Time to Define

So we left off on Friday talking about living history and riffing off the “realness” of sites and artifacts that must be constantly replaced to be maintained. It’s a facet of museum work that I hadn't dedicated much thought to in the past, but it’s fertile ground for discussion.

While I've argued a few times that there is an inherent value in an original versus a copy, I haven't ever taken into account the fact that some of those “originals” are in fact, by some definitions, copies. Okay, I mentioned it in passing regarding Ford’s Theater, but only to support the idea that the contagion of that location was the key to the rebuilt theater not being terribly grotesque. And honestly, I would classify a theater rebuilt on the same site much differently than a ship rebuilt plank by plank. I think that it's important in this discussion that we differentiate between "replicas" and "restoration".  Frankly, it's something I should have done much earlier in this discussion.

For my purposes, I'm considering a "replica" to be something that is built or created from scratch from new materials to closely resemble an object, either because the original is too fragile, rare, expensive, or otherwise unfeasible (is that a word?) to display.  A replica may be made with period tools or with period materials, but it is a modern creation.  For me, Ford's Theater as it stands now is a replica - it is built to mimic the original interior of the same building, but it's made with modern materials.  The same thing stands for replica skeletons and hands-on models that mimic actual artifacts.

A restoration, on the other hand, is what I would consider the USS Constitution - new materials and tools (or new materials and old tools, old materials and new tools, etc) are used to repair an existing historic artifact.  Now, this does get a bit tricky, as Howard Manfield touches on in that chapter excerpt, because at some point in a long restoration, the original materials used to create the object will be wholly replaced by the newer elements meant to maintain it.  So does an item that has been repeatedly restored like that remain a restored item?  Or does the act of constant replacement turn an original artifact into a replica of itself?

I'm sure that Manfield will discuss this at greater length in The Same Ax, Twice, and since the copy I put on hold just arrived at my local library I will look forward to getting his thoughts and reasoning.  For my part, I would argue that an original artifact, no matter how repaired or replaced can never become a replica (and that's exactly why I added the key phrase "from scratch" in my definition above).  A heavily repaired object is certainly different than one in pristine* condition, but the repairs don't change it's inherent being.  In fact, based on my thoughts from last week, I'm inclined to say that the repairs and restorations simply add to the story of the object.  (Which ties back to my pet contagion theory in a way - do the restorations add value, in the sense that the object now tells a deeper story about several different eras, or do they remove value in the sense that the object has been altered?  I suspect the answer is different for different objects.)

I'm off to spend the weekend reading about restorations (okay, and maybe also about teenaged necromancers, because I read Lish McBride's first book to see if my nephew would like it and now I really need to know what happens next), and I look forward to digger even deeper into this topic next week.




*I vividly remember the day (January 23, 2007, btw) that I learned that the actual for-real definition of "pristine" is "belonging to the earliest state or period, original." I had always thought it meant "clean", but that's the second variation of the second definition! The first definition makes pristine a work much more applicable to museums and artifacts than the second.
[Why yes, I was an English major, why do you ask?]

Living History

**Uh, I have no idea why my template is suddenly being so weird and highlighting things and replace fonts with Comic Sans.  It's important that you know that I would never use Comic Sans, and that I'll be tinkering with my formatting over the weekend to get everything shipshape.  (Which will be a lot punnier once you read the post below...)**

“Museums are filled with cases of tools that no one knows how to use anymore. A repaired ax is a living tradition.”

--The Same Ax, Twice by Howard Manfield  [First chapter available online]

photo by Mark Wilson, Boston Globe

After diving down a rabbit hole that I opened by reading this post on Paul Orselli's ExhibiTricks blog (Oh, I wish I could have gone to AAM this year!), I ended up at an online copy of the first chapter of Howard Manfield’s  book, The Same Ax, Twice.  Having just reserved my library’s copy of the full book, I only have this chapter to work off of, but it’s given me a lot of food for thought.  (As has Paul Orselli’s post on the "Is it Real?" workshop – I’m eagerly awaiting the day the audio copy of that session is available for purchase online because holy schmoly is that right up my alley or what?)

The quote at the top of this page spins off from an old joke Manfield relates earlier in the chapter – an anecdote in which a farmer claims that he’s had the same axe his whole life, and has only replaced the handle three times and the head twice.  (ba-dum-ching!) You've probably seen some variation of that before, but Manfield uses this old saw as a sort of call to arms for restoration.  Not just the restoration in the sense of fixing something and putting it in a case, but the living restoration of tall ships and heritage sites:  the restoration of an axe that’s used every day.

Please go read the chapter.  It’s insightful and deeply poetic, and it brings up a point that I had not thought about before – that the act of preserving something big, like a manor house or a wooden ship is also the act of preserving the skills needed to create and repair that same thing.  In a world of power tools and motorboats, it means something to repair and rig a ship by hand.  We can put artifacts in cases to preserve them, but doing that removes them from hands that could use those artifacts and contributes to the death of certain skills. It gives me a new vantage point on the idea of living history.  It’s not just pleasant volunteers in hoop skirts churning butter and gamely pretending they don't know what your iPhone is – it’s real people working hard to remember not just how things were, but how we used to do them.

Now, I still think that it's vitally important to preserve the objects of our past. But it's worth thinking about ways in which we can preserve both the tool and the skills needed to operate it.

We'll pick up on next week with another spin on the same idea - preserving an artifact vs. preserving a way of life, and whether a replica that can be handled can be more valuable than an original that's locked away.  Enjoy your long weekend!

Replicas

Chernobyl and contagion thinking have gotten me thinking about replicas. [ed note:...Every time I type that word I almost type "replicants" instead, which would make this a very different kind of blog indeed.] Both Nemeroff the psychologist and Sobolev the Chernobyl survivor make the point that original objects have a power that replicas don't.  Whether it's your grandmother's ring or radioactive graphite, there's something lost when a copy is made.  But how does that thinking work in museums, where originals are so rare and sometimes so fragile?

As I said yesterday, I agree with the general idea that there is a difference between the real thing and a copy--and I think there are few who would argue that.  But in the world of museums, originals aren't always an option...and they might not always be the best option, even when they are available.  In Chicago's Field Museum of Natural History there is an extensive Hall of Plants.  It's full of beautiful specimens of plants and flowers from across the globe, from delicate blossoms to tall trees.  The one thing each of these has in common is that they're all fake.  Not fake like silk flowers you buy at the dollar store, but fake like a counterfeit painting that is almost indistinguishable from the original.  The leaves of each plant are made of paraffin cast in a plaster mold, and each plaster mold was cast from a real individual leaf.  The flowers are made largely from glass, but handled so dextrously that you'd never know it hadn't grown and bloomed in that case.  The "real" plants long ago withered, and are held in storage in the herbarium, but these "fakes" that were so lovingly created keep these stunning organisms--some of them now extinct or extremely rare--alive to the visiting public.

Of course, the Field Museum has more famous replicas than the Hall of Plants.  SUE, the largest, most complete T.rex ever found makes its home at the Field, and is the star attraction to many visitors.  What many don't realize at first glance is that the dinosaur's toothy grin is fake, the whole skull a replica.  The Field Museum has the real skull on display on the balcony above the rest of the fossil, but its weight makes it impossible to mount on the armature.  Even if it could be mounted, the position in which it fossilized--the lower jaw smashed into the upper part of the skull and the whole thing skewed sideways--wouldn't make sense to the average visitor.  In this case the replica skull, cast carefully from the real thing, makes the SUE fossil a more accurate and complete view of what the dinosaur would have been like in life than if the Field had somehow been able to use the true skull.

And really, neither of these examples begins to tough on how replicas make rare artifacts more accessible to the public which is another valid argument in their defense.  Not viable for scientific study, casts and replicas of everything from fossils to pueblos make artifacts that would otherwise be out of their reach available to museum-goers all over the world.  Sure, it lacks that amazing little frisson of knowing that you're looking at the real thing--that's why touring shows with the actual artifacts from Tut's tomb will always be blockbusters while the replicas in the Ancient Egypt exhibit are overlooked--but the exposure has to count for something.

...So I'm still torn on this whole topic.  On the one hand, I don't want you to hold up any old pillow and pretend it's the one Lincoln's head lay on as he died.  On the other hand, a full-scale traveling replica of SUE is going to the Dominican Republic next spring, and it may be just the thing to inspire a whole generation of Dominican scientists-to-be who would never be able to see the real deal in Chicago.

I'd love to hear what others out there think!  What's your opinion?  Are replicas important tools or pointless fakes?  (Or, more likely, something in between?)

Contagion Thinking as a Basis for Museums

Last week I caught an interesting story about water reclaimation on NPR's Morning Edition.  The gist of the story is that even when they're assured that sewage has been fully cleaned, most people will not want to drink the treated water--the clean product is too associated with its dirty beginnings in their minds.  You can listen to the full story here, but the part that interested me the most is excerpted here from the transcript on Morning Edition's website:

"Carol Nemeroff is one of the psychologists Haddad recruited to help him with his research. She works at the University of Southern Maine and studies psychological contagion. The term refers to the habit we all have of thinking — consciously or not — that once something has had contact with another thing, their parts are in some way joined.'It's a very broad feature of human thinking,' Nemeroff explains. 'Everywhere we look, you can see contagion thinking.'  Contagion thinking isn't always negative. Often, we think it is some essence of goodness that has somehow been transmitted to an object — think of a holy relic or a piece of family jewelry. Nemeroff offers one example: 'If I have my grandmother's ring versus an exact replica of my grandmother's ring, my grandmother's ring is actually better because she was in contact with it — she wore it. So we act like objects — their history is part of the object.'"

The bedroom in Petersen House where Lincoln died

And really isn't this thinking what's behind any historical museum?  The Petersen House in DC is like any other late 19th-century home...except that Abraham Lincoln died there.  The pillow that's encased in plexiglass there is not different from any other pillow, except for a connection to Lincoln that is almost completely intangible.   But even as I type that, I feel differently--that's the pillow that Abraham Lincoln died on.  No other pillow that was in that house on April 14th, 1865 matters, but that particular piece of bedding is now a piece of history, thanks to its proximity.  Other pillows from that house don't matter, and a replica wouldn't carry the same weight.

Even Ford's Theater is an example of Dr Nemeroff's contagion thinking, in a more roundabout manner.  The original theater was converted to office space and store house for decades, and all the furnishings from Lincoln's day were removed.  What visitors see now is a replica of the original theater that reopened in 1968, not the actual theater where Lincoln was shot.  If someone were to build that same replica even a block away, it would be a chintzy recreation of a morbid slice of American history.  But to rebuild it in the place where Lincoln actually died...well, that's just preserving history.

While I can stand back objectively from the waste water discussion in the original article and assert that the cleaned water is totally separate from it's origins, I can't say the same thing for the artifacts in the museums I love.  The objects we have that have touched history--whether it's a grandmother's ring of a president's pillow--are important, in ways that it is sometimes hard to define.