American History Museum Blog

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.

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.

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American History Museum Blog

Editor’s note; This post is one of a series exploring the 10th anniversary of September 11. Learn about the museum’s commemoration.

Many Americans remember Tuesday, September 11, 2001 as horrific. Nearly 3,000 people died, others were injured, and many had to run for their lives. Most Americans, however, experienced September 11 from a safe distance. Even for those (like me) who were not directly touched by death or injury, the trauma was significant.

I was in a staff meeting when American Airlines flight 77 slammed into the Pentagon. Stunned, I went to my office and watched the TV, dumbfounded, as the World Trade Center Towers collapsed. Watching the events in New York unfold on television while at the same time seeing smoke rising from the Pentagon through a window made it all feel like a surreal nightmare. Undeniably it was happening.

Bystanders stand in shock outside the World Trade Center.

A man watches the crash at the Pentagon.

On Wednesday, I came back to work. I am a museum curator, so I immediately began thinking about what should be preserved—that’s what we do. I made a list and shared it with others, who added their suggestions. But one of my colleagues looked at the list and asked: If you lived in Sarajevo and the date was June 24, 1914, what would you collect? Chagrined, I realized that on the day after Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated, it would have been hard to predict the extent of WWI and collect its iconic objects. Similarly on September 12, 2001, it was not clear what would come next.

Two days later a large group of curators got together to discuss what to do; opinions differed widely. Some wanted to quickly assemble teams to descend on the three sites and gather ephemeral evidence of the terrorist attacks. Some were horrified by the death and destruction (we usually document high points in history) and thought we should wait ten or twenty years until it was clear what was significant. Others thought we should collect September 11 as we collect any topic—by curatorial specialty.

A month later, Jim Gardner (then Associate Director for Curatorial Affairs) looked around and saw that very little had been collected. He asked a group of three curators—Bill Yeingst, David Shayt, and me—to create a foundation collection around September 11. We drew up a plan: collect material which led up to the attack, artifacts of the attack itself, and objects documenting the rescue and clean-up. We decided not to collect the memorialization aspects. Bill focused on the Pentagon, David on New York, and I concentrated on the United Airlines Flight 93 crash site in Shankesville, Pennsylvania. In the end we never collected materials which might give insight into the events leading up to the September 11 attacks. We did a good job of documenting the attack itself and the clean-up.

Scorched eagle finial from an office flagpole, recovered from the wreckage at the Pentagon.

There is no magic formula for collecting museum objects, but it takes a certain kind of person to do the job. Collecting curators like to listen to stories, are willing to ask strangers for precious objects, and are doggedly persistent. One of our most effective tools for collecting was reading the newspaper. David read a story in The New York Times about a window washer named Jan Demczur. Trapped between floors on an elevator in the North Tower, Jan used his squeegee to pry open the door and cut through numerous layers of sheet rock and flee to safety. After numerous phone calls, David found Jan and convinced him to donate his uniform and dust covered squeegee.

Jan Demczur, a window washer at the World Trade Center, used this brass Ettore Corp. squeegee handle to escape from an elevator on September 11.

We called upon old contacts to find opportunities to collect. Curator Jennifer Jones worked with the 311th Quartermaster Company Mortuary Affairs. In one of the most disturbing moments of the collecting initiative, Jennifer, Bill, and I spent an afternoon in a dark, claustrophobic 19th century stable at Fort Myer sorting through the contents of red bio-hazard bags looking for icons of the attack. This was not like any collecting trip I had ever experienced.

One of the longest-lasting efforts was the quest for artifacts from Flight 93. After several years of discussions with company representatives and a myriad of attorneys, we finally gained access to the wreckage of the plane. When we arrived at the small airport where the material was stored, we found the airplane wreckage was in 20’ long ocean-going shipping containers. When the doors were opened we saw the debris was in amazingly small pieces. David worked the front of the piles while I climbed into the container, wriggling over the top of the pile, trying not to get cut by the sharp fragments of fuselage. In the near dark I looked for artifacts with a flashlight and fought back fears about what I might accidentally encounter. The wreckage smelled of jet fuel, moldy cloth, and other strange odors. This was not an assignment for anyone afraid of the dark. At the end of day, reeking of sweat and airplane wreckage, we threw away our work clothes before flying home.

Wreckage from Flight 93

Curator Peter Liebhold looking for artifacts to collect

Curator David Shayt with an object that is now part of the museum’s collections

Collecting often requires archival research. Bill and I spent many days going through thousands of photos maintained by the FBI. From crime scene images to haunting photos shot by participants who did not survive, the pictures put a human face on the September 11 attacks. Viewing the images made the experience far more personal. What I most desperately try to forget are things I saw in the photographs.

We were very driven yet remained respectful. We never directly contacted the relatives of someone killed—we always went through intermediaries so families could easily refuse our requests. Many of our conversations with participants and donors were hours long and often included a lot of crying—us included. It is difficult dealing with death and frankly none of us were prepared for the task. At times each one of us was ready to throw in the towel but the support and pressure of the others kept us going.

Like soldiers and their war stories, curators don’t often talk about the experience of collecting. I am proud of our efforts collecting artifacts related to September 11. It is an important piece of history and should be preserved.

Peter Liebhold is Chair and Curator of the Division of Work and Industry at the National Museum of American History.

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American History Museum Blog

O Say Can You See? window.fbAsyncInit = function() { FB.init( { apiKey: 'a279adbe87e2b3c505e777af99a5260d', xfbml: true } );};( function() { var e = document.createElement( 'script' ); e.async = true; e.src = document.location.protocol + '//connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js'; document.getElementById( 'fb-root' ).appendChild( e );} )();O Say Can You See?"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.HomeArchivesAuthorsAboutJuly 27, 2011The public memory of September 11

Editor's Note: This is the first in a series of weekly blog posts exploring the 10th anniversary of September 11. Learn about the museum's commemoration plans.

A unique forum took place last night at the National Building Museum. "The Public Memory of September 11" offered engaging and often riveting presentations on designing and building the three major memorials to the people who died in New York, Pennsylvania, and Washington, D.C., in the tragic attacks on September 11, 2001. The panel for the forum included Alice Greenwald, Executive Vice President for Programs at the National September 11 Memorial & Museum; Jeff Reinbold, Site Manager for the Flight 93 National Memorial; and Jim Laychak, President of the Pentagon Memorial Fund. As the 10th anniversary of that dramatic day approaches, I thought it was important to bring together, for the first time, the people who have provided leadership in creating these memorials. They more than fulfilled my expectations.

Construction image of the National September 11 Memorial & Museum. Photo by Joel Woolhead.

Unlike other anniversaries in American history we are observing this year (the Civil War, for example), we are not nostalgic about September 11. Yet, even before the dust had settled and the grim task of investigating the events of that day had been completed, there was a public consensus that we should memorialize the people who died on that day. That consensus was fragile, however, and a vigorous public debate followed that continues today. A wide range of questions emerged during the planning and building of these memorials:

Where should we build these memorials?How should we select the design?What story will we tell?What information should we include or leave out?

Landscape of the Flight 93 National Memorial. Photo by Chuck Wagner.

The answers to these questions and many others reveal much about our own times—our aesthetics, our politics, and our language. The process of building memorials to September 11 also forces us to consider the role of religion and spirituality. In creating memorials to the victims of the September 11 attacks, we are engaged in what sociologist Janet Jacobs describes as a process of transforming sites of violence and death into sacred ground. In a secular society that prides itself on tolerance and diversity, this is a profound challenge, made even more difficult when we are continuously reminded—on September 11, 2001 and this past week in Norway, for example—of the violence and death that takes place in the name of religion.

At the conclusion of the forum, Alice Greenwald made a distinction between a memorial and a museum. While the memorial will honor the dead, the museum must tell a story about what happened and why. As a historian, I am intrigued by the "why" question. Why did this happen? Why did all these people die? These questions arise at critical moments in our history. At Gettysburg, Abraham Lincoln transformed the meaning of the Civil War from a conflict to preserve the Union to one that would fulfill the promise of the Declaration of Independence and that the carnage of war would bring about "a new birth of freedom."

The Pentagon Memorial. Courtesy of the Pentagon Memorial.

Less famously but equally profound was the conversation I witnessed between a father and his young son near Ground Zero at the New York Fire Department Memorial at the firehouse of Engine Company 10, Ladder Company 10. The memorial is a large bronze bas relief mural that honors the 343 firefighters who died on September 11. It graphically illustrates the scene as they rush into the burning towers of the World Trade Center. The little boy asked his father to explain what was happening in the scene, and the father tried to recreate the horrific events of that day. The boy was patient but persistent.

"Why are the buildings on fire?"

"Because some men flew planes into them."

"Why did they do that?"

"Because they were very angry."

"Why were they so angry?"

I could sense the father's growing frustration at this point, but I could not hear his response. Or if he responded at all.

We all share that frustration of trying to make sense of history, explaining the causes of events that often defy explanation. And we must try to understand not only the causes but the consequences of major turning points in our history. Certainly, September 11, 2001 is one of those turning points.

Remembering September 11 and honoring those who died is vitally important. It is equally important that we try to understand the meaning of that day and how it continues to shape our lives and our times.

Brent D. Glass is the Elizabeth MacMillan Director of the National Museum of American History.

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July 25, 2011Theater Preview: "Time Trial of John Brown" and "Am I a Pirate?"

When you read a textbook, glance at a grainy photograph of a legendary historical figure, or gaze at an artifact locked behind a protective wall of glass, it's sometimes easy to feel as though history is over there and not here, a distant and removed past that lacks tactility in the present.

Here at the museum, we're always looking for ways to close this gap between our visitors and American history—and the historical theater program, called History Alive!, is likely the most visible result of this mission. On any given day, you can see a different show in operation about every hour and a half in different quarters of the building.

“Time Trial of John Brown”

The educational theater program, which began in late 2008, marries the academic side of museum studies and American history with the artistic and performative nature of theater production to get people talking about history. Our theater program recently unveiled two new programs: "Time Trial of John Brown" and "Am I a Pirate?" In the former, visitors serve as jurors in a short hearing for abolitionist John Brown, who advocated violence to combat slavery during the early 1800s and led armed insurrections that would lead to his execution. Jurors have the opportunity to debate the historical legacy of Brown and how he should be remembered. "Am I a Pirate?" discusses piracy and privateering in the Americas from the early 18th century to the early 19th century, and features shanties from maritime history.

“Am I a Pirate”?

Along with the two new shows, the museum will continue to present "Join the Student Sit-Ins" and "Broad Stripes and Bright Stars." The first, one of our most popular theater programs, transports visitors to 1960 just after four college students began a protest against racial segregation at the Greensboro Lunch Counter.

The program involves audience members by re-creating a sit-in training session based on a written manual from the 1960s and invites them to consider the ordinary Americans who put themselves on the line to change the nation during the Civil Rights Movement. In the second program, Mary Pickersgill, who sewed the flag that inspired the Star-Spangled Banner, discusses life during the War of 1812 and the history behind the flag.

"Join the Student Sit-Ins"

The museum uses theater to create a safe space in which to discuss historical topics that may be difficult to broach otherwise. Interactive theater has the ability to suspend disbelief and transport viewers into a different place and time in American history; we hope the audience encounters history in a dynamic and intimate manner, perhaps even gaining an emotional connection with an historical figure or a time period.

For those of you interested in viewing any of the shows, below is a quick round-up of the different programs and their time, date, and place:

Join the Student Sit-Ins: Thursday-Monday at 11:30 a.m., 1:30 p.m., 3:00 p.m., 4:30 p.m. at Greensboro Lunch Counter, 2nd floor.

Broad Stripes and Bright Stars: Sunday-Wednesday at 10:30 a.m., 12:30 p.m., 2:00 p.m., 3:30 p.m. in Flag Hall, 2nd floor center.

Time Trial of John Brown: Tuesday-Saturday at 11:00 a.m., 1:00 p.m., 2:30 p.m., 4:00 p.m. in Price of Freedom theater, 3rd floor.

Am I a Pirate?: Tuesday-Thursday at 11:30 a.m., 2:00 p.m. in the On the Water exhibition, 1st floor.

Please check the website for schedule updates and changes.

Esther I. Yi is a Fellow in the New Media Department at the National Museum of American History.

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July 22, 2011One word: Plastics

As you wander through a museum, do you ever wonder about the story behind a collection or object? How did something so intriguing or beautiful ever come into a donor's possession? Why did the donor part with it? These stories can be surprising, convoluted, and, on occasion, even incredible. If you're lucky enough to see the display of celluloid on the first floor of the museum, you'll see a collection with a particularly interesting story.

Celluloid game pieces.

Dadie and Norman Perlov, long-time residents of New York City, have always had the "collecting bug." Early in their life together, they acquired artifacts made of iron, but the objects tended to be large in size and began to overwhelm the apartment, which was soon being shared by their three young daughters. This prompted Dadie to look for an inexpensive collectible that could be handled by and would be of interest to her children. During the 1960s, she settled on celluloid, a new material developed by American inventor John Wesley Hyatt in 1869.

Considered the first semi-synthetic plastic, celluloid was invented to replace ivory in billiard balls, but it proved unsuitable for the purpose. This sent its inventor to look for other applications. Because celluloid could be made to imitate expensive or rare materials—such as ivory, tortoiseshell, and mother-of-pearl—it was soon employed in the manufacture of fancy goods affordable for the growing middle class. As celluloid became more plentiful and inexpensive, its applications expanded, and by the 1880s, it was everywhere. To provide just a few examples, it was used to make post cards, game pieces, toys, advertising novelties and souvenirs, jewelry, knitting needles, straight razor handles, and  imitation linen collars and cuffs. (To learn more about celluloid and other historical plastics, check out the Syracuse University Library Special Collections Research Center.)

Celluloid brooches and pins.

It turns out that Dadie made an excellent choice of material. Daughters Nancy, Jane, and Amy enthusiastically joined their parents on collecting trips, visiting flea markets, antique stores, and rummage sales in the United States and abroad. Dealers and store owners came to know Dadie and her daughters, and would set aside celluloid items to display later for the Perlovs. By the 1970s and 1980s, celluoid-collecting had become an obsession, fueled by the Perlovs' increasing knowledge of the material's history and their appreciation of celluloid's impact on society in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. (An interesting aside: one of the books they read was Pioneer Plastic: The Making and Selling of Celluloid [1983] by Robert Friedel, who began working on the book while he was a Fellow at the National Museum of American History.)

Dadie and Norman Perlov in front of the celluloid exhibit at the museum.

By the time the Perlovs stopped amassing celluloid in the late 1980s, the collection numbered 7,500 pieces. This is where the National Museum of American History comes in. Since her girls were grown and had families of their own, Dadie decided it was time to downsize her collection. She wanted to share it with the American people, so who better to give it to than the Smithsonian Institution!

In 2006 I received a letter from Dadie, offering her marvelous celluloid collection to the museum. I told her I'd be happy to travel to New York City to take a look at the collection, and my colleague Eric Jentsch and I wound up making three trips over the course of several months. During our second trip, we spent three days in the Perlov apartment. We took over the living room, unpacking box after box so we could examine, photograph, and list every item.

The author in the Perlovs' apartment, about to unwrap celluloid artifacts for examination.

Celluloid objects spread out on a table in the Perlovs’ living room.

In the end, we collected 1,755 pieces. You might ask how we selected fewer than 2,000 objects out of over 7,000. Well, it certainly wasn't easy! We tried to collect examples of each type of artifact, but in the case of the post cards and advertising materials, we collected all the pieces that were available and in good condition. I probably shouldn't admit this, but once I was there and looking at all of the wonderful objects, I stopped thinking about whether I had enough storage space—I just figured I'd find the space afterward, and luckily, I did.

Ann Seeger is Curator of Chemistry in the Division of Medicine and Science at the National Museum of American History.

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July 21, 2011Speaking out about HIV/AIDS, one button at a time

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.

—

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.

Posted at 09:43 AM in Musings, Now on View | Permalink|Comments (0)

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July 20, 2011Denis Leary and Peter Tolan gift the museum with objects from "Rescue Me" set

As longtime players in the entertainment business and the two masterminds behind the critically acclaimed television series Rescue Me, Denis Leary and Peter Tolan are no strangers to accolades and honors. Here's a taste: the pair earned an Emmy nomination for co-writing Rescue Me, in addition to individual nominations—Leary for his portrayal of a dyspeptic New York City firefighter, and Tolan for his directing. During a special ceremony last week at the National Museum of American History, however, Leary and Tolan found themselves giving—instead of getting—in honor of their work.

Peter Tolan (left) and Denis Leary (center) sign the deed of gift at a special ceremony in the museum last week.

The co-creators of Rescue Me stood before the gathered guests to sign the deed of gift officially transferring to the museum objects from the set of the show: the firefighter costume worn by Leary, firefighter helmets worn by the cast, photographs from the firehouse set, and firefighting tools, including an axe, a carbon monoxide detector, and Halligan bars. (Before signing the documents, Leary needed some reassurance: "This is just donating stuff, not my kidneys, right?" he asked.)

Firefighter costume worn by Denis Leary.

"I do find that the greatest honors are the ones that are the most unexpected and the ones that come without any cash gift or an actual award, or even a small certificate—which, apparently, isn't going to happen either," Tolan said in jest. "This is a great honor to us, and it really did turn my head. I'm actually a little speechless—other than the jokes."

Rescue Me, which premiered in July 2004 and will close its seven-season run this September, follows the personal and professional lives of a group of New York City firefighters working in Ladder 62 / Engine 99. The show is notable for its melding of drama and comedy, a combination that Leary said reflected the experiences of real firefighters who use humor to help overcome the turbulent emotions that attend the job. The focus of the show is the tortured Tommy Gavin (played by Leary), a veteran firefighter haunted by the loss of his cousin, who died while responding to the September 11, 2001 attacks.

Photos, firefighter helmets, and firefighting tools on display at the ceremony.

Script from the Rescue Me set on display at the ceremony.

In December 2001, Congress officially designated our museum as the national repository for collections related to September 11. Over the years, the collecting efforts have expanded from the attacks and recovery endeavors, to the nation's response to the events—even if that means the creation of a fictional television series. The Rescue Me acquisitions, which will join the popular culture history collections in the Division of Culture and Arts, represent the pivotal role played by popular culture in remembering and shaping the country's most significant moments.

"Some people raise flags, others made banners, still more sent cards and volunteered their services to the public," said Cedric Yeh, the Deputy Chair and Associate Chair of the Division of Armed Forces History, about the aftermath of September 11. "Denis and Peter chose to create a TV series, one that is consistently recognized for its accurate portrayal of a post-9/11 world amongst the firefighters of New York City."

Lenny Clarke (left), an actor on Rescue Me, Denis Leary (center), and Peter Tolan (right) after the ceremony.

After facing the loss of his cousin and friend in a fire, Leary created the Leary Firefighters Foundation in 2000 to provide fire departments with funding and resources. His close involvement with fire departments in the Worcester, Boston, and New York City areas led to the development of Rescue Me. During last week's ceremony, Leary came to the podium and used the opportunity to recognize, by name, the individual firefighters that he has met and worked with over the years. "I like to mention firefighters because this show is about them," he said. "When people walk into this museum and they see this bunker gear, especially kids, I hope that it reminds them of how great these guys are and what they do."

The museum will be marking the 10th anniversary of September 11 with a series of events and a special display, September 11: Remembrance and Reflection, on view from September 3 to 11, daily from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m.

Esther I. Yi is a Fellow in the New Media Department at the National Museum of American History.

Posted at 09:51 AM in From the Collections | Permalink|Comments (1)

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