Applied History

I’m not exactly sure what it was, but the second part of this book didn’t quite grab my attention like the first half. The examples didn’t seem as diverse as in the first half, perhaps since they were all surrounding the theme of artists in public history, and maybe because it didn’t enter discussions of agency, shared authority, and the role of visitors like the first half. I thought they kind of beat a dead horse in showing how the two fields of art and history could converge, but that is just my opinion.

I thought the piece on community performance in West Philadelphia did a good job at exploring issues of power in embarking on a project in a disadvantaged community. I liked how Yalowitz stressed his and the students’ role of being led by community members, acting as listeners and learners, then offering their skills to assist the residents in telling their story. This is an important aspect of the community-collaboration model, especially when working in historically oppressed communities. It was interesting to consider the ways that the project itself could be at danger of repeating institutional racism in the way it was carried out.

Like others, I have been interested in StoryCorps for a while now so it is interesting to see representations from advocates and critics of their work, and the different spheres it can be evaluated in: history or…not history. I think it is very possible to appreciate it for what it is, not for by-the-book oral history and its traditional uses, but for “inculcating history-mindedness.” It encourages broader audiences to consider the stories and hidden pasts of everyday people, and appreciate the every-man role in making history. These aren’t groundbreaking reflections, just reminders that arise from considering the subject in the readings.

Perhaps the most intriguing example of art in public history for me was Dennis Sever’s House. House museums are such a ubiquitous part of the American historical landscape, from the really mundane to the extraordinary, so it was interesting to consider it in a sort of upside down approach. I think I might prefer the absence of a docent, though it would be unsettling not to have any reference or interpretive material. I like the idea of having it appear lived-in, as a snapshot of a specific time in a way that comes to life. Sever’s house is troubling for historians in that it is more of an art installation than a typical historical site, with anachronistic features arranged throughout. I think it is both satisfying and troubling in the same vein that historical fiction is to academics; it is “real” enough to be immersed in it, but chock-full of historical inaccuracies that in some ways serve to paint a prettier or more vivid picture. So do you credit it for drawing in the atypical visitor/audience, or discount it for all of its fluff and incorrect history? I think I would quite like to visit Sever’s house, it reminds me of being on the set of a historical drama – like Downton Abbey, plastic water bottle on the mantle included.

When Letting Go? Sharing Historical Authority in a User-Generated World, herein Letting Go, began discussing how historians should work with artists I found the idea a little obvious. While I might not know a whole lot about fine art, but the fact that half of the Best Picture nominees for 2015 are biopics sort of proves that artists are going to incorporate history into their art regardless of whether or not they have a historian’s “permission” to do so.

I sort of take offense that this book assumes all historians are so uptight about hard facts and dates that they need to be encouraged to make like Queen Elsa and let it go. In my experience, public historians pride themselves not so much on the facts, but on the ability to help people see the beauty of history. In helping to foster an appreciation for the peculiar way time, geography, culture, and human nature have a way of interplaying with one another. Now don’t get me wrong, I know somebody has to be accountable for making sure historic claims are accurate (Here’s to you academic historians!), but I feel more laypeople would value efforts for accuracy if, first, they felt personally invested and connected to the research at hand. The final article in Letting Go, Mary Teeling’s “A London Travelogue: Visiting Dennis Severs’ House”, felt to me like the only article that really understood this about public historians.

What I found oddly absent in Letting Go was any coverage on how historians and cultural institutions can actively bring their expertise & historical authority to the public on the public’s turf. Many of the examples explored throughout the book relied on the public making an effort to go to their museum or semi-obscure website in order to interact with the history on exhibition. As we now live in an era of social media, I would have liked to see more discussion on how can historians can “let go” of their historical authority to help better direct and learn from the public conversations about history on YouTube, Facebook, or Twitter. Further, how can historians utilize these sites, or even physical public spaces or events, as a place to host our projects and exhibitions?

I was all over the place in this half of the book. I agreed with some and had qualms with some aspects of each of the sections. The following is a highlight reel of the most important takeaways for me in some semblance of themes…

The concept of power and authority is extremely interesting to me. It often raises ‘should’ questions and also becomes controversial in an almost hidden way. “Who should tell that story?” The controversy is hidden because it has become almost politically incorrect (or at least “uncool”) to not share authority. The problem often then lies in the execution as authority is grudgingly relinquished and the trust that should develop is immediately hindered. In “Peering Behind the Curtain”, Rachleff states, “Ideally, the boundaries between the commissioned work, the institutional voice, and the public become fluid in collaborative projects, and trust builds over time” (p. 221). Along the same lines, “the relations of power are transformed and a culture of cooperation, exchange, mutual respect, and urban vitality is developed” (Yalowitz with Stathis, p. 172). In both of these cases, the sharing of authority and power over the telling of history is key to the success of the projects.

These two pieces and the StoryCorps piece share an issue that caused a small epiphany for me. While there is merit in each as they tell untold stories and highlight crucial social issues, are they not what Bogan calls “‘hit-and-run’ social commentary”? (p. 223). These types of efforts often highlight an issue for the moment and may even bring about short-term change, but what about the long-term? I think this is what the “Why?” question from earlier in the book is really trying to address. Yes, we know it is important to tell all of history, but why? What do we hope to do in the long run by telling all of human history, not just the official line or the juicy bits? My epiphany came when I realized that similar ‘hit-and-run’ or ‘band-aid’ social efforts are the current solutions for problems in the US education system and true, long-term change is the ultimate loss.

The StoryCorps piece also brought to light a concept academics and especially historians are hung up on – objective and subjective. “Years of graduate work and peer review inculcate the value of being dispassionate. We are supposed to gather evidence, evaluate preponderances, and track patterns, all with an eye toward creating balanced interpretations, free of factual inaccuracies, that advance or overturn conclusions in the body of literature that precedes us.” (p. 181-182) I absolutely love that quotation. Here is my weekly book plug – you should all read The Courage to Teach by Parker Palmer. In it he addresses this issue and outlines two theories of learning – an object-centered theory and a subject-centered theory. In the first learners are vessels to be filled by the expert who is the only one who has contact with the object. In the latter the community of knowers is continuously learning and engaging with the subject and with other knowers. That is an extremely simplified version, but the idea of creating a community in which we all share our experiences is so inviting and I think academics sometimes live in their ivory towers too long and forget to look for the invitation.

Letting Go? Reading Part 2

The bulk of our readings this week dealt with using artistic interpretations to tell history. I am not a particularly artistic person. I dapple in music, I can style a room, and I immensely enjoy theatre…but that is where my artistic abilities end. Despite my lack of ability, I deeply appreciate the arts and I enjoyed reading how artists were contributing to the historical field. I agree with Koloski in “Embracing the Unexpected”, that “creating genuinely interdisciplinary experiences for our visitors could be one way forward as we seek to engage their curiosity, and in the end, provide them with greater access to deeper and more potent historical and cultural experiences” (p. 280).

I loved the Mining the Museum project. The levels of learning there were so multifaceted! Taking artifacts (which are by themselves objects that promote learning) and arranging them in a way that not only showcases societiy’ biases and shortcomings, but also the museum’s, was such an interesting way to make an argument. I also enjoyed the Black Bottom project presented at University of Pennsylvania. Theatre is powerful and I am a sucker for historical fiction. I would love to be a part of this kind of exhibition.

That being said, I think bringing artists into a museum must be done with much care and planning. Curators, professors, and researchers have a depth of historical knowledge and skill that just cannot be trumped by a few months of specific research done by an artist. It seems like many of the artists that we read about in this week’s selection worked closely with museum staff to research and create a story. I applaud these efforts. I would caution against allowing an artist to present an exhibit as history without any oversight. For example, Fred Wilson, creator of Mining the Museum project, indicated that he was “not for shared authority”, which I find troubling. His exhibit was about exposing holes in the Maryland museum’s collection, so I think he is mostly justified in not wanting to share authority with the museum’s staff. However, it is important that artists understand that their artistic interpretation has an obligation to be truthful and inclusive. In order to promote innovative presentations that are also accurate, museums must carefully select and work with artists.

The Human Library project (27-8), documented by Nina Simon, is intriguing.  Instead of checking out a book you review a list of stereotypes/prejudices and pick out one you hold, or are interested in understanding.  Then you are paired up with a person who represents the stereotype to talk about the stereotype/prejudice.  I wonder if anything like that has ever been organized here on campus?  I wonder how difficult it would be to organize.  Or maybe just a small/trial effort to see how much interest people would have in it.  Hmmmm.

I enjoyed Kathleen McLean’s recounting in “Whose Questions, Whose Conversations?” of Oakland teenagers creating an exhibit in a counterpoint to an Orange County Museum of Art’s display.  Some “museum stakeholders” (73) denigrated the Oakland efforts as a ‘community exhibition’ (73) unworthy of serious attention or promotion.   However, as McLean tells us the exhibit was a big hit with visitors and parts of it were copied in a later exhibition.

Without being disrespectful (especially after reading Katrinaj’s sad news) to those who sacrificed, in all forms, I did wonder about the title the “Greatest Generation” for an exhibit.  I assume it was taken from Tom Brokaw’s book that was immensely popular in the late 1990s.  Of course, anyone could make a case for other generations and eras to be the greatest in our history, but it made me think more about the naming process, and how naming is a form of power, and can be a way to include and exclude, and a way to legitimize a cause or position.

Matthew MacArthur informs us of the advantages technology brings through digitizing, making a museum’s entire collection available online and searchable.  For him this helps remove the dictatorial power curators or trustees had in deciding what artifacts would, and would not be seen by the public.  It enables the visitor to choose what is noteworthy and of importance rather than blindly accepting someone else’s choice.  And perhaps one of the biggest benefits of technology is that digitizing facilitates encounters with museums and galleries that we could never visit in person.

If, since the 1960s we, or large sections of the country at least, have struggled to make history a more inclusive land, reflective of all people’s experience it follows that a similar struggle would play out in museums or spaces that display history.  Several of the authors in Letting Go? tout technology as the tool to fix “subaltern” (82) history where the “hegemonic” (61) version of history, expounded as “The One and Only Official and Correct History” is countered by demotic access and action through technology.  Steve Zeitlin believes technology is a “major democratizing force in American culture” (37) presumably bringing people closer together.  So how is it that history has seemingly become more inclusive, as the subject examples in the text show (African American, Chinese, immigrants, ordinary people, teenagers, women) though as always there is a lot of room for improvement, how is it as a country we are still stubbornly divided by color and class?  Isn’t part of the point of history to illuminate a shared past, a common bond and a mutual interest in flourishing together?  Or is that just giving some positivist or teleological character to history, wanting it to be a force of good in a very Enlightenment linear progression.  Maybe our national history and national narrative is not really inclusive.  Despite the efforts illuminated by the authors, perhaps overall we just pay lip service to the ideas of inclusive history, history from the bottom up, but in reality that is just a veneer to appease certain interest groups, or communities, or make us feel better about ourselves, and the version of history that still predominates is white, male, wealthy and Christian, and if you aren’t in those categories to a large degree, your story doesn’t count.  And if your story doesn’t count, you don’t count, so you are further marginalized and pushed away.

Letting Go?: Reading Part 1

I was surprised to find that there are still museology experts in the 21^st Century having to defend the idea that museums should be participatory. In my eyes, the attainment of knowledge, freedom of self-expression, and the ability to play an active participant in society are all basic human rights. Not only has my personal voyage into adulthood embedded this belief into me, but also several tragic deaths have done much to cement in me the importance of these rights.

Growing up in the age of the Internet and American Idol, there has never been a time when I could not voice my contempt, delight, or disappointment about my life and the world around me. And while my online ramblings are typically not intellectual or even very popular, I have always felt like I had a voice.

Some have been less privileged in their access to these freedoms. Aaron Swartz was one activist who recognized the relationship between power and knowledge. Swartz fought for his belief that academia was obligated to provide open, public access to their findings. As it stands now, many independent researchers cannot access journals, books, or other materials they require to further their studies without first paying large sums of money to access it. Admittedly, the issue is more complex than I can present in such a limited space. Yet, it’s not such a stretch to say that museums were founded on principles similar to Swartz’s. That to create a greater society, learning must be affordable and accessible to even the layman. After an incident involving the mass download of JSTOR articles, Swartz faced multiple criminal charges and legal fees totaling $1 million.[1] The criminal charges, coupled with a past of mental illness led Swartz to take his own life in January 2013.[2]

More recently, the death of Leelah Alcorn, a 17-year-old transgender girl, has caused me to ponder the duties and responsibilities of curators and preservationists on the web. Before her death, Alcorn was an active user on the microblogging site Tumblr. The blog she left behind tells the story of a girl who struggled in trying to find both her identity and comfort in a world where she felt unloved.[3] Leelah’s blog was not carefully curated like Steve Zeitlin’s City Of Memory project.  Her baby pink, kitten covered blog would fail to pass some curator’s tests for quality, relevance, and importance. As Leelah’s suicide gained national attention in late of December 2014, Tumblr executives deleted the blog at the behest of Leelah’s parents.[4] The deletion has been controversial, as many in the Tumblr community believe the deletion is a form of erasure and transphobia. A number of these individuals have begun making amateur efforts at preserving Leelah’s blog.

Death always has a way of revealing the fragility and importance of any given situation. Ultimately, our job as public historians is to act as allies. We must prioritize our conversations with the public, whom we serve and represent.