post in a series exploring the 30th anniversary of HIV and AIDS. Beginning on June 3, the National Museum of American History will mark 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 and includes the perspectives of people directly involved in the history the museum is documenting.

The AIDS Memorial Quilt on the Ellipse, 1996.

How does one go about collecting an epidemic? A disease is not a tangible entity like a stethoscope or a medicine bottle. Smithsonian curators have always been interested in the history of disease: the medical collection includes artifacts related to smallpox, diphtheria, cholera, and polio. My area of expertise is surgical instrumentation. Show me a 200-year-old amputation set or a 21st-century heart assist device, and I’m a happy camper.

I was attending the annual meeting of the American Association for the History of Medicine in New Orleans in 1988, when a small band of museum curators, archivists, and historians met to talk about recording and collecting material related to the AIDS epidemic. The AIDS epidemic was and is a unique opportunity for historians of medicine to document an epidemic from its beginnings.

The majority of AIDS material appeared to be ephemeral: posters, pamphlets, red ribbons, and photographs. It seemed to me that the most obvious artifact was the AIDS Memorial Quilt, which was just beginning to emerge as one of the symbols of the epidemic. A piece of the quilt can be found in our museum today.

The National Museum of American History was elected to collect this panel.

I saw the AIDS Memorial Quilt for the first time on a sunny day in the autumn of 1989. It was laid out on the Ellipse, a grassy area in front of the White House. Walking up and down the rows of panels, I remember thinking how large the quilt appeared.

Strolling silently, I took in the creativity of individual panels, the bright bold colors and textures, pieces of fake fur and twinkling sequins. Some of the panels were made from the personal belongings of the people they memorialized: toe shoes, cooking utensils, teddy bears, even pieces of clothing, neckties, and pajamas. Each panel was a very personal tribute to a victim of a frightening and incurable disease. The panels were obviously lovingly crafted, each one conveying the person’s interests and style, celebrating the lives of dear friends and loved ones.

A few of the quilt panels were dedicated to famous personalities like Rock Hudson, Liberace, and Perry Ellis. Mostly, the panels were just ordinary folks: men, women, children, babies, musicians, doctors, chefs, dancers, mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, some anonymous. I remember looking at hundreds of birth and death dates. It was so incredibly sad; my generation seemed to be dying.

The AIDS Memorial Quilt with the White house in the background, 1986.

The AIDS Memorial Quilt is an extraordinary artifact. However, the Quilt's size and plethora of materials pose challenges for curators and conservators. The project brought to mind an important question: what other artifacts could we collect to represent the AIDS epidemic?

That first day I collected a few small artifacts, a red ribbon that had become one of the symbols of the epidemic, a few buttons, including a purple and yellow button imploring "FIGHT AIDS / NOT PEOPLE WITH AIDS." The most poignant artifact, a white Styrofoam cup with a green candle, came from a National Museum of American History staff member who carried it during the candlelight vigil held that same weekend. Some of these artifacts are now on display in HIV and AIDS Thirty Years Ago, currently on view in the museum.

AIDS buttons collected by the author over the years.

Over the years, I saw the Quilt several times, watching it grow larger as the deaths from AIDS increased. I was there for the Quilt's last appearance on the National Mall, a beautiful October morning in 1996. The Quilt stretched out across the grass on the National Mall from 14th Street to 3rd Street. It was enormous, so much larger than when I had first seen it seven years earlier. That day in 1996, I had a special mission. I hoped to find the panel representing my cousin Ira who had recently died of complications from AIDS.

Finding Cousin Ira turned out to be easy. The NAMES Project Memorial Quilt Organization had books alphabetically listing each person with a panel dedicated to his or her memory. I walked up to one of the tables and gave the volunteer my cousin's name. The volunteers handed back a piece of paper with the coordinates for finding his panel.

Come to find out, Cousin Ira's panel is shared with eight friends from New York City. The panel is simple in design with organic free-form splotches of bright colors appliquéd onto a white background. The panel is signed and dated "may 1996 love, patti s. fullerton."

Cousin Ira's panel. He is the second one down on the left.

I have never met Ms. Fullerton. But just in case she is out there reading this, I would like to thank her for looking out for Cousin Ira.

Judy Chelnick is Associate Curator for the Division of Medicine and Science at the National Museum of American History.

Cats with asparagus and "Forkery" in Julia Child's kitchen

Editor’s Note: Today's post is the last in a series about the museum's work in Julia Child’s kitchen. Caitlin Dichter is a Museum Studies graduate student at The George Washington University.

Outlines on the wall indicating where pots and pans belong.

Gently cradling the ceramic crock, I checked its condition. My gloved finger brushed along the strip of masking tape just beginning to show its age. On it—in bold, sure lines—was written one word: "Forkery." I smiled.

When I first stepped, in sock-clad feet, into Julia Child's kitchen, I kept my eyes trained for minute details and examined the objects for signs of age. I had assumed that I would grow familiar with the objects around me—but I didn't anticipate that I would get to know something about Julia as well.

All throughout the exhibit, I found signs of the culinary legend's warmth and humor, her unique personality. Julia favored order in her workspace, as evinced by the various visual aids that assign each object to a particular place in the kitchen. For example, pot-shaped outlines on the pegboard-covered walls indicate where the pots should hang, Polaroid snapshots show exactly where pans belong, and labels on containers identify where different kinds of utensils are housed.

Labeled containers for different kinds of utensils.

Next to the crock labeled "Forkery" is one dedicated to "Spoonery." Julia, who admitted she could never resist a good kitchen gadget, allotted certain utensils to overflow categories like "Misc + Spats" (for "Miscellaneous and Spatulas") and "Mostly Wood." Inside the latter—a personal favorite of mine—one can find wooden spoons, tongs, and even utensils whose purpose I remain uncertain of.

Guests in the kitchen would know not only the proper location of various kitchenware, but also how to use the electric disposal, thanks to detailed instructions affixed next to the sink on blue labels. I had already known that you don't put oil down the drain, but I never realized that artichoke leaves don't belong down there as well.

Detailed directions for using the electric disposal.

Julia did not seem fond of an empty space. Every possible nook and cranny in the kitchen reveals a memento, particularly cats expressing a wide range of emotions: there are happy cats, grumpy cats, sleepy cats, and even felines with asparagus.

Cat mementos in Julia Child’s kitchen.

More mementos on a counter in Julia Child’s kitchen.

The past few months have come and gone so quickly, a whirlwind of an experience that I won’t soon forget. While I learned a great deal about the state of the objects on display, the experience has been made all the more memorable because I got to know Julia through the idiosyncrasies scattered throughout her famous workspace. I am convinced she would have been a fascinating person to know—in fact, in homage to this charismatic woman, I think I will have to go label something!

Caitlin Dichter is a Museum Studies graduate student at The George Washington University.

Connections to the past can spark desire to create a brighter future

The date: June 11, 2010. The time: 8:30 a.m. (a shocking hour for a college undergraduate to be anywhere, let alone well-groomed, dressed to the nines, and ready to smile for the camera). The place: a lush courtyard at the University of California, Los Angeles. The event: the Department of History’s commencement, better known as my college graduation, or the first day of the rest of my life.

My plan was to drop everything, move across the country to Washington, D.C., and start my journey to becoming a congresswoman. But as I stood in line, waiting to hear my name called to cross the stage, I realized something: I love history too much to not make it an important part of my life. It had been a favorite subject of mine since grade school (enhanced by my love of my American Girl dolls), but with the guidance of a few key professors, it had turned into an obsession. I simply could not imagine a fulfilling career unrelated to history. In those three hours, on a hazy California morning, I decided to change my life.

D.C. was still the destination, but politics was no longer the goal. I wanted to find a way to marry my passion for studying the past with my desire to help improve our world today. History is too often a least favorite subject, one that can easily seem cold and distant from our modern era. However, I truly believe that, in order to build a better tomorrow, we need to understand our past. I wanted to be a part of that understanding, and the path was clear: go Smithsonian, or go home.

In my time at the museum, I have had the opportunity to learn more than I had ever hoped, both about fund-raising for a cause I am passionate about and the subject that I love. One of my projects has been to create a tour of an exhibit in which a gunboat from the the Revolutionary War—the Philadelphia—is displayed.  The Philadelphia is the oldest surviving American naval ship, sailed and sunk at the Battle of Valcour Island in 1776. In addition to the gunboat itself, the exhibit is home to numerous items found on board, including an intact porcelain tea cup, a pair of knee-buckles from a sailor’s breeches, and a leather shoe. Marveling over these items, I felt a deeply human connection to a war that began 235 years ago. A sailor—possibly with a wife or a sweetheart or a daughter my age, waiting for him at home—drank from that cup, buckled his pants, and slipped on that shoe, before going out to do battle against tyranny and injustice.

The Philidelphia, on display at the National Museum of American History, continues to inspire visitors and staff alike.

I want to help all generations, from all over the globe, find inspiration to make our world a better place, and I believe that inspiration can be found in remembering past struggles, failures, and glories. And where better to do that than at our own National Museum of American History? Here, exhibits like the gunboat Philadelphia provide curious patrons with a chance to connect with history on a personal level, free of charge and available to all. I cannot be sure where my career will take me, but, as I embark on my life as a “real adult,” I know that I want to work at an organization like the Smithsonian Institution, one that ensures that everyone has the chance to find a connection to the past, a connection that may spark a desire to create a brighter future.

Allison Swislocki is an intern in the Office of External Affairs at the National Museum of American History.

"If I could just get inside that glass, I could hear the song in there..."

Editor’s Note: Today’s guest blog is written by Kenneth Coultas, a Tennesseean who recently visited the museum with his family and had such an impactful visit that he sent us an email to tell us about it. That email is reproduced below.

I wanted to share this story of my son’s visit to the Star-Spangled Banner exhibit:

Today was the end of our much anticipated trip to Washington, D.C. Sally, the boys, and I have looked forward to it for quite some time now. A couple of weeks back, Sally who did a marvelous job of organizing and booking the trip, flights, train tickets, etc. ordered two or three guidebooks to aid us in our journey.

For some reason or another, Evan—our five year old—has been fascinated with the photos and information regarding the original “Star-Spangled Banner” that inspired Francis Scott Key, to pen the poem that became our national anthem. The two things on his “must see” list were “The Star-Spangled Banner” and "the government." On the first day we visited the Museum of American History, he was beside himself. As we walked up the ramp to view the flag, he was careful to listen as we read each and every word on the plaques and signs. He soaked it all up like a sponge.

As visitors enter the exhibition, they encounter the scene for a dramatic historic event that inspired Frances Scott Key to pen the Star-Spangled Banner: the Battle of Baltimore during the War of 1812, when this young nation survived an assault by the British.

As we rounded the corner at the top of the ramp, his face bore the same expression that it has on the past few Christmas mornings. He was truly in awe. He knelt down and looked at the flag for what seemed like ten minutes. He carefully listened as the museum worker explained about the missing pieces from the fly end of the flag and the missing star that is rumored to have been buried with Abraham Lincoln.

The-Star-Spangled Banner at the National Museum of American History

He was rather apprehensive about leaving the area, and became quite upset that the “Star-Spangled Banner” is not being played in the exhibit. The very last monitor of the exhibit plays a mega-mix of various artists singing the anthem, but it changes keys so often it is somewhat unrecognizable.

Throughout our stay in D.C., Evan would periodically get out the Smithsonian guidebook and turn to the pages where the flag was pictured and review all of the details that he had gleaned from his time at the museum. It was quite touching.

Fast forward to today, our final day in D.C. We visited the Lincoln Memorial and the Vietnam Wall to begin the day. Then, we took a taxi to the Museum of American History to see a few of the major things (i.e., First Ladies exhibit, transportation exhibit, Spark Lab, Julia Child’s Kitchen) that we had missed on our first visit. When we noticed that our time was running out, Sally asked the boys if there was anything else that they wanted to see before we headed to Union Station to catch the train.

Isaac and Ian wanted to see one of the art museums and Evan wanted to see the flag just one more time. Sally decided to take the older boys to the sculpture gardens, and Evan and I were left to see the Banner one more time.

As we entered the exhibit, Evan carefully reminded me of what each item on display represented—the bombs, the rockets, the fort, etc. As we rounded the corner at the top of the ramp, it was clear that this was a very special place to Evan. He walked up to the glass and again knelt down. He told me all about the missing parts that had been given to the soldiers as souvenirs and the missing fifteenth star. Then he leaned next to me and said, “Dad, I know if I could just get inside that glass, I could hear the song in there.” I got choked up. I was so proud to be his dad at that moment, and so thankful that he loves our country, its flag, and its anthem.

The first stanza of the national anthem is projected prominently on the wall above the Star-Spangled Banner.

I hated to leave that moment, but we had to go meet the others. As we walked out of the museum, I told Evan that I sure was going to miss being in DC, but that I was sure that we’d return in a few years.

“What are you gonna miss, Evan?” I asked, already knowing what his response would be.
“Well Dad,” he replied, “I guess, I am gonna miss that dang Star-Spangled Banner.”

On the train from DC to Baltimore, we read and reread the paragraphs about the flag that inspired our national anthem. And when we touched down in Huntsville, we had to stop in the middle of the concourse to dig out the book again.

Evan, I know that not many Americans today feel as passionate about the flag as you do right now, but I hope that, unlike the stripes on that “Star-Spangled Banner” behind the glass, your patriotic spirit will never fade…

Evan at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial

Editor’s Note: We were so touched by Evan’s story that we sent him a copy of our book, The Star-Spangled Banner: The Making of an American Icon. Have you ever had an amazing experience in a museum exhibit? Did you share your story with the institution? Tell us in the comments below!

"The Wonderful World of William Steinway"

William Steinway, 1882. Photograph by Carl Borntraeger, Wiesbaden, Germany. Courtesy of Henry Z. Steinway Archive.

Editor’s note: In December 2010, Anna Karvellas and her team launched the William Steinway Diary Web site, the first online edition of all 2,500 pages of Steinway’s diary written during one of the most dynamic periods in American history. The related exhibition, A Gateway to the 19th Century: The William Steinway Diary: 1861–1896, is on view in the museum’s Albert H. Small Documents Gallery through April 8, 2011.

“Dear Ms. Karvellas—Welcome to the wonderful world of William Steinway,” the letter began . . .

I was a few weeks into my position as Managing Editor of the William Steinway Diary Project, for which I had left my rent-stabilized apartment, something that any New Yorker knows signified the seriousness of my intent. 30-83 29th Street, third floor—where it began, when I moved to Astoria in 1997 and first began to think about its past.

“No matter how long you have been here, you are a New Yorker the first time you say, That used to be Munsey’s, or That used to be the Tic Toc Lounge,” Colson Whitehead wrote in The Colossus of New York (2003). “You are a New Yorker when what was there before is more real and solid than what is here now.”

Map of Steinway & Sons holdings in Astoria (at that time part of Long Island City), circa 1874. From J. M. Kelsey’s History of Long Island City, N.Y., 1896. Courtesy of Henry Z. Steinway Archive.

Those who have spent time in New York will recognize the wisdom of Whitehead’s words, as I did, as I walked—literally walked—each block of Astoria, past St. George’s old stones, down 12th Street, along Welling Court, towards the Riker place. Astoria vibrated: in the dignity of the wood and granite houses that stood amid newer construction, in the robust wisteria climbing up the Steinway Mansion’s worn columns, in the competing whirlpools of still-treacherous Hell Gate as it moved towards the Long Island Sound. Astoria resonated, especially to me, to those listening for the pulse of William Steinway’s factory, his carefully graded streets, and his brick housing continuing to shelter lives new to this country. Its beat kept time so completely with my heart that it now feels inevitable that I would soon begin researching Astoria and William Steinway’s lasting imprint upon it.

Astoria, NY. (Left) Steinway Mansion exterior, 2000. Photograph by Anna Karvellas. (Right) William Steinway and his family at the Steinway Mansion, 1881. Photographer unknown. Courtesy of Henry Z. Steinway Archive.

“You realize the irony: You are leaving Astoria to write about it,” said my friend Christine, as I packed for the move. Sometimes, though, things feel meant to be, as I would later tell the author of the “World of William Steinway” letter: William’s grandson and Diary donor Henry Ziegler Steinway. He, too, had great affection for Astoria, as I quickly learned, and his vivid stories remain highlights of my 3½ years with the Diary Project. My question about Steinway & Sons’ relationship with the nearby Sohmer Piano firm, for example, produced an anecdote about regular commutes from Manhattan to Astoria with the elderly Sohmer. Besides learning just how narrow the Queensboro Bridge trolleys really were, the story provided a lasting image of the Steinway and Sohmer scions parting ways on the far side of the East River, each continuing on to his respective family piano factory.

It’s impossible to fully convey just how thrilling it was to experience Steinway Hall and the Steinway archives with Henry, to hear his straight-talk on things historic and otherwise, including how one mustered the courage to ride the Parachute Jump at the 1939 World’s Fair. His archives were remarkable (in the middle of the parachute story, he turned, leaned to pull open a metal file cabinet, and produced the ticket). On that trip alone, Dena Adams, Hugh Talman, Cynthia Adams Hoover, and I were able to scan more than 200 images, including rare family photographs, maps, and advertising materials such as the Illustrated Pamphlet on the Founding and Development of Steinway, N. Y. that conflated the development of the Steinway part of Astoria with the greater story of Steinway & Sons.

There are some people in life who leave you forever better for having encountered them, no matter how brief or long the time shared; people who enrich your outlook, metaphorically speak your language, and share with you an enthusiasm or mission. Henry Ziegler Steinway was such a person in my life—one of several who came to me through Astoria and the “Wonderful World of William Steinway.”

Anna Karvellas and Henry Ziegler Steinway at Steinway Hall, 2008. Photograph by Hugh Talman.

I invite visitors to the Web site and exhibition to find their own reverberations in the Steinway story. Do you have a connection to the Astoria section of Queens or the Steinway & Sons piano factory? Which aspects of Astoria history most resonate with you?

Anna Karvellas is the Managing Editor of the William Steinway Diary Project at the National Museum of American History.