Jahrbuch für Europäische Wissenschaftskultur 8 3515113819, 9783515113816

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Jahrbuch für Europäische Wissenschaftskultur

Herausgegeben von Olaf Breidbach und Stefano Poggi

Wissenschaftsgeschichte

JbWk 8 (2013–2015)

Franz Steiner Verlag

Yearbook for European Culture of Science Focus: The University of Things. Theory – History – Practice

Jahrbuch für Europäische Wissenschaftskultur __ Yearbook for European Culture of Science Band / Volume 8

Jahrbuch für Europäische Wissenschaftskultur ___

Yearbook for European Culture of Science JbWk 8 (2013–2015) Gastherausgeber / Guest Editor Dominik Collet, Marian Füssel, Roy MacLeod Fokus / Focus The University of Things Theory – History – Practice

Franz Steiner Verlag

jahrbuch für europäische wissenschaftskultur yearbook for european culture of science Herausgegeben von Olaf Breidbach † und Stefano Poggi Wissenschaftlicher Beirat: Damien Ehrhardt, Andreas Fickers, Marian Füssel, Michael Hagner, Antonello La Vergata, Riccardo Martinelli, Carsten Reinhardt, Nicolas Robin, Marco Segala, Michal Šimùnek, Fiorenza Toccafondi, Gregor Vogt-Spira, Gerhard Wiesenfeldt www.steiner-verlag.de/jew

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über abrufbar. Dieses Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist unzulässig und strafbar. © Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart 2016 Druck: Offsetdruck Bokor, Bad Tölz Gedruckt auf säurefreiem, alterungsbeständigem Papier. Printed in Germany. ISSN 1860-7837 ISBN 978-3-515-11381-6 (Print) ISBN 978-3-515-11384-7 (E-Book)

INHALT/CONTENTS Thomas Bach Olaf Breidbach (1957–2014) .................................................................................. 7 Fokus/Fokus THE UNIVERSITY OF THINGS THEORY – HISTORY – PRACTICE Dominik Collet, Marian Füssel, Roy MacLeod Preface................................................................................................................... 19 Dominik Collet and Roy MacLeod Introduction ........................................................................................................... 21 Michael Fehr Museums and their Collections: A Dynamic Relationship ................................... 29 Florike Egmond Collecting Naturalia: The Formation of an Academic Botanical Tradition in Leiden ............................................................................... 43 Thomas Laely Collecting, Revisiting, Reappraising – Restituting? The Schinz Collection of the Ethnographic Museum of the University of Zurich ............................................................................................................... 57 Giuliano Pancaldi Materialities of the Scientific Process – What can be Learnt from the History of Electricity in an Old University Town ................................................. 71 John Peter Collett Collecting Coins at a North-European University: The Coin Cabinet of the University of Oslo ......................................................... 89 Gundolf Krüger Mummified Heads (Mokomokai / Upoko Tui) from New Zealand in the Ethnographic Collection of the University of Göttingen .......................... 107

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Inhalt/Contents

Robert Jütte Juridical and Ethical Aspects of Displaying Anatomical Specimens in Public ............................................................................................................. 121 Anita Hermannstädter, Christiane Quaiser, Johannes Vogel The Integrated Research Museum: Cutting-Edge Collections-Based Research Meets Innovative Public Engagement ................................................. 129 Arthur MacGregor A University Museum, Past and Present: Inventing (and Re-Inventing) the Ashmolean Museum at the University of Oxford ......................................... 145 FORUM Aaron Mitchell & Gerhard Wiesenfeldt Craftsmen, Merchants and Scholars: Hiring Practices at the Universities of Leiden and Edinburgh, 1575–1750 ...............................................................163

OLAF BREIDBACH (1957–2014) Thomas Bach When Olaf Breidbach took over the directorate of the Ernst-Haeckel-Haus on 1 April 1995, the philosopher and neurobiologist officially commenced his career as an historian of science. For almost twenty years he held the chair of History of Science in the Biological-Pharmaceutical Faculty of the Friedrich Schiller University Jena, at the Institute for the History of Medicine, Science and Technology and the field of theoretical biology situated in the Ernst-Haeckel-Haus. From the very beginning he fulfilled his post with a fine sense of flair and ability for the unique possibilities offered at the institute with its museum, archive and the graduate study in the history of science as well as firmly anchoring this institute in the field of theoretical biology within the Biological-Pharmaceutical Faculty. In one of the oldest institutions for history of science in Germany he understood its genius loci as both an educational and research centre, as well as the importance of a cultural orientation of the history of science that facilitated leading dialogues and encounters between the natural sciences and the humanities. He was very much aware of his responsibility towards the University. The University of Jena acknowledged his inter-disciplinary work when he was awarded an additional membership of the philosophical faculty. His reputation as an historian of science was acknowledged and recognised far beyond Jena as well. Since the 1990s he had already established particularly good relations with Italy, most notably with Gian Franco Frigo (Padua) and Stefano Poggi (Florence). In 2004 he was appointed a member of the German Academy of Sciences Leopoldina, and the following year he was elected as a corresponding member in the Mathematical-Physical Class of the Academy of Sciences at the University of Gottingen. From 2009 he was co-editor of Sudhoffs Archiv and took responsibility for the section for history of biology and the life sciences. He worked in this function for barely five short years. Olaf Breidbach died in Jena on 22 July 2014 after a severe illness; he was only 56 years of age. The history of science has lost an outstanding research personality who was a captivating university teacher in his lectures, seminars and papers, and a truly farsighted scientific organiser. I. EARLY SCIENTIFIC CAREER AND QUALIFICATIONS Olaf Breidbach was born on 8 November 1957 in Monheim at the Rhine and grew up in Altenberg in the Duchy of Berg, a part of North Rhine-Westphalia. He attended a Catholic primary school in Altenberg-Blecher and finished secondary school at the Freiherr-vom-Stein-Gymnasium in Leverkusen. He began studying philoso-

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phy, biology, art and education at the University of Bonn in the winter semester of 1977/78. After the interim exam in biology in 1979, he was given a scholarship by the Studienstiftung des deutschen Volkes with which he was again affiliated as an academic from 1995-2005. This choice of subjects at the University was indicative of his different research interests and talents that would later on all interlock and chime one another in his work as an historian of science, in a unique manner. In 1980 Breidbach ended his art studies with a practical examination, he proceeded to form an interdisciplinary work group entitled “Neurobiology” and started – parallel to his biological studies – a doctorate in philosophy under the supervision of Peter Baumann at the University of Bonn. He was only 25 when he received his PhD in 1982 for a thesis on the topic of the organic in Hegel’s thought Das Organische in Hegels Denken – Studie zur Naturphilosophie und Biologie um 1800. The thesis was awarded the Heinrich-Hörlein Memorial Award of the University of Bonn. In 1983 he passed the state exam in biology, and a year later working under the Bonn zoologist Werner J. Kloft he received his biological PhD for a thesis on the morphological conditions and simple behavioural patterns of the ‘European house borer’ beetle (Morphologische und ethologische Bedingungen einfacher Verhaltensmuster des Cerambyciden Hylotrupes bajulus (L.) (Insecta: Coleoptera) – dargestellt in vergleichender Betrachtung). In 1984 and 1985 Breidbach was a research assistant at the Institute for Applied Zoology in Bonn and taught seminars on the development and structure of the nervous system, as well as on diverse theoretical questions pertaining to evolutionary research. As a Liebig Fellow (1985-1987) he visited Valentino von Braitenberg and the Max Planck Institute for Developmental Biology in Tübingen and worked for a considerable time in the laboratory of José Campos-Ortega at the Institute of Developmental Physiology at the University of Cologne. In 1987 – now as a research fellow at the Institute for Applied Zoology in Bonn –, he established a research group on “The development of the nervous system” and from 1988 to 1993 he was a member of a Priority Programme on “The dynamics and stabilisation of neuronal structures”. In 1988 he submitted a thesis on the metamorphosis of beetle’s nerve tissue: Die Metamorphose des Käfernervengewebes. Das Redifferenzierungsprogramm eines komplex strukturierten neuronalen Gewebes – studiert am Modellsystem Tenebrio molitor L. (1753) for his habilitation in zoology that he completed in 1989 at Bonn University. In 1989 Breidbach was promoted lectureship (Oberassistent) supervising a working group on “The development of the nervous system” and in the same year he held a C2-professorship in animal ecology. During the years 1990 to1992 he held a temporary C3-professorship in the Faculty of the Mathematic and Natural Sciences at the University of Bonn. A project on the simulation of neuronal computing processes in 1990 won him a prestigious research award from the state of North Rhine-Westphalia. From 1991 onwards in a DFG (German Research Foundation) project on “neural networks” he undertook a comparative examination of the neuro-architecture of the central brain of mandibulates. In 1994 he joined Jürgen Jost at the Mathematical Institute of the University of Bochum where he worked on neuronal networks, structural dynamics and structural evolution until he was eventually called to Jena.

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II. THE PATH TO A HISTORIAN OF SCIENCE At the time of his appointment in Jena Olaf Breidbach had with four books and more than sixty scientific articles to his name established himself within the field of biology most notably as a neuro-anatomist and entomologist. He had also published three books and ten papers as a philosopher. What already qualified him as an historian of science about this time was the manner in which he pursued the fields of philosophy and biology. In his philosophical dissertation on The Organic in Hegel’s Thought (1982) he had reconstructed the theoretical discussions and the history of science background from within the milieu of the life sciences around 1800. He also had looked at the philosophical implications of the concurrently emerging idealistic philosophy of nature. As a devoted reader of Kant’s writings, it was clear to Olaf Breidbach from the very outset that the idealistic thoughts of a natural philosophy of the organic would be empty without biological content. By implicitly taking into account the context of the history of science in the emerging biosciences, he succeeded in adding a new emphasis to what had largely been ignored for a long time within philosophy and history of science, that is Hegel’s philosophy of nature. Breidbach remained steadfastly committed to his approach and the resultant combination of philosophical and systematical issues in the history of science. Numerous published articles on Schelling’s and Hegel’s idealistic philosophy of nature illustrated how fruitful this new approach was. Breidbach contributed widely to international discussions on Hegel in the Internationalen Arbeitskreis zu Hegels Naturphilosophie founded in 1983 by Wolfgang Neuser and Dieter Wandschneider and supported by Breidbach. As a practicing scientist, any contrary approach and an examination of biological notions without taking heed of theoretical concepts reflected in the history of science itself, struck him as being similarly blind. An essay he published in 1987 on analogical inferences in the sciences (Analogieschluß in den Naturwissenschaften) illustrates this well. As a scientist, Breidbach reflected upon the structure and the status of the sciences. He especially challenged the concept of experience that was being used here. One of the questions, first vehemently raised in this essay related to the quality of the empirical and the presuppositions of scientific propositions. This issue would run like a common theme throughout all of his later works. The question of the evaluation of cognition in the neurosciences, initially led him towards the recent past of his own field and then much further back into the history of his discipline, directly to the history of science. Without an awareness of the genesis of knowing, Breidbach thought it surely bereft of any adequate understanding of its validity. He did not want to simply accept in an uncritical fashion, scientific facts, in the sense of given conditions or statements of facts. In his next work which addressed the pupation of the brain, in the model of the brain of a beetle: Verpuppung des Gehirns / Modell Käferhirn (1988), he brought the conceptual aspect of the project entirely into the foreground. Instead of a simple mediation of facts, the presentation of this research project was accompanied with a plea that the results of the programme ought not be accepted as solutions in an uncritical manner.

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Thus precisely at the moment in which he reflected upon the validity of his science, and the accountability of his actions as a scientist Breidbach in effect became an historian. His book on the ‘materialization of the self’ and an historical account in the 19th and 20th centuries of brain research, Die Materialisierung des Ichs. Zur Geschichte der Hirnforschung im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (1997) was a carefully narrated history of neuroscience and marked the beginning of a wide-ranging investigation of the History of Science. The Ernst-Haeckel-Haus and his chair in the history of science and the field of theoretical biology offered him the opportunity to explore this idea more thoroughly in an institutional setting. He pursued this broad history in his introductory lecture on the history of science from antiquity to the recent day. The lecture series consisted of four semesters, and between the years 1995-2013 he managed to complete this series nine times. It was his intention to develop these lectures into a textbook. Attention to other plans however, delayed this project, and sadly, it was only shortly before his death that he was able to send the first volume, which had dealt with antiquity, to the printer. III. ACADEMIC RECOGNITION: EXTERNALLY FUNDE PROJECTS AND RESEARCH STIMULI If the success of an academic is measured, as it is often done so today, solely by the amount of externally funded projects, Olaf Breidbach was an extremely successful historian of science. With some of his own projects in Jena he was able to directly link up to his research activities as a biologist and a neuro-anatomist. From September 1996 until August 1998 he worked with one of his colleagues from Bochum, Klaus Holthausen, in a project that was sponsored by the Thuringian Ministry of Science, Research and the Arts, on the “analysis of dynamic stochastic structured systems using the example of computed dynamic associative neuronal systems“. With the results obtained here and the outcome of valuable patents, he laid down the foundation for a similarly financed project from the same funding body on the “Automated evaluation of EEGs for the early detection of an impending SIDS (Sudden-Infant-Death-Syndrome) (05/1999-04/2001) as well as a “research unit for structural dynamics and system evolution” and a “TheorieLabor” (06/1999-12/2002) which was co-directed by Frank Pasemann, and bundled together the work within the field of theoretical biology. In addition to these projects in theoretical and biological fields there were increasingly more externally funded projects on the history of science. He obtained broad approval for a project that was originally initiated by the germanist Klaus Manger at the University of Jena, and then later continued by the historian Georg Schmidt and Breidbach himself. This was the interdisciplinary Collaborative Research Centre (SFB, Sonderforschungsbereich 482) „Ereignis Weimar-Jena. Kultur um 1800“, which from 1st July 1998 until 30th June 2010 was granted funding by the DFG (German Research Foundation) through four successive phases of applications. From the outset of the SFB 482, Breidbach coordinated the history of science projects, and from 2007 through to 2010 he was the director responsible

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for the final report and from April 2010 to June 2011 for the transfer project for public engagement work (see the catalogue: Die Welt aus Weimar – Zur Geschichte des Geographischen Instituts, edited by Andreas Christoph and Olaf Breidbach, 2011). Throughout the twelve years of the SFB 482, he supervised a project entitled “Empiricism versus speculation? Conceptualised and experienced nature” with notable success in which he analysed the position of the sciences around 1800 with his colleagues (see Naturwissenschaften um 1800 (2001) edited by Breidbach and Paul Ziche, as well as the work he co-edited with Roswitha Burwick: The Transformation of Science in Germany at the Beginning of the Nineteenth Century: Physics, Mathematics, Poetry, and Philosophy (2013)). He analysed the sciences not only from the perspective of the history of ideas, but together with colleagues Jan Frercks and Heiko Weber, he reconstructed the scientific practices as well, in the sense of an experimental history of science (see Experimentelle Wissenschaftsgeschichte, edited by Olaf Breidbach, Peter Heering, Matthias Müller and Heiko Weber (2010)). In this project he interpreted Schelling’s philosophy of nature, but also looked at it as an intra-scientific discourse on structured science teaching (cf. the published essay in Sudhoffs Archiv : Jenaer Naturphilosophien um 1800 (2000), as well as the volume Naturphilosophie nach Schelling, co-edited with Thomas Bach (2005)). In the wider context of embracing the theme of philosophy of nature at Jena, he also launched an edition of a work by the philosopher Karl Christian Friedrich Krause from 1804, the Entwurf des Systems der Philosophie. Erste Abtheilung enthaltend die allgemeine Philosophie, nebst einer Anleitung zur Naturphilosophie (Edited and introduced by Thomas Bach and Olaf Breidbach, 2007), as well as the Gesammelten Werke of Lorenz Oken (Edited by Thomas Bach, Olaf Breidbach and Dietrich von Engelhardt, 2007ff.). After the Collaborative Research Centre (SFB) had ended, Breidbach was engaged with the Laboratorium Aufklärung initiated by the Friedrich Schiller University Jena as a focus point for research. He also worked on an evaluation and inventory of the correspondence held in the Ernst-Haeckel-Archive. This had already been developed between the years 1998 to 2000 in a financed project by the DFG (German Research Foundation) and was to be made available in the form of an edition of the correspondence. Jointly with the curator Thomas Bach and in cooperation with the German National Academy of Sciences Leopoldina, Breidbach succeeded in securing a long-term project of the Union of German Academies of Sciences and Humanities: “Ernst Haeckel (1834-1919): Edition of Letters” which has been funded since 2013 and is expected to last for 25 years. Parallel to these projects Breidbach designed, coordinated and directed other parts of the Haeckel correspondence, and the popular scientific background to Haeckel; to spatial intuition, the history of the theory of evolution and on the naturalist Lorenz Oken, as well as the Jesuit Athanasius Kircher: “Ernst Haeckel (18341919) – Wilhelm Bölsche (1861-1939): Correspondence 1891-1919” (DFG project 04/2001-03/2004); “The popularization of science in Germany and their intermediaries, an analysis of the popular scientific background of Haeckel” (DFG project with Gernot Böhme 04/2004-03/2006); “Spatial intuition: mathematics – technology – art. The presentation and perception of space in the 18th and 19th centu-

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ries” (Ernst Abbe Foundation with Reinhard Wegner 07/2006-04/2007); “Evolution without genetics – alternatives in 20th century evolutionary biology “ (DFG project with Uwe Hoßfeld 10/2002-10/2006); “Mendelism and Genetics in Bohemia and Moravia, 1900-1930” (DFG project with Uwe Hoßfeld 10/2007- 09/2010); “The business of knowledge – Lorenz Oken and Isis. Commercialization, politicization and popularization of knowledge in the first half of the 19th century.”(DFG Project 07/2006-06/2009); “Edition, commentary, a primary focus on the evaluation and analysis of the correspondence between Lorenz Oken and the publisher Friedrich Arnold Brockhaus between 1814-1850” (DFG project 07/2009-06 2011); “A Scientific introduction and commentary of a reprinted edition of the main works of Athanasius Kircher (1602-1680)” (Gerda Henkel Foundation with Anne Eusterschulte and Wilhelm Schmidt-Biggemann since April 2009). IV. ORGANIZATION OF SCIENCE With all these projects Olaf Breidbach established his reputation as a historian of science, and increasingly distinguished himself as a prolific scientific organizer. He understood the organization of science not simply as the procurement of positions. He was continuously active as a consultant and peer reviewer; he created new publications as well as editing his own and entered into close cooperation and editorial participation with foreign journals and series. He secured the availability of important original texts in the history of science. A particular focus of his was on the history and theory of biology. From 1997 onwards together with Michael Weingarten, he continued the Biologische Zentralblatt under the title Theory in Biosciences, and established for the works emerged within the Ernst-Haeckel-Haus the series Ernst-Haeckel-Haus-Studien. Monographien zur Geschichte der Biowissenschaften und Medizin. He also bundled some of his own and other works into the series Neuronale Ästhetik in the Springer publishing house in Vienna. Addressing the theme of the culture of science, together with Stefano Poggi, he edited the Yearbook for European Culture of Science as well as a series intended for considerably larger works Wissenschaftskultur um 1900, both appearing with Steiner, the Stuttgart publishers. With great commitment he also participated in the periodical series Historia Scientiarum at Olms publishers. He not only coordinated here works from the field of life sciences, but he also published himself several volumes, on the writings of scientists such as Fritz Müller, Carl Gustav Carus, Karl Ernst von Baer and Conrad Gessner. In the series Ostwald’s Classics of the Exact Sciences, he took care of the publication of classical texts such as those by Caspar Friedrich Wolff and Sigmund Exner, in which he provided very informative introductions to their works. In his last remaining years he was responsible as one of three editors, for the book series Laboratorium Aufklärung. Breidbach’s undoubted talent for scientific organization also found expression in the way he led the Ernst-Haeckel-Haus, right from the very beginning in a quasi operational mode as a laboratory itself. He expected from all of his staff and col-

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leagues to be in attendance as well as being committed to the institute. This insistence upon presence enabled him at almost any time to be able to discuss with his team topical tasks at hand. A short knock at the door, and one entered into far reaching philosophical discussions, socio-political analyses, or was involved in the design of pending research tasks that were to be carried out or newly formulated proposals. As director of the institute and university teacher he was considerate and caring with his colleagues as well as students and postgraduates: they all were able to approach him anytime with their questions and problems. A clear visible sign of this willingness to talk was the almost always open door to his office. V. MOTIF CHAINS AND TOPICS OF HIS THOUGHT As a trained biologist and director of the Ernst-Haeckel-Haus Olaf Breidbach inspired further research and raised public awareness about Haeckel in many of his works. For a comprehensive assessment of his extensive oeuvre it is certainly far too soon. The number of topics that are covered in his various writings is simply too vast that this could be presented here in a meaningful way. However, a few so called, motif chains and topical fields can be mentioned that perhaps help to characterize his thinking (a full list of his all published works can be found on the homepage of the Ernst-Haeckel-Haus at http: //www.ehh.uni-Jena.de/Institut/Mitarbeiter/Prof_+Dr_+Dr_+Olaf+Breidbach/Ver%C3%B6ffentlichungen-p-74.html). As Olaf Breidbach came to Jena in 1995 he brought with him two distinct theoretical approaches that he had previously established and which accompanied his work on biological neural networks, and in addition one that he would continue to refine and conceptualize in the coming years. Firstly, there was one that had been developed together with his colleague Klaus Holthausen, i.e. the approach of “internal representation” that also became the title of some collected essays that he edited and published in 1996 along with Gerhard Rusch and Siegfried J. Schmidt. This concept is based on the thesis that the brain can only be properly understood from within. The outside world, when it is assessed according to the internal representation of the brain is not a fixed quota of structurally determined and fixed partial reaction chambers of the brain, but rather the result of a steady flexible response to stimuli, and thereby itself a restructuring texture of reaction which through new stimuli are being continuously restructured. In this way the brain generates a grid of the perception of the world itself, it therefore not simply preserves the impressions of an outside world. Breidbach understood this concept of internal representation as a discursive offering to philosophy of constructivism, and led this philosophical discussion himself in numerous papers and above all continued this approach in his book: Deutungen. Zur philosophischen Implikation der internen Repräsentation (2001). The second approach that Breidbach undertook was to enter into a dialogue with aesthetics and cultural studies, and thereby explore the explanatory challenge of a “neuronal aesthetics”. At first at Bonn in a conference that had been organised by him, and then again in a book which he edited of collected essays: Natur der Ästhetik – Ästhetik der Natur (1997) he outlined here for the first time the specific

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field of neuronal aesthetics. He further elaborated these considerations in another book Das Anschauliche oder über die Anschauung von Welt. Ein Beitrag zur neuronalen Ästhetik (2000) and, to the extent that already the subject of a ‘practice of seeing’ had been addressed, followed this line in a further work a cultural history of scientific perception: Bilder des Wissens. Zur Kulturgeschichte der wissenschaftlichen Wahrnehmung (2005). Later he collaborated with Federico Vercellone on an essay on intuition and thinking Anschauung Denken (2011). In 2013 he undertook a comprehensive review of some twenty years of work in this field, with a monograph entitled Neuronale Ästhetik. Zur Morpho-Logik des Anschauens . The “morpho-logic” mentioned in the subtitle of this work refers, in fact, to a third thematic field that Breidbach developed in his Jena period – a productive engagement with Goethe’s theory of the metamorphosis of plants and morphology. Breidbach interpreted Goethe’s principles of metamorphosis as a manifesto of an all-pervading experiential doctrine. It is precisely the cognition of that which is fleeting and finds itself constantly metamorphosing; plants that are germinating, growing, blossoming and dying, that are the benchmarks in our cognition of nature. According to Breidbach Goethe’s Metamorphosis of Plants is not simply a botanical work, but it is “exemplified in botany, how nature can be experienced at all”. Goethe’s later morphology is above all a methodological pathway “to perceive and conceive of nature as a whole”. Breidbach maintained that this approach to morphology did not only possess a historical value but was of contemporary interest as well. Together with his Italian colleague Federico Vercellone, he founded the Centro Interdipartimentale di Ricerca sulla Morfologia at the University of Udine, an interdisciplinary centre that pursued both historical and contemporary issues (cf. Olaf Breidbach, Federico Vercellone: Concepts of Morphology, 2008). In addition to internal representation, neuronal aesthetics and morphology there arose a fourth major theme of his, “radical historicization”. In the book of the same name from 2011, Breidbach made an appeal that we should relinquish the idea that there was a secure point of departure for all of our knowledge. As an evolutionary biologist Breidbach argued that since Darwin at the very least, we have to depart from the idea that in nature there is a standard to discover for our actions or our knowledge. Nevertheless the book is not a pessimistic one; the subtitle ‘cultural affirmation of self in post-Darwinism’ underlines the fact that regardless of the insight into the relativity of our cognition in nature and culture, an affirmation of self is possible via the indirect route of culture and history. In a programmatic manner Breidbach develops the idea that relative determinations can also lead to coherent descriptions and views of the world. Based on this insight into the relative determination of all things, he argued that we should divest ourselves of any self-doubts connected to this, to accept our historical conditionality [historische Bedingtheit] and in so doing firmly locate ourselves in history: “Only when we subsequently relativise our position we can find a reference base from which we are able to secure our position and are then able to lookout beyond the borders of what it is that is offered us.” In this situation the study of the history of science acquires a particular significance because it were these “thematic structures, concepts and skills” and the corresponding border con-

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ditions, “to which they can be well secured, and see how far they can direct us with their explanations of the areas of interest.” The history of science itself can “accurately demonstrate that a radical historicization does not lead to randomness, but instead towards fixed standards”. VI. IN MEMORIAM These four briefly outlined concepts are different modes of a fundamental insight that was arrived at much earlier. What Olaf Breidbach has written about in his last work Radikale Historisierung corresponds exactly to his activity as an historian of science: internal representation, neuronal aesthetics as well as morphology: “We can only reach back to historically established and determined entities. We do not operate with fixed objects, but with references, that is, with determinations that can be determined and conceived from out of their historically established structures of assignments”. The interweaving of these various concepts vividly demonstrates that the patterns of thought, explanatory statements and patterns of interpretation encountered in Breidbach are all linked up and connected together in diverse layers of reception. Breidbach’s oeuvre is an exclusive cosmos of interlocking and overlapping motif chains, that lead across text and boundaries of discourse, lines are drawn and strands that were once left behind are taken up again. Thus in all of these networks “to be able to look out beyond the border of what is offered to us”, was one of Olaf Breidbach’s special gifts. Together with his truly encyclopaedic knowledge he was capable in an outstanding manner of pursuing interdisciplinary collaborations with other scientists, most recently in 2012 in the newly established Leopoldina-Study Centre for the History of Science and Academies. From its inception he was a member of the section for the history of science and medicine and was jointly responsible for its practical orientation. Between his first publication that appeared in 1979 and his early death Olaf Breidbach had only 35 years to pursue and examine these lines of thought and motif chains within neurobiology, philosophy and the history of science. In all these years as a university teacher, faculty member, researcher, scientific organizer, he practiced these extensive and varied duties and obligations with an unremitting curiosity and an unbroken commitment. With his immense creative power he has left us an oeuvre that will stimulate us to re-trace (nachspüren – one of Breidbach’s favourite terms) his ideas for a long time to come.

FOKUS/FOKUS THE UNIVERSITY OF THINGS THEORY – HISTORY – PRACTICE

PREFACE Objects make history. For centuries, our fascination with materiality has fostered a desire to collect, examine, interpret, and display objects in juxtaposition with the written word. Museums hold our memories, reminders of the ways we were. But they also say much about what we are – the ways in which we are taught to see, the ways in which knowledge is organized and relationships, structured. An important, if neglected, dimension of museum history lies in the form of the ‘academic collection’, the assemblage of objects, specimens, instruments, books, flora and fauna that, within the university, have given material shape to our understanding of the world. Such collections occupy a special space in the history of universities and disciplines, but their role in constructing modern science and the humanities – as well as the ‘museum idea’ – with its threefold dedication to artifact, context, and narrative – has yet to receive wide acceptance. With this in mind, and in celebration of the University’s 275th anniversary, the President and Faculties of the University of Göttingen in October 2012 sponsored a major exhibition on “Dinge des Wissens” and convened a three-day conference dedicated to the Universität der Dinge – the ‘University of Things’. The essays in this volume form a selection of papers given during the ‘international day’ at the conference. A far greater number were given in the general sections, which in their variety celebrated the wide range of disciplines and approaches that inform university museums and collections in Europe. The conference acknowledged an emerging consensus among scholars that challenges the primacy of the ‘text’, and stresses the interdependencies of objects – flowers or forks, clocks or chemicals, maps or mirrors – within their social, cultural and economic context. Speakers drew attention to the ways in which the modern university, in its focus on teaching and research, has tended to keep such ‘ideas’ and ‘things’ in separate spheres. Today, however, it is clear that the relationship between them is close and explicit. To explore these connections, our authors were asked to develop the ideas of ‘theory’, ‘history’, and ‘practice’ as these emerge in the academic museum tradition. Whilst our principal focus has been the German university and its heritage, we believe these arguments apply with equal if not greater force to academic collections throughout the world. For this reason, we are pleased to offer this in English, in the hope of encouraging a wider readership, and greater contact among scholars. In bringing this collection to print, we would like to acknowledge the encouragement of Professor Ulrike Beisiegel, President of the University of Göttingen, the kind assistance of the curators of “Dinge des Wissens", and the collegial cooperation of the University’s Lichtenberg Kolleg. We thank our authors for having given generously of their time to translate their papers. We have been pleased to

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see that international scholarship has its rewards, and we, as editors, look forward to further collaborative projects in the years to come. Dominik Collet

Marian Füssel

Roy MacLeod

INTRODUCTION Dominik Collet and Roy MacLeod Academic collections date from the earliest universities in Europe, and have been a prominent feature of every university ever since. Today, they are widely called upon for their uses in teaching and research, and feature prominently in the modern university’s ever-expanding commitment to public engagement. But whereas the history of universities and university museums has enjoyed a large and growing literature, the relationship between the two – the university of things – has remained strangely neglected. However, the time has come to look at this relationship more closely, not least because of the sheer number, size, and cost, and their role in teaching, research, and outreach.1 Academic collections offer a rich field for an object-led approach to the social history and sociology of knowledge, spanning the arts, sciences, and medicine. Since the ‘scientific revolution’ of the 17th century, their role in shaping knowledge has followed from the rapid expansion and diversity of the university. As agents of representation, application, and commodification, they constitute an extraordinary resource for inter-disciplinary research. The university of things is not just a by-product or a handmaiden of scholarship, but the material representation of practices that have helped shape the research university. The design of this volume explores these practices, in focusing on a selection of historical and contemporary cases. CONTACT ZONES, BOUNDARY OBJECTS, EPISTEMIC THINGS It is customary to treat the history of academic collections as a subset of disciplinary history, in which ‘objects’ – whether natural or artificial – are viewed as resources for explanation, interpretation, or theoretical confirmation.2 However, we 1 2

A recent survey has identified more than 1000 academic collections in Germany alone: universitaetssammlungen.de, retrieved 1 September 2013. Cornelia Weber, ‚Universitätssammlungen und -museen‘, in: Ulrich Rasche (ed.), Quellen zur frühneuzeitlichen Universitätsgeschichte. Typen, Bestände, Forschungsperspektiven, (Wiesbaden. Harrasowitz, 2011), pp. 83–118; Anke te Heesen, ‚In medias res. Zur Bedeutung von Universitätssammlungen‘, N.T.M., 16 (2008), pp. 485–490; Udo Andraschke & Marion Maria Ruisinger (eds.), Die Sammlungen der Universität Erlangen-Nürnberg. Begleitband zur Ausstellung „Ausgepackt. Die Sammlungen der Universtität Erlangen-Nürnberg” (Nürnberg: Stadtmuseum Erlangen, 2007). Horst Bredekamp et al. (eds.), Theater der Natur und der Kunst. Wunderkammern des Wissens (Berlin: Henschel, 2000).

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wish to propose a more integrative perspective, drawing upon an intradisciplinary language of zones, boundaries and things. UNIVERSITY COLLECTIONS AS CONTACT ZONES Some time ago, the anthropologist James Clifford suggested that museums should be understood not as closed systems but as relational spaces. By now, it seems well accepted that museums create stages where objects and observers interact. As Clifford stressed, this ‘exchange’ is not limited to the diffusion of knowledge amongst professionals. Instead, the academic collection constitutes a space of inter- and infrastructural translation, a “borderland between different worlds, histories, and cosmologies”.3 Clifford’s concept of museums as contact zones has had a profound impact on both museum theory and practice. More recently, Peter Galison has suggested that scientific practice involves the creation of ‘trading zones’ between theory and experiment, ideas, and materials.4 In academic collections – from Antiken to Zoologie – we see such ‘zones’ at work, in organising and facilitating the circulation of ideas, lending an active voice to an otherwise passive construction of custodial knowledge. This requires us to lift our sights from a preoccupation with ‘things’ in themselves, and towards their multiple uses, and from the collection as a fixed entity, to the practices that have informed its origins and development. It seems clear that academic collections must be conceptualised not as mere assemblages of objects, but as action spaces, where knowledge is created in a collaborative and social setting, complete – as Clifford puts it – with ‘conditions of coercion, radical inequality, and intractable conflict.’5 UNIVERSITY COLLECTIONS AS BOUNDARY OBJECTS Objects in academic collections attract a heterogeneous audience. They bring together scholars and amateurs, but also scientists of different backgrounds. To use a phrase from Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, academic collections embody disciplinary objects that enable scholars to ‘materialise’ fields of knowledge. As such, they initiate and delineate disciplines, create and legitimate research spaces, and valorize scientific practices, so becoming important foci of interdisciplinary de-

3

4 5

James Clifford, ‘Museums as Contact Zones’, in James Clifford, Routes. Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), pp. 188–219, p. 212. Peter Galison, Image & Logic; A Material Culture of Microphysics (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1997). Clifford, ‘Contact Zones’, p. 192.

Introduction

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bate.6 Moreover, as Susan Star and James Griesemer have observed, collections can be understood as boundary objects, both material and conceptual.7 Collections are both plastic enough to encourage cooperation and robust enough to maintain a coherent identity. “They have different meanings in different social worlds but their structure is common enough to more than one world to make them recognizable, a means of translation”.8 This definition attached easily to the many collections gathered in the course of European expansion in the Americas, Asia, Africa, and the Pacific.9 Scholars of interdisciplinarity have stressed that it is precisely this pliability that has enabled interdisciplinary ‘borrowing’, without participants being forced abandon the methodological resources of their field.10 In the university of things, it is not just individual objects but the collection itself that asks to be seen as a boundary object. These definitions have mediated the encounter of cultures in the past and continue to do so today. UNIVERSITY COLLECTIONS AS EPISTEMIC THINGS In his work on the material culture of science Hans-Jörg Rheinberger reminded us of the “power of objects in the process of the acquisition of knowledge”, in which objects can be conceptualised not only as empirical tools, but also as theoretical markers – as epistemes – whose very existence arouses our interest. As such, the organisation of an academic collection reveals the epistemic assumptions of a given stage of academic life, with its historically specific, conceptually normative lines of inquiry and explanation. Rheinberger highlights the role of “artful science” and suggests differentiating imaginaries, whether in the form of inanimate or animate objects or specimens.11 In this way, epistemic things allow the reconstruction of contexts that unite objects and observers. Such an object-led epistemology can usefully supplement theory-based approaches to the history of 6

7

8 9

10 11

Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, ‚Reconfiguring Museums: An Afterword‘, in: Cordula Grewe (ed.), Die Schau des Fremden: Ausstellungskonzepte zwischen Kunst, Kommerz und Wissenschaft (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2006), pp. 361–376. Susan Leigh Star & James R. Griesemer, ‘Institutional Ecology, ‘Translations’ and Boundary Objects: Amateurs and Professionals in Berkeley's Museum of Vertebrate Zoology, 1907– 39’, Social Studies of Science, 13 (1989), pp. 387–420. Ibid., p. 393. Roy Mac Leod & P.F. Rehbock (eds.), ‘Nature in its Greatest Extent’: Western Science in the Pacific (Honolulu: University of Hawaii, 1988); Roy Mac Leod, ‘Museums in the Pacific: Reflections on an “Introduced Concept” in Transition’, in: Martine Barrère (èd.), Les Sciences hors d'Occident au XXème Siècle, vol. 5: Sciences et Dèveloppement (Paris: ORSTOM Editions, 1996), pp. 275–280; Roy MacLeod, ‘Post-colonalism and Museum Knowledge: Revisiting the Museums of the Pacific’, Pacific Science, 52 (4) (1998), pp. 308–318. Peter Weingart, ‘The Paradoxical Discourse’, in: Peter Weingart & Nico Stehr (eds.), Practising Interdisciplinarity (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000), pp. 25–42. Hans-Jörg Rheinberger, Towards a History of Epistemic Things: Synthesizing Proteins in a Test tube (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996).

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knowledge, and bring a fresh approach to the practices of knowledge-gathering and representation. THE POLYVALENCE OF UNIVERSITY COLLECTIONS All these concepts add freshness and work well within the university of things, in which objects can be configured in ways that inform our understanding of museums, libraries, zoos, and galleries. Academic collections have commonly had their origins in professorial practice, and their use, in the practical purposes of study and teaching. Characteristically, they celebrate not individual masterpieces but series, ensembles and “assemblages”.12 Historically, they form around particular sets of inquiry, and are aimed (initially, at least) at savants, whether official or self-appointed. Traditional rules of representation may not play a major role in their construction or conservation. In fact, their history often embraces the frequent exchange, if not also the sale of their specimens. The same collections can acquire new functions over time. When observations tied to their inventories are documented and made accessible for review, they become destinations for visitors and researchers. Once they achieve disciplinary significance, they take on new educational (and in some cases, industrial and commercial) roles. Gradually, they become important in the dissemination of knowledge to a wider public, manifesting the modern triad of service to research, education and rational entertainment. Overall, it is the dynamic, changing nature of the academic collection that remains its central characteristic. As an agency of knowing, it is the subject of constant revision. The features that lead to its foundation are those that often accompany a new field, with its taxonomies, rules, models, and systems. As such, collections mirror the differentiation and specialisation of academic disciplines – a process that continues today, in the application of new techniques, such as C14, DNA, and isotope-analysis, to the re-use of old resources. In these terms, the academic collection differs substantially from other museum-like institutions. By definition, it is a polyvalent space. Thus, it is a repository, where material is aggregated. It is an archive, where research is documented and type material is stored to enable the replication of experiments, and to study failed attempts and near-misses. The collection can also be a theatre, where theories are made tangible and classic discoveries are re-enacted. As such, collections are spaces of self-affirmation, where disciplinary boundaries are visualised and naturalised. Collections thus build professional identities and secure points of reference. Finally, academic collections provide a social space, where exchange and networking take place. Unlike the office or the laboratory, the collection has a semi-public character that encourages interaction. Overall, it is this remarkable polyvalence that gives the academic collection its special value, and its importance to the university community and to the wider public.

12

Tony Bennett. ‘Assembling Culture’, Journal of Cultural Economy, 2 (2009), pp. 1–2.

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THE UNIVERSITY OF THINGS Recognising this plurality of functions and dynamics opens a wider perspective on the social life of things within academic life. Integrating the technical, social, and symbolic functions of objects challenges those concerned with their preservation and upkeep. However, they also offer enormous potential for reflection on the social history of knowledge. Their epistemic things reveal the assumptions and limitations of experimentalism. Their boundary objects illustrate disciplinary differentiations. And as contact zones, they shed light on the scientific process as a whole. In many ways, this perspective has been endorsed by the rise of the modern university museum profession, and in its discourse. However, the path to acceptance has not always been easy. Following the Second World War, academic collections that once featured prominently were ‘orphaned’ by the rapid rise of the laboratory and field sciences, and over the next generation, many were dismantled and dispersed. In the early 1980s, the suggestion that there might be a “Crisis in University Museums” awakened academics and curators across Europe. In 1982, the University of Utrecht launched a survey of Dutch university museums, which was conducted under the sponsorship of the Dutch Ministry of Culture. This inventory revealed at least 128 collections worth preserving in The Netherlands alone, and prompted attempts to persuade all Dutch universities to husband their collective treasures. In the mid-1980s, the Dutch initiative was taken up in Britain, and led in 1986–87 to a report by the British Museums and Galleries Commission that stressed the importance of making inventories across the university sector. In 1992, a group of Australian universities, led by Peter Stanbury of Macquarie University, followed suit, and the Australian Vice Chancellors’ Committee produced reports in 1996 and 1998 that identified 400 “Cinderella Collections” at potential risk in Australia.13 From there, it was just a matter of time before Stanbury and others organized a meeting of the International Council of Museums (ICOM) devoted to the conservation and use of academic collections throughout the world. At first, the prospect was not optimistic an early meeting in Glasgow, in the year 2000, was given the forbidding title, “The Death of the Museum”.14 Fortunately, the death of the academic collection was much exaggerated. Contributions from British and Nordic universities led in September 2000 to a seminar in Paris on the “Management of University Museums”. This attracted participants from 13

14

Australian Vice Chancellors’ Committee, Cinderella Collections: University Museums and Collections in Australia: The Report of the University Museums Review (Canberra: Australlian Vice Chenacellors’ Committee, 1996); Australian Vice Chancellors’ Committee University Museums Project Committee, Transforming Cinderella Collections: The Management and Conservation of Australian University Museums, Collections and Herbaria (Canberra: Australian Vice Chanellors’ Committee, 1998). Panu Nykänen, ‘The Idea of the University in our Collections: History of the ICOM International Committee on University Museums and Collections (UMAC)’, MS, 2012, p. 8. I am greatly indebted to Professor Nykänen for sharing with us an early version of this paper.

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seventeen countries, and led to the establishment of UMAC (International Committee for University Museums and Collections), under the umbrella of ICOM.15 During the last decade, the value of academic collections has become well established. “To preserve collective memory through sustainable practices”, in the phrase of Lothar Jorden, has become its theme, using objects as “witnesses of the past”. By “evoking the past, shaping the future” academic collections show the interconnectivity of materials, design, theory and practice. What is their future? This question acquires urgency at a time when universities everywhere are exploring the relative value of physical objects as against virtual technologies that appear to make ‘real objects’ redundant. The institutional future is complicated by the fact that, as the historian of ICOM has said, “there is no model for a university museum; all of them have a justification of their own, developed in time and with local characters. The only permanent and common feature […] is their status as a knowledge bank, an important part of the scientific tradition.”16Amongst scholars, this truth remains self-evident, and is not compromised by the fact that, as Oliver MacGregor reminds us, the earliest university museum in England has in its collections an early typewriter, a Japanese mechanical fly-trap, a 19th century clock bird scarer, and an astrolable belonging to Nostradamus. Whether the values implied in this heterogeneity appeal to modern, cost-conscious university managers remain among many issues waiting to be resolved. As the essays in this volume suggest, collecting is a social process, which has always required a committed community of travellers, mediators, agents, traders, and curators. An overriding wish to overtake the printed authority of the ancients, and to see the world – to refine, in Tony Grafton’s phrase, the autopic sensibility – opened the European university of the Renaissance and the Enlightenment to ways of learning based on both ‘le mot et le chose’. Through academic collections, the expansion of Europe and the New World helped shaped the modern university. Established collections continue to structure practices and disciplines, even when they slip from public view. Today, we see objects and collections not as static physical markers but as polysemes that carry, enable, and foster changing meanings in changing historical and social contexts. Researching the university of things – past, present, and future – should prompt fresh interest in the social practices of museum-building, and in this way parallel the ‘object turn’ in the history

15

16

Today, UMAC is one of the 31 international committees of ICOM. Membership currently exceeds 200 individuals and institutions from 41 countries, including 31 from the USA, 16 from the UK, and 12 from Germany. UMAC has pioneered many activities, including a world-wide database for University Museums and Collections, inspired by Cornelia Weber and Marta Lourenco. Nykänen, ‘The Idea of the University in our Collections’, p. 3.

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of science and the material-culture debate.17 We look forward to making use of this approach, to highlight the circulation of objects and ideas in a comparative, European and international perspective, the better to see academic collections as a rich resource for our understanding of human culture and the natural world. BIBLIOGRAPHY Andraschke, Udo & Marion Maria Ruisinger (eds.), Die Sammlungen der Universität ErlangenNürnberg. Begleitband zur Ausstellung ‚Ausgepackt. Die Sammlungen der Universtität Erlangen-Nürnberg‘ (Nürnberg: Stadtmuseum Erlangen, 2007). Appadurai, Arjun (ed.), The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988). Australian Vice Chancellors’ Committee, Cinderella Collections: University Museums and Collections in Australia: The Report of the University Museums Review (Canberra: Australlian Vice Chenacellors’ Committee, 1996). Australian Vice Chancellors’ Committee University Museums Project Committee, Transforming Cinderella Collections: The Management and Conservation of Australian University Museums, Collections and Herbaria (Canberra: Australian Vice Chanellors’ Committee, 1998). Barrett, Jennifer, Museums and the Public Sphere (Chichester: Blackwell, 2011). Bennett, Tony, ‘Assembling Culture’, Journal of Cultural Economy, 2 (2009), pp. 1–2. Bräunlein, Peter J., ‚Material Turn‘, in: Dinge des Wissens: Die Sammlungen, Museen und Gärten der Universität Göttingen (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2012), pp. 30–44. Bredekamp, Horst et al. (ed.), Theater der Natur und der Kunst. Wunderkammern des Wissens (Berlin: Henschel 2000). Byrne, Sarah, Anne Clarke, Rodney Harrison & Robin Torrence, ‘Networks, Agents and Object: Frameworks for Unpacking Museum Collections’, in: Sarah Berne et al. (eds.), Unpacking the Collection: Networks of Material and Social Agency in the Museum (New York: Springer, 2011), pp. 3–28. Clifford, James, ‘Museums as Contact Zones’, in: Clifford, Routes. Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press 1997), pp. 188–219. Collet, Dominik, Die Welt in der Stube: Begegnungen mit Außereuropa in Kunstkammern der Frühen Neuzeit (Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009) Findlen, Paula, Possessing Nature: Museums, Collecting, and Scientific Culture in Early Modern Italy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994). Grafton, Anthony, Defenders of the Text: The Traditions of Scholarship in the Age of Science, 1450–1800 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991). Hahn, Hans Peter, Materielle Kultur. Eine Einführung (Berlin: Reimer, 2005). Hill, Kate, ‘Introduction: Museums and Biographies: Telling Stories about People, Things and Relationships’, in: Kate Hill (ed.), Museums and Biographies Stories, Objects, Identities (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2012), pp. 1–12. Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Barbara, ‘Reconfiguring Museums: An Afterword’, in: Cordula Grewe (ed.), Die Schau des Fremden. Ausstellungskonzepte zwischen Kunst, Kommerz und Wissenschaft (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2006), pp. 361–376. 17

See for example, Arjun Appadurai (ed.), The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988); Peter J. Bräunlein ‘Material Turn’, in Dinge des Wissens. Die Sammlungen, Museen und Gärten der Universität Göttingen (Göttingen, 2012), pp. 30–44; Paula Findlen, Possessing Nature: Museums, Collecting, and Scientific Culture in Early Modern Italy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994).

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MacLeod, Roy & P.F. Rehbock (eds.), Darwin’s Laboratory: Evolutionary Theory and Natural History in the Pacific (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1994). MacLeod, Roy, ‘Museums in the Pacific: Reflections on an “Introduced Concept” in Transition’, in: Martine Barrère (èd.), Les Sciences hors d'Occident au XXème Siècle, vol. 5: Sciences et Dèveloppement (Paris: ORSTOM Editions, 1996), pp. 275–80. MacLeod, Roy, ‘Post-colonalism and Museum Knowledge: Revisiting the Museums of the Pacific’, Pacific Science, 52 (4) (1998), pp. 308–318. Nykänen, Panu, ‘The Idea of the University in our Collections: History of the ICOM International Committee on University Museums and Collections (UMAC)’, MS, 2012. Pomian, Krzystof, Der Ursprung des Museums: Vom Sammeln (Berlin: Wagenbach, 2007). Rheinberger, Hans-Jörg, Towards a History of Epistemic Things: Synthesizing Proteins in a Test Tube (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996). Star, Susan Leigh & James R. Griesemer, ‘Institutional Ecology, ‘Translations’ and Boundary Objects: Amateurs and Professionals in Berkeley's Museum of Vertebrate Zoology, 1907– 39’, Social Studies of Science, 13 (1989), pp. 387–420. Te Heesen, Anke & Emma C. Spary (eds.), Sammeln als Wissen: Das Sammeln und seine wissenschaftliche Bedeutung (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2002). Te Heesen, Anke, ‚In medias res. Zur Bedeutung von Universitätssammlungen‘, N.T.M., 16 (2008), pp. 485–490. Weber, Cornelia, ‚Universitätssammlungen und -museen‘, in: Ulrich Rasche (ed.), Quellen zur frühneuzeitlichen Universitätsgeschichte. Typen, Bestände, Forschungsperspektiven, (Wiesbaden. Harrasowitz, 2011), pp. 83–118. Weingart, Peter, ‘The Paradoxical Discourse’, in: Peter Weingart and Nico Stehr (eds.), Practising Interdisciplinarity (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000), pp. 25–42.

MUSEUMS AND THEIR COLLECTIONS: A DYNAMIC RELATIONSHIP Michael Fehr ABSTRACT Museums are neither media nor academic institutions, but independent communicative systems, which, like other social systems, are created by their own operations, which, again, obtain reliability as much as they unfold. The individual forms of appearance typical for museums therefore not only result from the diversity of their respective assets, but also from the divers and varying criteria or reference systems, which are applied to realize the specific museum's idea by selecting objects from their collections. Looking at the relationship between the collections of a museum and its idea, can not only reveal much of the history of a specific museum, or museums in general, but illuminate the idiosyncratic structure of meaning and knowledge created by handling objects, or trying to think with them. The main thesis of the article is that most museums do not create but only represent knowledge while the preformat of museums, the so called Schatz- and Wunderkammern, have been places where knowledge has been gathered by collecting and organizing specific objects. Museums therefore are in fact “aesthetische Kirchen” (Hans Sedlmayr) driven by a secularized form of Eucharist – the transformation of objects to signs – as their core procedure. In consequence, an enlightenment of the museum seems necessary.

INTRODUCTION Museums are neither media nor academic institutions, but self-contained communicative systems, which, like other social systems, are created by their own operations – which, again, obtain reliability and develop social-political impact as they unfold. The individual forms of appearance typical for museums result not only from the diversity of their respective holdings, but also from the divers and varying criteria or reference systems that are applied to realize a specific museumʼs idea in selecting objects from its collections. Looking at these selection-processes – the relationship between a museumʼs collections and its idea – not only reveals much about the history of a specific museum, or museums in general, but also illuminates the idiosyncratic structure of meaning and knowledge created by handling objects. However, to the extent that todayʼs museums are subjected to mental capitalism1 and being turned into mass-media in more or less non-reflective ways, creating meaning by dealing with objects, or even trying to think with objects, is not 1

cf.: Georg Franck, Die Ökonomie der Aufmerksamkeit (München/Wien: Hanser, 1998).

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what visitors have come to expect of a state-of-the-art museum-experience. If communication within the framework of museums at a certain point in their history might have had the character of a scholarly debate, a learning experience, or a personal enlightenment, it nowadays comes down to talking about collections and their display, about investments and sponsors, relationships and careers. In other words, while museums are losing their function as places where relevant knowledge is being produced, we see them becoming reshaped to represent bits of knowledge as more or less secured values, not least in an economic sense. And as much as such knowledge-values, although stemming from different disciplines, can generally be defined as the outcome of an instrumental rationality, museums at large demonstrate and legitimize the belief in the possibility of rational control over the world. In this role, however, the museum – understood as a principle, or a general format to grasp the world2 – gradually moves into the position traditionally occupied by religion, its edifices becoming modern aesthetic churches.3 Reflecting these developments and trends, my general question is whether there are still ways to re-establish the museum as a place of Wissenschaft in the literal sense of the word, i.e. as a place where knowledge and insights relevant for our own time, or even our future can be created, and if so, what kind of knowledge that could be. My approach to resolve this question is to look again at the constituent elements of the museum, to explore their interactions, and to modify them where this seems to make sense. This paper has two parts: the first is an attempt to a theory of the museum; the second will display some examples of how to re-develop the format museum in more or less unconventional ways. If the term ‘museum’ comes up in our culture, it arises with some certainty with the idea of a limited and more or less encapsulated space, most often a building, whatever shape it might have. Connected with this idea, is that a museum is never empty, but always a space with a specific infrastructure suitable to keep, store and present a more or less large number of items. These objects, and this is a third aspect firmly associated with the term ‘museum’, usually do not stem from the museum itself, but rather almost always have been collected from somewhere else and brought to the museum in order to remain there, permanently accessible. Based on these assumptions, the most important idea associated with the term ‘museum’ is that: In a museum, a reality is brought into view, which differs fundamentally from the reality to which the museum as an institution, as well as we, its visitors, belong. These differentiations name the four most important structural elements that constitute a museum. I refer to them as: the museum’s idea (Museumsidee), the museum’s shell (Museumsgehäuse), the collections (Sammlungen) and permanent exhibitions (Schausammlung). The interaction of these elements – the basic operation of the museum – I refer to as musealization (Musealisierung). Because the 2 3

cf.: Donald Preziosi, Brain of the Earthʼs Body. Art, Museums and the Phantasmas of Modernity (Minneapolis/London: University of Minnesota Press, 2003). Hubert Schrade, ‚Die ästhetische Kirche‘, in: Hubert Schrade (ed.), Schicksal und Notwendigkeit der Kunst (Leipzig: Armanen-Verlag, 1936), pp. 52–77.

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interactions between these elements are highly individual, museums take on very different forms, making it difficult to compare them. Nevertheless, there are some general rules, which seem to apply to all museums. The most important I will now sketch. COLLECTIONS Collecting always relates to the concrete, the individual, or the specific, and can be differentiated into various individual operations. Its necessary precondition is the perception of the world as an accumulation of things, which can be distinguished and separated from each other. Thus, the first operation is a selectionprocess by which features that appear to be identical for certain things are perceived, or are ascribed to them by a defined procedure. This selection-process – the detection of possible relationships or similarities amongst things, which is basically arbitrary – will be completed by a further operation, the conceptual decontextualization of such related things, followed by their physical removal from their environment. The manifold paths to acquisition are known. These range from picking up and finding to the literal impaling, as well as from purchase to robbery, and almost always involve an act of at least symbolic violence. The collections compiled in this way differ from the Real (Wirklichkeit) foremost by an arbitrarily set inner connection, which, in so far as it is reflected as cognitive interest (Erkenntnisinteresse), can take on a scholarly nature. Collections can be assembled and exist without reference to museums. Hence museum’s collections and the museumʼs shell are not only by definition distinct, but also can never replace each other. Furthermore, the museumʼs shell and collections can be distinguished clearly because of their different frames of reference: In the case of the collection, this is the Real (Wirklichkeit) from which the collected objects stem, while in the case of the museumʼs shell, it is the reality, of which the museum as an institution is a part. MUSEUMʼS IDEA – MUSEUMʼS SHELL In contrast to the collection, the museumʼs shell is determined by a representational, rather than a cognitive interest. The museumʼs shell – by which I mean not only a building, but also the entire scientific and institutional apparatus of a museum – is the reification of the museumʼs idea. While the museumʼs idea finds its conceptual counterpart as an entity in the museumʼs shell, idea and shell are always in tension, because in principle a specific museumʼs shell will always be limited, whereas respective ideas might relate to a larger whole.4 The decisions made in a museum are therefore always determined by the general condition of 4

This already suggests the common formulation a “Museum of Natural History, Technology, Art” etc.

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having to realize the museumʼs idea within the limited resources supplied by the museumʼs shell. This, however, means that regardless of what a museum comprises, it will typically point beyond its frame to a larger whole, which is to be experienced and become evident through its limited collections, spaces and other resources. While the collections relate directly, and most often in a systematic mode, to the Real, the relationship of the museumʼs shell to the collections as well as to its environment is defined by rhetorical forms or their visual counterparts, allegory and emblem. Musealization, therefore, has to mediate between systematic, or even scientific standards, represented by the collections, and plausible interpretations, represented by the museumʼs shell. MUSEALIZATION (I) The musealization of acquired items differs from their treatment in scientific, artistic and practical work in that they are kept as fragments of the Real, and further physical operations on or with them are in general ruled out. In order to ensure this, the items are inventoried, preserved, and stored, i.e. once and for all removed from everyday life as well as from the economic cycle, and are, at least in public museums, kept as commons. Next, these objects are aestheticized, which means that they are seen as no longer having a practical or commercial function, and are preserved indefinitely in this state. This aestheticization, or, reification of things, is at the base of their conceptual conservation as objects. And this is the prerequisite for the next step of musealization: the possibility of their reflection in a sapere aude, which suggests that even the faculty of judgment is tested by dealing with them. Whatever the outcome of such a reflection, this serves as the basis for the final operation, in which ever new and different contexts can be constructed with the musealized objects, because they will not be altered or destroyed, but processed only symbolically. In these constructions, the objects function, in Krzysztof Pomianʼs phrase, as “Semiophors”, i.e. as things that appear as the carriers of a specific knowledge, and within the context of other objects constitute a reality. PERMANENT EXHIBITION The place where interpretations and constructions of objects are made manifest is the permanent exhibition, the open-to-the-public area within the museum, in which a selection from the stored collections is on permanent view. The permanent exhibition, however, tends to achieve the status of a self-contained reality supported by the museumʼs shell. It is constructed from the museumʼs collections, which are seen as a more or less contingent accumulation of things that are to be interpreted in light of the museumʼs idea. In this process, however, the collections will be perceived as a self-contained reality to the extent to which the origin of the objects cannot be retrieved, or will not be considered.

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In other words, the museumʼs permanent exhibition is made up of a selection out of a selection. There are no rules for this selection process, nor are rules applied with finality. Rather, as the history of particular museums and museums in general shows, those rules are subject to constant change, which can result from both shifts and redefinitions of the museumʼs idea as well as from changes on the level of the collections, for example by their expansion, or by new information connected with them. However, in whichever way this selection process is performed, objects selected to be put on display in the permanent exhibition will always appear in a dual role: as representatives of both the collections and of the museumʼs idea. And this means that – nowadays in most cases – the selection of objects for a permanent exhibition is based not on scientific, rational principles, but on rhetorical forms of argumentation. With respect to the relationship between the permanent exhibition and the collection, the selection functions mostly as a pars pro toto, while, with regard to the relationship between the permanent exhibition and the museumʼs idea, it functions most often as a synecdoche.5 MUSEALIZATION (II) A synecdoche works as a circular conclusion that, with respect to the museum, can be outlined like this: Collections result from interpretations of the reality from which their objects stem; in this respect, interpretations precede the objects and legitimize their choice for a collection. On the other hand, interpretations of the reality can be developed only by finding and defining objects, and from this point of view respective objects precede their interpretations and legitimize them. Therefore: Collections have structurally a self-evident character, because they are object-relations that result from interpretations which themselves are legitimized by those object-relations. This circular mechanism is in effect at any time in all museums. It expands spiral-like into space and time when other elements of the museum are taken into consideration: Circularity is in effect with respect to the relationship between objects and collections, because only those objects will be included in collections that comply with their criteria. However, criteria can be adapted or even changed in order to include objects that previously could not be integrated. Furthermore, this mechanism is also in effect with respect to the criteria on which specific interpretations are based, because such criteria can be derived from the reality from which the objects stem, as well as from the reality to which the museumʼs shell belongs. Finally, circularity is in effect with respect to the complete content of a museum in relation to its shell, to the extent that the museumʼs shell comprises all holdings, even while they are being deployed to point to something beyond its borders. 5

Typical exceptions of this rule are study-collections, such as those in older natural history museums still on display; in other cases one has to question whether the institution is in fact a museum, and not merely an aggregation of collections.

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Therefore, museums are neither exclusively media nor scientific institutions, even if they might act in the context of media, and might fulfill scholarly functions. Instead, museums are discrete communicative systems, which, similar to other social systems, are created by their own operations, and obtain meaning and normative value as much as they unfold. And museums therefore are primarily historical entities, not because they deal with historical objects, but first and foremost because they develop and reflect their own history, similar to a self-conscious organism. Unfolding like a snail shell recursive in space and time, by making their own history the subject of their operations, they finally might become individual institutions. MUSEALIZATION – MUSEUM In practice, the snail-shell-like structure of museums appears mostly to be hidden, and comes into view only when a museum is founded or reshaped. This results from the fact that exhibits are set up and fortified as well-founded selection from the museumʼs collections by applying two other rhetorical mechanisms or figures that superimpose its synecdochical structure. This includes deduction, which ties in with the reality of the museumʼs shell, and an inductive form of argumentation, which relates to the reality of its holdings. Both forms apply in all museums, however not in a definite or general way, but always in individual relationships, as a product of their constant interdependence. Their main effect is to break up the self evident, circular structure of a museum, and replace it by a rational-discursive construction. The deductive principle legitimizes collections primarily by the museumsʼ idea, which commonly is derived from the reality the museum as an institution belongs to. Best seen in newly founded museums, objects are collected only to the extent they are necessary and useful to form a permanent exhibition suited to bring the museumʼs idea into view. The result of applying this principle is that the synecdochical structure of the museum becomes inverted, claiming for the full range of objects the few actually collected and on display represent.6 This construct seems to be supported by the inductive principle, which is the most common argumentation used to explain how a museum operates. Following this principle, a pile of objects will be brought into a specific order, and valued, i.e. set into hypothetical relationships (collections), which, in the second step will be made explicit in the permanent exhibition, and finally put together within the museumʼs shell. This principle is used to explain the structure of a museum because its direction of development resembles its spiral-like circular structure. In fact, none of these principles appear to be solely at work at a museum. Its concrete structure will be a result of their dialectical and changing relationship. As much as this relationship unfolds, it will break up the spiral-circular structure of the muse6

The German Historical Museum, Berlin, as well as the House of History, Bonn, both founded in the 1980s, are typically examples for this phenomenon.

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um and project it onto a flat stage upon which the particular (objects) and the general (museumʼs idea) struggle in permanent juxtaposition, subsequently occupying wider fields. One important factor in the expansion of the museum-system has had its cause in the replacement of the spiral-circular structure by a geometric-linear one. This replacement can be understood as marking the shift from a reflective structure to a perspective system, which, by its nature, can be thought of as unlimited, and will be confined only by so called marginal conditions like economic, political, or spatial factors. Thus musealization became a universally applicable form of perception and processing, or in short, a format that can be applied to anything that can be reified, i.e., can be handled as a thing. In its effects, it may only be compared with the impact of the artistic (central) perspective, which led to the complete reorganization of our perception of the world.7 As it was the major achievement of perspective to make the separation of subject and object visible, so musealization is linked to the idea that the world as a whole, including its history, can be grasped and brought under human control. Based on this claim, museums play both a normative and reflective role. The normative role is most evident in Natural History Museums insofar as they can count on holotypes, which serve as the roots of scientific taxonomies. In contrast, the reflective role is best seen in historical museums, as their objects usually have little extrinsic meaning without attribution and contextualization derived from the museumʼs idea. Between these two poles, museum practice unfolds and takes on manifold variations and combinations. MUSEUM In essence, museums as we know them have a Janus-like face. One the one hand, the museum is something like the apotheosis of an all-embracing conceptual colonialism, and, on the other, an Utopian space, a place fueled by the hope that all things – naturalia and artificialia – can be reconciled and put in a transparent, meaningful order, easy to understand. Both aspects build on two assumptions: that the museum is a place where via originals truth can be found, and, that a museum covers a totality, as limited or specialized as this might be. A hint to the first assumption can be that massproduction, the core of industrialized societies (which generate and keep museums at large), has not yet been reflected in museums so far, and if so, only in the mode of ‘original’ objects. The second assumption can be drawn from looking at the architecture. In contrast to old museums, which typically have a serial, extendible structure, modern museum buildings demonstrate an entity, an identity, a definite space, and by this signal an issue to be closed.

7

Donald Preziosi, ‘The Art of Art History’, in: Donald Preziosi (ed.), The Art of Art History: A Critical Anthology (Oxford/New York: Oxford Universtity Press, 1998), p. 510.

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Both aspects hint at current trends: To the extent and in reaction to the fact that museums have been losing their relevance for scholarly research and the production of knowledge as a consequence of the fact that these are increasingly performed at other institutions and in and through new media, they are seen to be left with the role representing old knowledge. In consequence, permanent exhibitions are broken up and formatted along the imperatives of media-oriented forms of visualization – as assemblies of singled out objects with outstanding features, presented like stars. In putting these star-objects together, an old form of display, the Schatz- und Wunderkammer is being reactivated, not in the sense it used to have as an order created and derived from the peculiar properties of its objects. Instead, the context of the modernized permanent exhibitions relies largely on the museumʼ shell, on mediation-techniques such as audio-guides, audio-visuals, hands-onapparatus, and, not least, the individualized architecture. From this point of view, it is not surprising that museums are perceived primarily as tourist venues – and are put under economic pressure comparable to other attractions. A way out of this trap seems possible only if museums begin to reflect their very own structures, procedures, and forms of dealing with things, and to (re)activate them in a way that allows them to emerge as an alternative to media that is as clear as it is attractive. This means that museums should give up their role as fortresses of positivism and colonialism, and reconceive themselves as places which show how knowledge is being created, that knowledge is always a form of convention, that truth is often not much more than a truism, and that imagination and fiction are the forces which propel development. In other words: Instead of trying to compete with mass media, museums should be conceived of as individual organisms, as systems that reflect.8

8

cf.: Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Barbara, ‘From Ethnology to Heritage: The Role of the Museum’, SIEF Keynote, Marseilles, April 28, 2004 (www.nyu.edu/classes/bkg/web/SIEF.pdf), as well as other contributions by this author.

PART II: ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. 1: Uli Westphal, Elephas Anthropogenus, 2008, inkjet-pigment-print on canvas, 225 x 150 cm. Photo: by the artist. A chart of historic illustrations (800–1750) of elephants, organized in a zoological taxonomy.

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Fig. 2 a.

Fig. 2 b. Fig. 2 a and b: Mohamad-Said Baalbaki, Al Burak, 2008, artifacts and showcases, different materials, centerpiece ca. 100 x 200 x 60 cm. Photos: by the artist. A reconstruction of the well known Pegasus-like animal, the Prophet is said to have used to travel in one night from Mecca to Jerusalem, shown as part of an installation composed of relics, artifacts and cases (all items created by the artist).

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Fig. 3: Anne Kunz, The Flea. A Cultural-History Museum, 2008, about 120 objects (naturalia and artifacts), stored and presented in an installation on a carpet, 250 x 350 cm. Photo: Werkbund-Archiv – Museum der Dinge, Berlin.

Fig. 4 a.

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Fig. 4 b. Fig. 4 a and b: J & K, The Babylon Case. A Time Capsule for our Civilization, 2008, 8 dioramas, mixed media, in a hexagon shaped case, 77 x 77 x 91 cm. The Babylon case displays key relics from past, present and future that reflect the timespan from the original Babylon genesis to its decline in the future. Photo: Werkbund-Archiv – Museum der Dinge, Berlin.

Fig. 5 a.

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Fig. 5 b. Fig. 5 a and b: Salon de Fleurus, Museum of Modern Art, 2002, 61 paintings, acrylic on carton, varying size, and one object, plaster, in a model-museum's space, 200 x 200 x 60 cm. The Museum of Modern Art is on display at the Museum of American Art, Berlin. It reflects the idealized canon of Modern Art as it was refined by Alfred Barr by showing 41 modern artworks in 1:10 scale, 16 paintings of pages of the catalog Cubism and Abstract Art, 1936, and 4 paintings bringing four different installations of these paintings at The Museum of Modern Art into view. Photo: by the author.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Franck, Georg, Die Ökonomie der Aufmerksamkeit (München/Wien: Hanser, 1998). Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Barbara, ‘From Ethnology to Heritage: The Role of the Museum’, SIEF Keynote, Marseilles, April 28, 2004 (http://www.nyu.edu/classes/bkg/web/SIEF.pdf). Preziosi, Donald, ‘The Art of Art History’, in: Donald Preziosi (ed.), The Art of Art History: A Critical Anthology (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), p. 510. Preziosi, Donald, Brain of the Earth's Body. Art, Museums and the Phantasmas of Modernity (Minneapolis/London: University of Minnesota Press, 2003). Schrade, Hubert, ‚Die ästhetische Kirche‘, in: Hubert Schrade (ed.), Schicksal und Notwendigkeit der Kunst (Leipzig: Armanen-Verlag, 1936), pp. 52–77.

COLLECTING NATURALIA – THE FORMATION OF AN ACADEMIC BOTANICAL TRADITION IN LEIDEN Florike Egmond ABSTRACT This article concentrates on diverse ‘segments’ of the collections of Leiden University during the first decades after its foundation in 1575 – the academic hortus botanicus, and the correspondence of the naturalist Carolus Clusius – while taking into account various objects in the private collections of naturalia in late 16th-century Leiden that found their way into the university collections. Together, they can throw light on the early formation of a university collection which went hand in hand with the construction of a new academic discipline with its own spaces, objects, and standards.

INTRODUCTION Historical collections can be read ‘forwards’, in the sense that one can speak of their relevance to present or even future generations. But they can also be read ‘backwards’: studied as an outcome or residue of various cultural, intellectual, and scientific traditions. Here we will mainly concentrate on the latter, focusing on two segments of the collections of Leiden University during the first decades after its foundation in 1575, and on their relevance for the creation of the new academic discipline of natural history. The first is the hortus botanicus of Leiden University: a living collection as well as a space and location for research, experiment, teaching, and curiosity. The second is the correspondence of the famous sixteenthcentury naturalist Carolus Clusius: a major source of information about early modern botany and collecting as well as a remnant of the European networks of correspondence that linked early modern naturalists. In addition, we will also discuss some objects in private collections of naturalia in late sixteenth-century Leiden that found their way into the university’s collections. This case study offers an opportunity to examine the close connection between the formation of a new academic discipline (the study of living nature), with its own spaces, objects, and standards, and the creation of early modern academic collections. LIVING PLANTS, PAPER CORRESPONDENCE, DEAD OBJECTS Materially as well as in terms of origins and institutional location these two segments could hardly be more different. The hortus botanicus and its adjacent build-

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ings still exist on the same location in Leiden where the garden was created on the orders of the governing board (Curatores) of Leiden University during the 1590s. Over time, the garden has grown exponentially in surface area and number of species. Within the modern university garden, however, the original hortus of the sixteenth century has been recreated (in 2009–10) on the same spot where it once was, and showing the same plant species that were originally grown there.1 The correspondence of the naturalist Carolus Clusius, on the other hand, is a purely textual and paper collection.2 It has formed part of the collections of Leiden University Library since shortly after Clusius’ death in 1609, but has only begun to be exploited more fully as a historical source in the twentieth century.3 It comprises some 1,300 letters from more than 300 correspondents all over Europe, sent to Clusius during almost half a century (c. 1565–1609) and written in six languages. It is a somewhat atypical humanist’s correspondence, showing not so much what a humanist wrote to others, but what others wrote and sent to him. Clusius’ correspondents included aristocratic ladies as well as princes, apothecaries, merchants, physicians, collectors, mathematicians, and humanists. Their letters reflect attitudes in widely different milieus to natural history, collecting, curious naturalia, plant growing, and gardening. For this reason Clusius’ correspondence is a highly relevant source for the understanding of early modern natural history in Europe.4 It is equally important to the early history of the Leiden hortus, and enables us to explore its place in the wider context of the emerging discipline of botany. The collection of living plants constituted by the hortus and the paper correspondence collection of Clusius should therefore be studied together, even though they are separate and different entities. Dried plants and parts of animals as well as shells, stones, and minerals entered the collections of Leiden University from several private collections during the first twenty to thirty years of its existence. Evidence documenting donations of collectors’ items to Leiden University is extremely scarce, and few of the original 1

2

3

4

On the hortus and its history, see H. Veendorp & L. Baas Becking, Hortus Academicus Lugduno Batavus 1587–1937 (Haarlem: Ex Typographia Schediana, 1938); Leslie Tjon Sie Fat & E. de Jong (eds.), The authentic garden. A symposium on gardens (Leiden: Clusius Foundation, 1991); and most recently, Gerda van Uffelen, ‘Prefecten en hun planten’, in: Van Gelder, Esther (ed.), Bloeiende kennis. Groene ontdekkingen in den Gouden Eeuw (Hilversum: Verloren, 2012), pp. 132–47. Originally, many letters written to Clusius were sent together with drawings of plants and packages with plant seeds, cuttings and bulbs. All of these were separated from the letters, probably by Clusius himself. First, by Clusius’ biographer Friedrich Wilhelm Tobias Hunger, Charles de l'Escluse (Carolus Clusius) Nederlandsch Kruidkundige, 1526–1609, 2 vols. (The Hague: M. Nijhoff, 1927, 1942); more recently, systematically during the Clusius Project. All of these letters in Leiden University Library and an increasing number of transcriptions can be consulted online at: http://clusiuscorrespondence.huygens.knaw.nl. See Florike Egmond, The World of Carolus Clusius. Natural History in the Making, 1550– 1610 (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2010); and Florike Egmond, Paul Hoftijzer & Robert Visser (eds.), Carolus Clusius. Towards a cultural history of a Renaissance naturalist (Amsterdam: Koninkljike Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen, 2007).

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objects survive. However, some have left traces in paper documentation, in text and (rarely) image. Such traces help us to imagine how Leiden’s university collection of naturalia first began to take shape in the 1590s and early 1600s. MAKING A UNIVERSITY GARDEN The Curatores of Leiden University took the decision to create a university garden, provided the funding, and played a decisive role in the choice of its location, but two men actually gave it shape.

Fig. 1: Portrait of Carolus Clusius in J. Boissard, Bibliotheca sive thesaurus virtutis et gloriae: in quo continentur illustrium eruditione et doctrina virorum effigies et vitae, 5 vols. (Frankfurt: Theodor. de Bry, 1628–32).

The botanist Carolus Clusius (1526–1609), first prefect of the hortus, and his assistant, the apothecary-naturalist Dirck Cluyt (1546–98), decided its layout and selected its plants. Their choices reflected their highly personal botanical research interests. The plot was made ready and plants put into the soil in the course of the season 1593–94. A third man, the physician-anatomist Pieter Paauw (1564–1617), took over from Clusius in 1598, and had a decisive influence on the site and its surrounding buildings. He also stimulated a significant expansion of the number of species grown in the hortus. All three men belonged to the field of medicine in the wider sense of the word. Clusius had studied medicine, although he never practised. Cluyt was an

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apothecary of considerable repute in Holland. Paauw was a physician-anatomist with specialist knowledge of the human foetus and the functions of the eye.5 Until well into the seventeenth century most European naturalists had a medical background, while the study of botany in a university setting evolved slowly from a study of medicinal herbs as part of medicine to the study of plants in general.6 Clusius and Cluyt introduced large numbers of plants into the hortus that came from their private gardens. Clusius carried plants, roots, bulbs and cuttings as well as a collection of seeds from Frankfurt, where he had lived for several years after an earlier period at the imperial court in Vienna and with a patron in Hungary. Clusius’ Frankfurt garden had been a typical botanical research garden. Like the court garden that he had previously created in Vienna, it comprised plants that Clusius himself had collected during journeys and field trips in Europe, as well as bulbs that he had received in Vienna from Constantinople and the Levant. But it also contained rare plants from Southern Europe and France, in particular gifts from friends in Italy, Crete, and the Provence. Clusius’ correspondence enables us to trace the provenance of quite a few rare plants in the early Leiden hortus to Clusius’ private plant collection: they travelled (as either seeds or plants) from Crete to Italy, from Italy to Frankfurt, and finally from Frankfurt to Leiden.7 Clusius’ botanical expertise and collection thus reflected the international research interests of European naturalists as well as the fashionable interests of aristocratic collectors. The apothecary Dirck Cluyt was also a recognized plant expert whose knowledge of plants went far beyond what was required for his work as apothecary. In fact, the only reason that Leiden University did not appoint Cluyt as prefect of the hortus lay in his social status: as an apothecary he had no university training, and no more than practical Latin. Leiden University eagerly accepted hundreds of rare plants from Cluyt’s private garden to stock the hortus, however. His private garden was a research garden, just like Clusius’ plant collection. Cluyt owned large numbers of rare plants as well as dried specimens and collected hundreds of watercolours and drawings of naturalia. The origins of Cluyt’s private garden as botanical collection went back years before his first meeting with Clusius and his involvement with Leiden University. Cluyt had contacts in Spain and probably Italy, and visited the internationally famous garden of Petrus van Coudenberghe in Antwerp in the early 1580s (it was destroyed during the siege of Antwerp). Cluyt’s father-in-law cum business partner, the renowned physician Pieter van Foreest, had studied medicine in Italy and there learned the relatively 5 6 7

For more detailed information see Tjon Sie Fat, The authentic garden, pp. 3–12; Egmond, The World of Carolus Clusius, esp. pp. 157–73; and Van Uffelen, ‘Prefecten en hun planten’. The chronology is slightly different in each European country. See Karen Reeds, Botany in Medieval and Renaissance Universities (New York: Garland, 1991). See Hunger, Charles de l’Escluse, vol. 1, pp. 198–201 (with a plant list); Egmond, The World of Carolus Clusius, pp. 157–73; Gerda van Uffelen, ‘The Libri Picturati and the early history of the hortus botanicus Leiden’, in: Jan de Koning et al. (eds.), Drawn after nature. The complete botanical watercolours of the 16th-century Libri Picturati (Zeist: KNNV Publishing, 2008), pp. 54–8; and Van Uffelen, 'Prefecten en hun planten'.

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new tradition of botanical field work. It is probable, therefore, that Cluyt’s plant collection and his experience as a naturalist and collector were influenced by models of collecting and doing natural history which themselves had been shaped in Italy and the Southern Netherlands.8 The third key figure, physician-anatomist Petrus Paauw, was less of a plant expert than a man with great organisational capacities, a strong interest in exotic naturalia, and more than excellent connections in the circles of the East India Company and the Dutch political elite. When Cluyt died young (in 1598), and Clusius was too old and ill to take care of the management of the hortus, the University of Leiden appointed Paauw as its new director (a function he fulfilled until his death in 1617). Paauw was particularly strong on collection building, management, and on the display of natural curiosities. He initiated and supervised the construction of the Ambulacrum (1601), a gallery built both to protect sensitive plants from the winter cold and to display curiosities in the gallery. These were mainly naturalia and ethnographica of the kind one would also come across in the Kunst- und Wunderkammer of the period: such as an echinocactus, a lizard, the head of a crab, a bamboo, the leg and claw of a dodo, and various birds, including the bird of paradise. Many of these items came from Paauw’s private collection, which comprised numerous items from the East Indies where the Dutch were rapidly establishing their influence in precisely these years.9 The private collections of living plants and seeds of Clusius and Cluyt, and subsequently Paauw did not constitute additional stocks for the Leiden hortus but formed the substantial core of its initial collection. This hortus thus did not originate as a medicinal garden (in spite of the overtly medical background of all three protagonists), but as a research and experimental botanical garden with a considerable number of rare plants and an additional gallery with curious naturalia on display.10 An image of the garden in 1610 shows the Ambulacrum and even a fenced-off section of the garden, presumably for the rarest plants. In the middle of it we can just make out one of the most fashionable and prestigious plants of this period, the crown imperial.

8 9

10

See H. A. Bosman-Jelgersma, ‘Dirck Cluyt. De eerste Leidse hortulanus’, Leids Jaarboekje, 83 (1991), pp. 74–88. On Paauw see van Uffelen, ‘Prefecten en hun planten’; Egmond, The World of Carolus Clusius, pp. 157–73; Hesso Veendorp & Baas Becking, Hortus Academicus Lugduno Batavus, p. 65. On botany, exotic naturalia, collecting and the Dutch East India Company, see Pieter Baas, ‘De VOC in Flora’s lusthoven’, in: Leonard Blussé & Ilonka Ooms (eds.), Kennis en Compagnie: De Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie en de moderne wetenschap (Amsterdam: Balans, 2002), pp. 124–37. Tjon Sie Fat (The authentic garden, pp. 7–8) mentions 1,060 species for 1594, of which about one third were medicinal; cf. A. Gogelein et al. (eds.), Leidse Universiteit 400: Stichting en eerste bloei 1575–c. 1650 (Amsterdam: Rijksmuseum, 1975), pp. 170–8; Van Uffelen, ‘The Libri Picturati’; and Van Uffelen, ‘Prefecten en hun planten’, esp. pp. 136–7, with more details on the 1594 plant inventory.

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Fig. 2: Leiden’s hortus botanicus in 1610. Willem van Swanenburg after a design by J. C. Woudanus.

EXPERTISE AND COLLECTIONS It was by no means a coincidence that Leiden University appointed men with private collections to positions connected with the new hortus. That much is evident from the negotiations concerning the appointments of Cluyt and Clusius, as well as from the failed appointment of the physician, collector, traveller, and wholesale merchant in collectors’ items and curious naturalia Bernardus Paludanus from Enkhuizen (Berent ten Broecke, c. 1550–1633). After an initial agreement with the University, Paludanus eventually refused a combined position as professor of medicine and prefect of the hortus in 1591, well before Clusius or Cluyt had been approached. The initial agreement had stipulated that Paludanus would move to Leiden with his whole, enormous collection of herbs, stuffed animals, corals, minerals, and so on. He was also supposed to organize and plant the new hortus, and to ensure the arrival in Leiden of plants from all over the world, to be collected by persons with whom he was in contact. Paludanus’ eventual refusal meant that his vast stocks of naturalia never entered the Leiden university collections – a major loss, as is clear from the fact that groups of items from Paludanus’ collections ended up in German and Danish collections during the seventeenth century and are still preserved there.11 11

On Paludanus and this failed appointment, see Florike Egmond, ‘Een mislukte benoeming. Paludanus en de Leidse universiteit’, in: Roelof van Gelder, Jan Parmentier & Vibeke Roeper (eds.), Souffrir pour parvenir. De wereld van Jan Huygen van Linschoten (Haarlem: Arcadia,

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Leiden University was interested in these men as much for their material collections and access to interesting naturalia as for their expertise. Once an appointment had been made, the distinction between private collection and university collection appears to have become irrelevant from the university’s point of view – which, of course, did not necessarily coincide with that of the original collectors. Indeed, attempts at (or fears of) a more or less silent expropriation of such a private collection with insufficient compensation by the university beyond the appointment itself may have been one of the reasons for Paludanus’ refusal. They certainly were a major cause of the problems between Cluyt and the Leiden Curatores and of recriminations of Cluyt’s family after the latter’s death, when promises of financial compensation for Cluyt’s great plant collection were not kept by the university.12 CULTURAL ROOTS OF LIVING COLLECTIONS The character of the private collections of Clusius, Cluyt, and Paauw, and therefore their expertise – which was in part constructed on the basis of these naturalia and of growing, propagating, and analysing them – cannot be understood apart from the cultural influences briefly mentioned above. Clusius’ gardens in the Southern Netherlands, Vienna, and Frankfurt, and his vast botanical expertise were shaped by the context of the Habsburg courts and the aristocracy in both the Southern Netherlands and Vienna. Their cultures of display, collecting, curiosity and studying were linked to and influenced by Italian as well as French and Burgundian traditions. But Clusius’ plant collections also reflected relatively new research practices among European naturalists. The first of these was botanical field work, a practice that appears to have originated in the first half of the sixteenth century. Already in this period it involved European naturalists in extended field trips to Crete, the Alps, and several French and Italian mountains famed for their particularly varied and special flora. Clusius himself travelled widely in Spain and Portugal (1564–65) and wrote the very first national flora on the basis of his observations there.13 The second was the practice among naturalists of shar-

12

13

1998), pp. 51–64. On the further history of Paludanus’ collections, see H. D. Schepelern, ‘Natural philosophers and princely collectors: Worm, Paludanus and the Gottorp and Copenhagen collections’, in: Oliver Impey & Arthur MacGregor, The origins of museums: the cabinets of curiosities in sixteenth and seventeenth-century Europe (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985), pp. 121–7; Heinz Spielman & Jan Drees (eds.), Gottorf im Glanz des Barock. Kunst und Kultur am Schleswiger Hof 1644–1713, 4 vols. (Exhibition catalogue, Schleswig: Schleswig-Holsteinisches Landesmuseum, 1997), of which the second volume concerns the Kunstkammer at Gottorf. Its oldest core consists of objects from Paludanus' collection. Cluyt had been promised compensation for his plants, which according to his estimate were worth 1,500 guilders – a fortune. After months of discussion he eventually accepted compensation of 400 guilders, but even after his death in 1598 there were signs of resentment among his family concerning his treatment by the university. See Carolus Clusius, Rariorum aliquot stirpium per Hispanias observatarum historia (Antwerp: Plantin, 1576). A modern Spanish translation has appeared in recent years: Charles de

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ing and exchanging information via extensive correspondence networks: many participants in this early republic of letters never met in person. Dirck Cluyt’s plant collection and expertise were far less court-inspired, but were probably indirectly influenced by Italian traditions of botanical research and certainly by the (non- or semi-academic) profession of pharmacy. Paauw, too, had been strongly influenced by his medical studies in Italy, and shared the fascination with exotic rarities. These private collections that had originated outside a university setting had thus been shaped by fashions, passions and fascinations that were not necessarily connected with academic purposes as defined at the time. BOTANY OUTSIDE THE UNIVERSITY The hortus botanicus and the Faculty of Medicine were, however, by no means the only places in Leiden to learn about horticulture and botany.14 As in other parts of Europe, high levels of expertise and botanical research gardens could be found outside university circles as well as within them. In fact, the examples of Cluyt and Clusius have shown that their botanical expertise originated to a considerable extent outside the university sphere, and was only later ‘imported’ into the university. Nor was high-level botanical and horticultural expertise the monopoly of one particular social category or even gender. Three brief examples suffice to show as much, and to indicate the diversity of expertise in this field. Christiaen Porret (1554–1627), the son of a French apothecary, lived in Leiden and was connected by family ties with the famous printer Plantin. Porret was one of the major experts in the Netherlands on exotic naturalia. He had a garden in Leiden where he experimented with rare plants and bulbs, as well as a private collection of curiosities. His collection remained private, and it is unknown whether Leiden University ever attempted to buy it or hire him, but Porret was a close friend of Clusius and they frequently exchanged information and plants. It is said that many of his plants found their way into the Leiden hortus via informal means. Rather unusually for an apothecary, we have a printed catalogue of his collection: an inventory made in 1628 after Porret’s death. It lists more than 700 objects, ranging from naturalia from the East Indies and Americas to weapons, minerals, and albums with hundreds of drawings of fruits, flowers and herbs. Porret appears to have been primarily interested in ethnographica and naturalia. Among the latter, we find seven shells from Francis Drake’s ship, a bird from Brazil with a very

14

L’Écluse de Arras, Descripción de Algunas plantas raras encontradas en España y Portugal, ed. and with an intr. by Luis Ramón-Laca and Ramón Morales Valverde, transl. by Avelino Domínguez García and Florentino Fernández González (Castilla y León: Junta de Castilla y León, 2005). In Italy the Monte Baldo overlooking Lake Garda has been one of the famous locations for botanizing trips since at least the 1550s. For a good discussion of Leiden circles of intellectuals, see E. van Gulik, ‘Drukkers en Geleerden. De Leidse Officina Plantiniana (1583–1619)’, in: Theodoor Hermann Lunsingh Scheurleer & G. H. M. Posthumus Meijes (eds.), Leiden University in the Seventeenth Century (Leiden: Brill, 1975), pp. 367–93.

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large beak, a herbarium printed in China, 60 small pen drawings of flowers and plants, 100 large pen drawings of trees and plants, various watercolours of plants, 60 watercolours of fish and beasts, 50 watercolours of narcissi and hyacinths, drawings of both poisonous and edible mushrooms, and much else. None of these objects appear to have survived, so far as is known, and the catalogue has no illustrations.15 Together with the correspondence between Porret and Clusius, this does, however, throw light on Porret’s specific type of expertise concerning nature: it comprised knowledge of medicinal herbs as well as extensive knowledge of exotic plants and other naturalia, and long-standing experience as an experimental grower of rare European and imported plants.16 A rather different branch of botanical culture that originated outside the university setting can be found in the circles of the aristocracy in Leiden. Here, just as among other aristocrats and at courts in other parts of Europe, gardening and the possession of rare plants was a fashionable pastime for most and an authentic passion for many. Princess Marie de Brimeu (died 1605) belonged to the latter category.

Fig. 3: Princess Marie de Brimeu, in Jaques de Bie, Livre contenant la Genealogie et descente de cuex de la Maison de Croy (no place, no publisher, c. 1612).

15

16

Catalogus oft register vande sonderlingheden oft rariteijten ende wtgeleseen sinnelickheden (...) die Christiaen Porret wijlen apoteker in zijn cunstcamer vergadert had (Leiden: Jan Claesz van Dorp, 1628). Most recently on Porret, see Egmond, The World of Carolus Clusius, pp. 176–86; and Claudia Swan, ‘Apotheker, tuinman, verzamelaar, Christaen Porrets omgang met de wonderen der natuur’, in: van Gelder (ed.), Bloeiende kennis, pp. 55–62.

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She was a colourful and strong-minded lady who belonged to the very highest ranks of the aristocracy of the Southern Netherlands, but changed religion, deserted her husband, and spent a large part of her life in court circles in the Northern Netherlands around Willem of Orange and his successor Prince Maurits. She may also have been a spy, and she was certainly involved in high level diplomacy between England and the Dutch Republic. Her ties with the court of William of Orange, who stimulated the creation of Leiden University as a symbol of the independence of the Dutch Republic, made her an influential person behind the scenes of the university. But Marie de Brimeu was also a plant and gardening expert in her own right. She created gardens wherever she lived, and wrote eloquently to Clusius, her life-long friend, about gardening, her garden designs, and the overall visual effects of her garden. For a few years from 1590 she was based in Leiden, in a house with a garden adjoining the plot where the Leiden hortus was established in 1593. In her letters to Clusius she included painted portraits (now lost) of her most beautiful tulips. And she even considered having her Leiden garden painted, so that Clusius – then still in Frankfurt – could have a better idea and give her more specific advice.17 During her years in Leiden Marie de Brimeu was in contact with Johan van Hoghelande (died 1614), another close friend and correspondent of Clusius. As a gardener and plant expert Hoghelande, who was as deaf as a post, was in a class of his own. A friend described him as follows: a man most diligent in making notes about plants, who has devoted himself completely to these matters, both because of his deafness which forces him to abstain from social intercourse and because he does not have any public or private business to occupy him.18

Hoghelande belonged to the minor nobility of Zealand and had grown up in close contact with the culture of the aristocracy in the Southern Netherlands before the Dutch Revolt. He owned an impressive private botanical garden just outside Leiden, where he grew rare plants and experimented. It is said that he had some 2,000 tulips – which puts his collection at a princely level. The plants mentioned by Hoghelande in his letters perfectly fit the list of the desirable, exotic or fashionable flowering plants of the period: including peonies, columbines, cyclamen, many anemones, a white rosa centifolia, numerous tulips, hyacinths, and so forth. Hoghelande grouped plants not just for aesthetic effects, but also by order and thus category. And his garden seems to have functioned very much like a place for experiment and research as well as enjoyment. It was, in fact, one of the special sites of Leiden. Hoghelande mentions quite a few visitors who came to see his garden, some even from abroad and from the court at The Hague, while Jacques de Gheijn is said to have painted some of his flowers in the years 1600–1604. 17

18

Letters from Marie de Brimeu to Clusius, 24 January 1592 and 9 July 1592 (Leiden Universiteitsbibliotheek, VUL 101). On Brimeu see Egmond, The World of Carolus Clusius, esp. pp. 73–8; cf. Anne Goldgar, Tulipomania: money, honor, and knowledge in the Dutch Golden Age (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), p. 118. Letter from Tobias Roels to Clusius, 19 February 1591 (Leiden Universiteitsbibliotheek, VUL 101).

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Hoghelande was a practical as well as an erudite gardener. He knew all of the major contemporary publications on plants, and was interested in the identification of new plants as well as their propagation, the best means to eliminate garden pests, and creating the right location and conditions for plants from different climates or soils. Hoghelande grew many bulbs from seeds, brought new soil into his garden in the hope that this would improve the conditions for tulip growing, and experimented with drainage and irrigation systems. Sustained observation of plants over the years was one of his strong points. And he had portraits of his special plants painted at his home or in his garden, usually by a professional female painter. Hoghelande was also one of the few plant experts in Leiden to go on field trips looking for wild plants in his own region: the dunes along the coast of Holland.19 Princess Marie de Brimeu and Hoghelande seem to have met regularly in their gardens in and near Leiden to exchange information about plants, as well as seeds, plants, cuttings, and bulbs. Neither of them ever fulfilled any university function, but both were important to the early tradition of botany in Leiden. Both exchanged their knowledge of plants and gardening with Clusius and with various other persons connected with the hortus. And both were influential personalities in Leiden, who were instrumental in getting Clusius appointed prefect of the Leiden hortus. CONCLUSION Important cultural roots of virtually every segment of academic and non-academic horticulture, botany, and collecting naturalia in late sixteenth-century Leiden lay in the Southern Netherlands. The naturalist Clusius, the apothecary Porret, Princess Marie de Brimeu, and the deaf garden owner Johan van Hoghelande all originated from or were deeply influenced by the cultures of collecting and gardening in the Southern Netherlands. Those cultures themselves went back to Burgundian times, and were influenced by French and Italian traditions. They were originally a courtly and aristocratic phenomenon that was spreading to a much wider segment of the population since at least the early sixteenth century. Already by the mid-sixteenth century, an ‘infrastructure’ (if we may call it that) of professional nurseries, and highly expert garden designers, engineers and plant experts existed in the Southern Netherlands. In the Northern Netherlands there was no such culture until émigrés from the Southern Netherlands introduced it there. Although botany in Leiden also drew upon other traditions – especially the partly artisanal culture of collecting and medicinal plant growing by apothecaries – it is no exaggeration to state that academic botany in Leiden in its early (that is, late sixteenth-century) phase could not have come into being without the aristocratic culture and fashion of collecting. That culture directly shaped expertise in this field, and helped to give priority to the project of creating a university garden. 19

On Hoghelande, see Egmond, The World of Carolus Clusius, pp. 174–89.

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It directly shaped (Clusius’) expertise in this field, and offered a model for wellto-do members of the upper middle classes such as Paauw. Indirectly, it also determined the choice of objects (plants and other naturalia) in the living academic collection formed by the hortus botanicus. Far from implying that the university imported collections shaped ‘merely’ by an aristocratic desire for fashionable display or grandeur, these collections reflected high levels of expertise, and comprised high quality collectors’ items. These were by no means inconsistent with the desire for display and grandeur but formed (or could form) an intrinsic part of it. The private origins of much material that ended up in the early Leiden University collections of naturalia raises the question to what extent we can actually speak of university collections here. In this situation, the term ‘university collection’ must refer to the decision of the university to incorporate ‘private’ material rather than to the origins of the collections. Looked at from this perspective we can regard this transition from private to university collection as a crucial moment in the creation of the discipline of botany. The university that chose these particular experts and collections thereby changed the status of the expertise incorporated in them, qualifying the subject matter and defining certain practices as academic and scientific rather than as courtly or fashionable. But it should be emphasized that this new qualification did not in the least change the actual state of the knowledge embodied. Clusius’ knowledge was no less because it was forged in fashionable court circles, nor did Leiden University decline to use Cluyt’s personal expertise and his collections, although it refused him a position as prefect on account of his social status. Leiden’s experience was not unique. The history of university museums amply testifies that such shifts from private to academic possession occurred in many other places. Indeed, much of what has been described here can be extended to other European university gardens and to early modern botany in the whole of Europe. The living, dried, painted and described collections of naturalia that form an essential part of this discipline cannot be studied, therefore, by remaining within the confines of universities and their collections, since both collections and expertise were shaped by non-academic, partly aristocratic cultures in Europe. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I would like to thank first of all the Netherlands Organisation for Scientific Research (NWO): the research for this article was done as part of the Clusius Project (2006–10), while it was written during the Project Re-Reading the Book of Nature (2011–14), both funded by NWO and based at Leiden University. My thanks also go to Peter Mason and my Leiden colleagues Paul Hoftijzer, Esther van Gelder, and Gerda van Uffelen (Leiden Hortus Botanicus) for advice and suggestions. The theme of early botany in Leiden has been the subject of an exhibition in Boerhaave Museum Leiden ‘Leydse Weelde. Groene ontdekkingen in de Gouden Eeuw’ (2012–13), curated by Esther van Gelder, and accompanied by the catalogue

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Bloeiende kennis. Groene ontdekkingen in de Gouden Eeuw, edited by Esther van Gelder (Hilversum: Verloren, 2012). BIBLIOGRAPHY Baas, Pieter, ‘De VOC in Flora’s lusthoven’, in: Leonard Blussé & Ilonka Ooms (eds.), Kennis en Compagnie: De Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie en de moderne wetenschap (Amsterdam: Balans, 2002), pp. 124–37. Bie, Jacques de, Livre contenant la Genealogie et descente de ceux de la Maison de Croy (no place, no publisher, c. 1612). Bosman-Jelgersma, H. A., ‘Dirck Cluyt. De eerste Leidse hortulanus’, Leids Jaarboekje, 83 (1991), pp. 74–88. Boissard, Jean Jaques, Bibliotheca sive thesaurus virtutis et gloriae: in quo continentur illustrium eruditione et doctrina virorum effigies et vitae, 5 vols. (Frankfurt: Theodor. de Bry, 1628– 32). Catalogus oft register vande sonderlingheden oft rariteijten ende wtgeleseen sinnelickheden (...) die Christiaen Porret wijlen apoteker in zijn cunstcamer vergadert had (Leiden: Jan Claesz van Dorp, 1628). Clusius, Carolus, Rariorum aliquot stirpium per Hispanias observatarum historia (Antwerp: Plantin, 1576). Egmond, Florike, ‘Een mislukte benoeming. Paludanus en de Leidse universiteit’, in: Roelof van Gelder, Jan Parmentier & Vibeke Roeper (eds.), Souffrir pour parvenir. De wereld van Jan Huygen van Linschoten (Haarlem: Arcadia, 1998), pp. 51–64. Egmond, Florike, Paul Hoftijzer & Robert Visser (eds.), Carolus Clusius. Towards a cultural history of a Renaissance naturalist (Amsterdam: Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen, 2007). Egmond, Florike, The World of Carolus Clusius. Natural History in the Making, 1550–1610 (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2010). Gelder, Esther van (ed.), Bloeiende kennis. Groene ontdekkingen in de Gouden Eeuw (Hilversum: Verloren, 2012). Gogelein, A. et al., Leidse Universiteit 400: Stichting en eerste bloei 1575–c. 1650 (Amsterdam: Rijksmuseum, 1975). Goldgar, Anne, Tulipomania: money, honor, and knowledge in the Dutch Golden Age (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007). Gulik, E. van, ‘Drukkers en geleerden. De Leidse Officina Plantiniana (1583–1619)’, in: Theodoor Herman Lunsingh Scheurleer & G. H. M. Posthumus Meijes (eds.), Leiden University in the Seventeenth Century (Leiden: Brill, 1975), pp. 367–93. Hunger, Friedrich Wilhelm Tobias, Charles de l'Escluse (Carolus Clusius) Nederlandsch Kruidkundige, 1526–1609, 2 vols. (The Hague: M. Nijhoff, 1927, 1942). Ramón-Laca, Luis & Ramón Morales Valverde (eds.), Charles de L’Écluse de Arras, Descripción de Algunas plantas raras encontradas en España y Portugal (Castilla y León: Junta de Castilla y León, 2005). Reeds, Karen, Botany in Medieval and Renaissance Universities (New York: Garland, 1991). Schepelern, H. D., ‘Natural philosophers and princely collectors: Worm, Paludanus and the Gottorp and Copenhagen collections’, in: Oliver Impey & Arthur MacGregor (eds.), The origins of museums: the cabinets of curiosities in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Europe (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985), pp. 121–7. Spielman, Heinz & Jan Drees (eds.), Gottorf im Glanz des Barock. Kunst und Kultur am Schleswiger Hof 1644–1713, 4 vols. (Exhibition catalogue, Schleswig: Schleswig-Holsteinisches Landesmuseum, 1997).

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Swan, Claudia, ‘Apotheker, tuinman, verzamelaar, Christaen Porrets omgang met de wonderen der natuur’, in: Esther van Gelder (ed.), Bloeiende kennis. Groene ontdekkingen in de Gouden Eeuw (Hilversum: Verloren, 2012), pp. 55–62. Tjon Sie Fat, Leslie, L. & E. de Jong (eds.), The authentic garden. A symposium on gardens (Leiden: Clusius Foundation, 1991). Uffelen, Gerda van, ‘The Libri Picturati and the early history of the hortus botanicus Leiden’, in: Jan de Koning et al. (eds.), Drawn after nature. The complete botanical watercolours of the 16th-century Libri Picturati (Zeist: KNNV Publishing, 2008), pp. 54–8. Uffelen, Gerda van, ‘Prefecten en hun planten’, in: Esther van Gelder (ed.), Bloeiende kennis. Groene ontdekkingen in de Gouden Eeuw (Hilversum: Verloren, 2012), pp. 132–47. Veendorp, Hesso & L. Baas Becking, Hortus Academicus Lugduno Batavus 1587–1937 (Haarlem: Ex Typographia Schediana, 1938).

COLLECTING, REVISITING, REAPPRAISING – RESTITUTING? THE SCHINZ COLLECTION OF THE ETHNOGRAPHIC MUSEUM OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ZURICH* Thomas Laely ABSTRACT One of the most ancient collections in the custody of the Ethnographic Museum of the University of Zurich was compiled by the Swiss botanist Hans Schinz between 1884 to 1887 in South West Africa. Although Schinz came to be known primarily as a botanist, his collection included specimens of zoological and geological interest as well as some human remains and numerous artifacts of ethnological interest. Originally starting his research trip on behalf of Bremen merchant Adolf Lüderitz and his colonial expedition, he soon continued on his own. On his return, he sold his ethnographic collection to the then Zurich Ethnographic Society. To date, this collection is one of the outstanding ethnographic collections from southwestern Africa, dating from the late 19th century. In 2012/13, to mark the 175th anniversary of the Old Botanical Garden of Zurich, of which Schinz was the Director, in addition to holding the Chair of Systematic Botany, the Ethnographic Museum Zurich organised an exhibition on the Schinz collection entitled “Man muss eben Alles sammeln” (You have to collect everything), primarily focussing on aspects of the history of knowledge. Exhibiting artifacts or collections acquired in a colonial environment gives rise to various questions about how to deal with the legacies of colonialism. Searching for answers inevitably leads to the disenchantment and deconstruction of concepts and imageries created by colonialism itself. Whereas the victims of colonialism and their descendants are struggling to come to terms with the traumatic experiences of recent history, anthropologists and historians are dealing with ethical, historical and professional questions connected with their collections and their provenance. Whilst questions of restitution of the artifacts to the descendants of their original owners are controversially discussed within professional circles, anthropologists agree on the importance of opening archives and of joint research by Europeans and non-Europeans on disputed collections, making them accessible to their communities of origin.

INTRODUCTION The University of Zurich is the repository for a series of academic collections. One of the oldest collections in the custody of its Ethnographic Museum was compiled by the Swiss botanist, Hans Schinz, in the course of a lengthy journey between 1884 and 1887 in South West Africa. Although Schinz came to be known primarily as a botanist, his collection included specimens of zoological and geological interest, as well as human remains and numerous artifacts of ethnological interest. Initially starting his research expedition on behalf of Bremen merchant, Adolf Lüderitz, and his colonial expedition, Schinz soon decided to continue on his own. On his return, he sold his ethnographic collection to what was then

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known as the Zurich Ethnographic Society,1 having first exhibited it in his parents’ apartment in Zurich. Other parts of the Schinz collections were integrated into various university collections in Zurich; at least one – probably three – human skulls were donated as early as 1887 to the Berlin Society for Anthropology, Ethnology and Prehistory,2 an important group of scholars which Schinz probably belonged to as well.3 His collection is one of the most outstanding ethnographic collections from South West Africa, dating from the late 19th century. COLLECTING Collections are always linked to questions of origin and provenance. What is the story behind the Schinz Collection, with its approximately 250 artifacts? As a matter of fact, the assembled objects do not really recount the story of the ‘source communities’, except in fragments and excerpts. Ironically, the allegedly scientific collector assumed he had “collected everything”, according to a letter he wrote home. As it transpired, the items collected tell us more about Schinz himself, his background, interests and aspirations. On the whole, however, the collection tells us the story of Europe representing itself as the self-appointed ruler over mankind during the period under consideration. As the ones responsible for a museum entrusted with these artifacts, it is our task to trace the provenance, the history and the itinerary of each item as far as possible. This can open up new avenues, highways and byways in the history of knowledge and science. Let us therefore examine some of the paths proposed and made available to us by this astonishing collection, seen from a contemporary perspective. In this regard, it is important to find and use concepts and metaphors for a polycentric world, including local modes of reading, interpretation and understanding, rather than to promulgate the universalistic paradigms of Western modernity over the whole world. We have to abandon the use of categories of cultural homogeneity, leading, as it does, to the representation of closed images of encapsulated cultures. Let us look first at the wider context in which the Schinz Collection is held in custody today by presenting certain facts and figures concerning the Ethnographic Museum of the University of Zurich (EMZ). The museum and its collections date back to the late eighties of the 19th century, an era in which many such institutions were being established in Europe. The establishment of the museum was due to the efforts of the Zurich Ethnographic Society, set up just a few years earlier. For many years, its collections were shown in different locations. Only for the past thirty years or so has it been housed in its present location, in the old Zurich 1

2 3

Ethnographische Gesellschaft Zürich. The Schinz collection, purchased for 3537 Swiss francs, was its first important acquisition. Verena Münzer & Peter R. Gerber, 100 Jahre Völkerkundemuseum Zürich, 1889–1989 (Zürich: Völkerkundemuseum der Universität Zürich, 1989), p. 31. Berliner Gesellschaft für Anthropologie, Ethnologie und Urgeschichte. Dag Henrichsen (ed.), Hans Schinz. Bruchstücke. Forschungsreisen in Deutsch-Südwestafrika. Briefe und Fotografien (Basel: Basler Afrika Bibliographien, 2012), p. ix.

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Botanical Garden. It is a relatively young institution of its kind, of necessity mobile, having been uprooted several times. Does this mean that it has fewer inherited problems than older academic collections, often crammed into barely accessible rooms unchanged for centuries? Research into the collections – even public access to a certain degree – was a major concern for those in charge of the museum when it moved to its current site in the late 1970s. At the time of its reopening in the early 1980s, the museum included not only the exhibition rooms extending over three floors, but also a visible storage area. The setting up of a collection for study purposes, accessible to the public, undoubtedly had rarity value in the international museum world at the time. The visible storage was essential to the fulfilment of the museum’s mandate to operate as a collection for research and academic training as well as providing a window onto the university and its research activities. Unfortunately, this had later to be shut down, owing to problems of space and staff. With its approximately 40,000 artifacts and 50,000 historical photographs and films, the Ethnographic Museum of the University of Zurich is not one of the larger collections in Europe. Being specifically a research museum, it holds only temporary exhibitions, not permanent ones, always linked to specific research projects. Consequently, the museum is constantly geared to research at the museum itself or at the Institute of Social and Cultural Anthropology of the University of Zurich. The day-to-day work of the museum is characterised by the search for a balance between academic research and the interests of the public, processing collections for scholars and creating accessibility for the general public. These concerns repeatedly give rise to conflicts resulting from the expectations of visitors and the interests of scholars in such matters as presentation and preservation. REVISITING What is the historical background of the Schinz collection? Schinz, born into a wealthy Zurich family of academics and merchants in 1858, obtained his doctorate in botany at the University of Zurich in 1883, and continued his studies in Berlin. This city, alongside Paris and London, was regarded as one of the leading European centers of the ‘New Botany’. Schinz made some useful contacts at the University, including the famous Africa explorer, Georg Schweinfurth, who worked at Berlin’s Botanical Garden. Through him Schinz met the Bremen colonial entrepreneur, Adolf Lüderitz. Shortly afterwards, in 1884, the 25-year-old botanist and two other scholars joined the Lüderitz expedition and set sail for Cape Town. How did this come about? It was now the early 1880s. In his book, entitled My Life, published in 1940, one year before his death, Schinz had this to say about his early academic career after gaining his doctorate in botany: I thought of travelling to Persia, but this plan fell through: Professor Ascherson in Berlin [his Berlin teacher and mentor] arranged for me to meet Professor G. Schweinfurth, the Africa explorer. Under his influence, I turned my back on thoughts of the Orient and set my compass

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Thomas Laely towards Africa. At the time, Adolf Lüderitz in Bremen was looking for a botanist to join his expedition to South West Africa. My task would be mainly to study the plant world of South West Africa with a view to discovering herbs that could be used for medicinal purposes.4

Quite a few things can be gleaned from this quotation: the expedition was clearly the beginning of a carefully chosen and well-planned scientific career. Originally, on the instructions of Lüderitz, Schinz was to explore the local plant world and its commercial potential. Scientific interests were directly linked with economic interests; both were among the driving forces behind colonial expansion and are inseparably linked with its history.5 Soon, however, Schinz abandoned the expedition, which was making only slow progress, and set off on his own, using funds from his family inheritance. On his travels, he built up large collections of primarily botanical and ethnographic specimens and took as many photographs as possible. Schinz took photographs of landscapes, and not only for geobotanical purposes. He also photographed local people – the “natives” –, creating what he referred to in his diary as “physiognomic records”. He also noted, among other things, how ethnographic objects were to be collected and how people should be typified and measured. In this, the camera played an important role. In Schinz's time, there was nothing unusual about the procedure of collecting human remains of Africans in Namibia, and shortly after his return he donated them to a Berlin collection. In the period around 1890, many scientists in Europe’s overseas colonies collected human remains such as bones and skulls. These were then meticulously measured in order to trace racial similarities and differences presumed to have been discovered at that time. In order to provide empirical support for the construct of race, including the idea of more and less developed, superior and inferior races. Bones and other human remains were hardly ever politely requested or amicably handed over. On the contrary, we must assume that, in the majority of cases, graves were desecrated, partly with the support of the colonial administration. Schinz’s imperialistic manner almost proved fatal for the scientist at Olukonda, close to the modern-day Angolan border: first, he secretly started to tinker about with a dead body and then attempted to add the skeleton to his collection. Shortly afterwards, he chopped off pieces of stone from a holy site so that he could take away a sample. As a result of the trouble this caused, he had to leave the area in a hurry. “You have to collect everything”, is how he justified himself to his mother after having managed to escape: Here everything was quiet again; so the following day I drove straight to the battlefield, and was so happy to find there an almost complete skeleton of an Ambo6. Of course I immediately took possession of it, and packed it up in a box. I have rubbed him down and smeared him

4 5 6

Hans Schinz, Mein Lebenslauf (Zürich: Fretz, 1940), p. 32–3. Henrichsen, Hans Schinz, p. x. Member of the Ovambo living on the northern Namibia-Angola border.

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with arsenic soap, and he is now packed up on the car in the sun. You have to collect everything.7

In 1887, Hans Schinz returned to Zurich. In his luggage, he had fifty boxes and a countless number of plant samples. He was convinced that on the strength of these objects, he had all he needed for a ‘comprehensive collection’ covering the Ovambo-Ondonga and the Herero peoples, and a basis on which to build an academic career for himself. In the years that followed, Schinz became Director of the Zurich Botanical Garden, in addition to holding a newly established Chair of Systematic Botany. Over the years, he went on to acquire further African plant collections, so that in the 20th century, alongside London, Berlin and Paris, Zurich came to be regarded as one of the leading international centres of African botany.8 The wish to bring everything together in the spirit of Humboldt ultimately led to an eclectic agglomerate, a real hotchpotch. The more diverse, varied and ‘comprehensive’ all this collecting strove to be, the more fragmented it was bound to become. There was thus a marked discrepancy between original claim and final outcome.9 Schinz was not alone in thinking that it was possible to make a comprehensive collection of the material culture of a society and to document it exhaustively. The reasoning was – and it still is widespread today – that certain cultures were ‘indigenous’ and ‘closed’, in the sense that they were timeless and free from so-called ‘external’ influences. That is why Schinz “targeted places where the influence of missions and Western consumer habits was – for him – less visible”.10 A quotation taken from the Henrichsen and Krüger contribution to the Schinz publication of 2012 is relevant here: In many respects, the collections obtained so laboriously on the material culture of Africa were an artificial construct, the collection rooms on the Seefeldstrasse a magic chamber, almost reminiscent of a curiosity cabinet, albeit one assembled with scientific aspirations.11

Schinz’s expedition was no territorial breakthrough – no new discovery of a hitherto ‘unspoilt region’ – much as he would have wished that to be the case. It was rather an area inhabited by various ethnic groups and social communities who, by the beginning of the 19th century, had undergone far-reaching transformations. Not the least of these was due to the extension of the British Cape colony and the ensuing development of commercial capitalism, as well as the presence of Christian missionaries. In other words, he was not breaking ‘new ground’, either terri7 8 9

10 11

Letter from Hans Schinz to his mother, Julie Schinz Vögeli, Olukonda, 24 October 1885, underlining as in the original; quoted in Henrichsen, Hans Schinz, p. 80. Ibid., p. xvi. In a radical break, and actually contradicting the title of the Zurich exhibition and Schinz’s claim: “You have to collect everything”, the Namibian historian, Dag Henrichsen, published a book in 2012 entitled: Hans Schinz. Fragments. Research expeditions in German SouthWest Africa. Henrichsen, Hans Schinz, p. xviii. Dag Henrichsen & Gesine Krüger, ‚Kreuz- und Querzüge in Afrika‘, in: Gitte Beckmann (ed.), „Man muss eben Alles sammeln” (Zürich: Neue Züricher Zeitung, 2012), pp. 127–35, p. 132.

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torially or scientifically. But for the academic world in Europe, there was much that was new or had to be amended. Schinz was the first European scientist who set out to document the Namibia of today at the beginning of the colonial period. His research expedition was meticulously planned and, in accordance with his broad, multidisciplinary approach, he was well equipped with notebook, camera, measuring instruments and containers for the items collected. Let us once again look at what Henrichsen and Krüger have to say: The collection room of Hans Schinz is [...] an essential step in the new contextualisation of objects [...] in the service of science. At this time, nowhere in Europe, not even in the German Empire, had there been such a comprehensive collection related to this region of Africa. Hans Schinz was very aware of all this and on his return, immediately poured all his energy into the systematisation and scientification of his botanical findings. If his exhibition in the Zurich collection room 1887 anticipated in many ways the colony of German South-West Africa as a cultural, botanical and anthropological region, his work Deutsch-Südwest-Afrika, published in 1891, could claim to be the first comprehensive scientific report on the colony. […] Its structure reflects the transition from the chronological and subjective reporting of pre-colonial travel literature to the systematising national monograph, which was critically judgemental of its predecessor.12

REAPPRAISING To mark the 175th anniversary of the Old Botanical Garden of Zurich, of which Schinz was the director, the Ethnographic Museum of Zurich organised an exhibition on the Schinz collection in 2012–13, entitled, “You have to collect everything”: The Zurich botanist and explorer Hans Schinz and his ethnographic collection from South West Africa.13 The collection, which turned out to be quite impressive, was presented primarily as a case study in the history of knowledge, with the focus on reappraising Schinz as a researcher and the collections assembled by him.14 Besides the approximately 100 ethnographic artifacts, the exhibition included botanical and zoological items. The exhibition was accompanied by a catalogue depicting many objects from the large ethnographic collection brought to Zurich by Hans Schinz in 1887.15 What is it about the collection that makes it spectacular from an ethnological point of view? It is regarded as one of the earliest and most comprehensive collections in any museum on the material cultures of South West Africa in the 19th

12 13

14

15

Henrichsen & Krüger, ‚Kreuz- und Querzüge in Afrika‘, p. viii. Gitte Beckmann, Caroline Schütz and Kathrin Schwarz (curators): „Man muss eben Alles sammeln“. Der Zürcher Botaniker und Forschungsreisende Hans Schinz und seine ethnographische Sammlung Südwestafrika. Curators: Gitte Beckmann, Caroline Schütz and Kathrin Schwarz. A first catalogue of the Schinz collection was published by Szalay 1979. Miklós Szalay, Die ethnographische Südwestafrika-Sammlung Hans Schinz, 1884–1886 (Zürich: Völkerkundemuseum der Universität Zürich, 1979). Beckmann (ed.), „Man muss eben Alles sammeln“.

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century.16 The Zurich exhibition sought to show that, for over a hundred years, it has preserved knowledge that has been virtually ignored. The exhibition also intended to say two things: first, that the long-held notion of KhoiSan in Namibia as a supposed prototype of the ‘remaining’ early humans – the quintessential ‘primitive’ – led to the search for bones for historical anatomical collections. However, its material legacy had been erroneously viewed as primitive and not considered in its rightful context. The KhoiSan, hitherto regarded as primitive, were now seen as a skilful people. This viewpoint has been reinforced by recent research on foragers, unaffected by the Kalahari debate, which raised doubts about the pristine isolation of the KhoiSan. Their objects testify to the existence of a complex knowledge culture before the genocide of the Nama and OvaHerero by German troops at the beginning of the 20th century. The idea was that visitors to the exhibition, some of whom still look at the objects through colonial eyes, are made aware of such issues. Asking which ethnographic items a botanist collected, helps visitors to see the exhibition as engaging the contradictions of the period and think about a paradox that has left its unmistakable imprint on the ethnographic museums of today. The subject of Schinz and his collections raises many questions about colonial processes, the context of transnational Swiss science link-ups, the issue of human remains in scientific collections, and the history of physical anthropology based on race. The Schinz collections also refer to a period of unequal balances of power in the context of what was purchased, and in particular, how it was acquired – what was collected and what was not collected. Let us take one last look at what Henrichsen and Krüger have to say: Schinz is known to have arrived in South Africa at a time when the private undertaking of the Bremen merchant Adolf Lüderitz was in the process of becoming a German national project [...]. But he [Schinz] behaved as if he were acting within the framework of the political formation of a German South-West Africa when, on December 3, 1884, in the village of Aus near Bethany, he himself hoisted 'the first German flag’, as he noted rather proudly [...]. Schinz now criss-crossed his way through South-West Africa in the wake of the imperial aspirations of the German Reich.17

Today, the ethnographic material brought by Hans Schinz and many of his contemporaries from around the world is viewed in a different light. This was another objective of the Zurich exhibition of 2012: As works of their original makers, they also offer insight into the skills of those people. By safeguarding artifacts from all over the world, ethnographic museums are also preserving practical knowledge. Conducting research into such knowledge and making it visually accessible is a way of paying respect to the dignity and skills those people possessed.18

One thing emerges clearly from any examination of the Schinz collections, and from studying – as Henrichsen did – the writings he left behind: Unlike other researchers who were there during the same period or who arrived shortly after16 17 18

cf. Szalay, Die ethnographische Südwestafrika-Sammlung, p. 5. Henrichsen & Krüger, „Kreuz- und Querzüge in Afrika”, p. 132–3. Beckmann, „Man muss eben Alles sammeln”, p. 6.

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wards Schinz the collector paid hardly any attention to the knowledge that the Africans themselves had at their disposal. Although he made an effort to learn the names of the African plants he collected, he paid scant attention to what the Africans themselves knew about them. Just how narrowly ethnocentric his vision was, can be seen in a letter of 5 April, 1885 to his mentor and patron, the botanist Professor Paul Ascherson. He wrote that in his view, Africans “know very little about Nature”.19 Yet, even to this day, it is obvious how much knowledge is required to live and survive in the (semi-) arid and desert-like areas of southern Namibia. The exhibition at the Ethnographic Museum of Zurich (EMZ) as a museum of research was seen as an updating of the Schinz collection and the adoption of a new approach. It would not be acceptable to simply present the entire collection to the public as an entity without it having first been reviewed and worked on very carefully. In the course of this work, many new and surprising things came to light. Some two dozen previously missing objects were found in the storage rooms and restoration workshops. The exhibition curators and scientists little suspected what would emerge in the course of the preparations. When they learned20 that in the collections of the Berlin Society for Anthropology, Ethnology and Prehistory, skulls had been found that had been brought from Namibia by Hans Schinz, this discovery called into question the title that had originally been chosen for the exhibition: “You have to collect everything.” This quotation comes from the letter written by Schinz after he had taken a skeleton from a battlefield, but in the end, the working title was retained. In accordance with the museum's policy regarding the handling of human remains, no attempt was made to borrow the skulls from the Berlin collection. However, they did not seek to cover up the fact: in an otherwise empty display case, there was a text pointing out the more questionable aspects of the collection and the gaps – in other words, the exhibition also showed what was not on show, as it were: – Objects that, on ethical grounds, the Museum would exhibit (including the skulls that had been rediscovered in Berlin), – Objects that Schinz did not consider worth collecting (including Western clothing, for example, which was being worn at the time, but which Schinz did not regard as truly “authentic”), – The empty display case represented objects that Schinz was able to collect only under unfavourable conditions, or not even able to collect at all,21 – Finally, the empty display case was for objects that are no longer in good condition, not retained, or which have been lost.22 As part of the exhibition, the EMZ pointed out that the original Schinz collection contained human remains, which gave rise to certain sensitive issues. It is probably true to say that there is no ethnographic museum in the world that does not 19 20 21 22

cf. Henrichsen, Hans Schinz, p. xvii. By a message from Holger Stoecker, Berlin, passed on to Dag Henrichsen, Basler Afrika Bibliographien. Perishable plants, or because of the state of his health, or resistance from the local population. Text and captions according to the exhibition of 2012 at the EMZ.

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have some human remains – hair, for example – as part of its ethnographic collections. Sooner or later, these museums face up to the question of how to deal with them. In Switzerland, some years ago, the Historical and Ethnographic Museum of St. Gallen acquired some shrunken heads from South America. Then the media got hold of this information, there was an immediate outburst of harsh criticism from experts and laymen alike. In general, museums today prefer not to have such controversial objects on their hands, or if they do, they make every effort to treat them with the necessary respect, or they return them, the ethnographic museum in Zurich being one example. RESTITUTING? Not always, but frequently, there are collections – many of which are university collections – in which human remains have been the subject of demands for restitution and repatriation. In recent years, there have been lengthy debates on this issue between Namibia and the former colonial power, Germany.23 Keeping plundered human bones and tissue can become a problem. What can, should, may be exhibited? And if so: under what conditions and in what way? Which is the best way to keep so-called ‘sensitive’ objects? The manner in which objects are collected today has changed radically since Schinz's time, and would now not only be intolerable, but even inconceivable. Nevertheless, there are still direct lines between the way treasures were assembled and collected in the past and the collections we work with in ethnographic museums of today. Exhibiting artifacts or collections acquired in a colonial setting gives rise to a number of questions dealing with the legacies of colonialism. ‘Collecting’ always results in generating a new situation where something has been taken away. It goes without saying that what is important is precisely the tracing of the provenance of every object and its specific context. Unless these issues are seen within the framework of contemporary history, it will never be possible to fully understand them. The restitution of artifacts to the descendants of their original owners is a bone of contention within professional circles. However, anthropologists agree that it is important to open up archives to enable Europeans and non-Europeans to carry out joint research on disputed collections, making them accessible to their communities of origin. What is most desired of university collections is that they make themselves accessible to the outside world. They might invite external reseachers and other 23

Larissa Förster from the University of Cologne has been involved in this in her research and publications. See Larissa Förster, Postkoloniale Erinnerungslandschaften. Wie Deutsche und Herero in Namibia des Kriegs von 1904 gedenken (Frankfurt a. Main/New York: CampusVerlag, 2010); and Larissa Förster, ‚‘These skulls are not enough‘. Der Restitutionsprozess in Namibia zwischen Vergangenheits- und Interessenpolitik‘, Informationszentrum 3. welt, Juli/August, Ausgabe 331 (Freiburg i.Br.: 2012), pp. 36–7.

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interested parties to come along and do research. Such slogans as “Don’t keep your treasures under wraps; open them up to the world”, would arouse the interest of both the general public and scholars. At the same time, this would have a beneficial effect on public relations, simply by drawing attention to the existence and significance of these collections. University collections, set up in the name of science, which, as part of a critical European history of science, demand reappraisal, all the more so if they are to make a fundamental contribution to a critique of the museum as an institution. In this regard, European museums should learn that it is in their own best interest to take it upon themselves to review ‘sensitive’ items in their collections and their provenance as an integral part of their own history. This should not be seen as a burden imposed upon them externally. All such observations apply not only to ‘sensitive’ objects and also claims for restitution, but apply to all artifacts in ethnographic collections. They are all bound up with several factors, involving various actors. It is important to realise that any repatriation should not be seen as a loss but as potential gain of new relationships between museums, institutions and stakeholders. It is in the interests of scientific research that museums holding collections should be called on to establish contact with the source communities and countries of origin, both with individuals and with official and unofficial institutions, to reprocess and reappraise the history and acquisition of their collections. Research of this kind will make a valuable contribution to the history of knowledge – and of the establishment of (ethnographic) museums. All these issues have been dealt with in the exhibition at the Zurich Ethnographic Museum as well as in the accompanying programme of events and other related fields of action. If an ethnographic museum – especially a university one – accepts a collection, it should not simply be kept under lock and key in a safe place. On the contrary, it should be the object of – and an aid to – university research24 and thus to promoting public relations. The question of the returning of cultural objects and human remains has come up for discussion frequently in recent years, especially in the case of Namibia. This is common knowledge, especially in Germany and Austria, where it has been given broad coverage in the media. At the end of September 2011, the Berlin Charité handed over to the Namibian Government the skulls of OvaHerero and Nama people who had been killed in anti-colonial rebellions. As I was able to ascertain on a trip to Namibia one year later, discussions as to what will happen to them, are still ongoing. There is no denying that political factors are involved. Interestingly, here it is the activists who oppose burial, on a national Heroes Acre site, for example. Their idea is that an active coming to terms with their history would be better served if the skulls were preserved, if not exhibited, in the recently completed Independence Memorial Museum in Windhoek.

24

As by Szalay, Die ethnographische Südwestafrika-Sammlung; and Beckmann, „Man muss eben Alles sammeln”.

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Restitution does not mean that injustices have been made good once and for all. The scars of wounds cannot be healed just by saying: “You’ve got your things back, now stop the accusations”. What they do achieve, is to set something new in motion, creating a new historical situation.25 This is not an argument against restitutions, but rather an indication of the questions they give rise to and the need to adopt a holistic approach. No matter how these collections are dealt with, there are certainly no quick and easy solutions. You can never draw a line under them; they imply a confrontation with colonial and post-colonial entanglements, with past and present facts, and interpretations of those facts. These relate above all to European museums, linking them time and again with the colonial world. Museums are no longer merely the interpreters of a past heritage but also have their place in contemporary history and debates as “shapers and participants in evolving cultures that are grounded in both local and global concerns”.26 Anthropological museums are responsible for the safekeeping and documentation of collected cultural heritage, not least for the descendants of the victims of colonialism. But the safekeeping of these collections is not as simple as it might first seem; it is fraught with challenges and obligations. There are a lot of questions that call for answers. Why, for instance, did Europeans travel to distant regions to take back – under questionable circumstances and mostly in the name of science – objects as diverse as birds’ traps, jewelry, or human bones? The answers to these questions find their most meaningful and convincing form in the diligent researching, reprocessing and reappraising of the particular history of each collection. The safekeeping of such collections entails many tasks and challenges. To find possible answers to the questions that arise – and these can mostly be no more than partial answers – the sources need to be sought out and reviewed, and painstaking work in archives is called for.27 APPROACHES TO COOPERATION AND MUTUAL EXCHANGE In the course of preparing the collection for the exhibition, the Ethnographic Museum sought to cooperate with the region of origin of the artifacts: i.e. Southern Africa, especially Namibia, Botswana and South Africa. This was in the spirit of the ethical guidelines of the International Council of Museums (ICOM) and included cooperation with Namibian academics and an exchange of views, both verbal and written, on questions arising from the collection and the exhibition. These were also covered in the events programme accompanying the exhibition. 25 26 27

cf. Henrichsen & Krüger, „Kreuz- und Querzüge in Afrika”, p. 37. Barbara Franco, ‘Review of Museum Frictions’, The Journal of American History, 99 (2) (2007), p. 656. Valuable work in this respect was carried out by the Namibian historian Dag Henrichsen, who works in Switzerland, in: Henrichsen, Hans Schinz.

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One of the fringe events organised by the museum as an extension of the exhibition was a public lecture by two young trainee curators, both Khoisan from Botswana. This included a guided tour through the exhibition, followed by a discussion which enabled them to present their perspective on the exhibition and the collections. The two visiting curators had graduated from a training institution north of Cape Town in South Africa, and were invited to spend several weeks in Switzerland in order to visit and collaborate with local museums and collections. Their time at the Zurich museum was spent in exchanging ideas with the museum senior staff, and in putting forward their own views on the exhibition and the collections from Southern Africa. During their stay, the two guests visited various departments of the museum, but the focus was on the Schinz exhibition itself and its curators, as well as on the whole Schinz collection and others from Africa that are kept in the museum’s storage rooms. This involved discussions and an exchange of views on how to identify and describe the objects in the respective collections. Among other things, it meant that the two guest curators worked together with the museum’s own experts on the data base of the Schinz collection and other ethnographica not yet fully identified, described and labelled. One example was how a birds’ trap was effectively used and what part of it was missing in the museum’s collection. The positive outcome was that the museum was able not only to improve its knowledge of the collections in its custody, but also to gain new insights into the objects in the exhibition. Furthermore, the museum has tried to link up with potential partners and venues in South Africa and especially Namibia as the country of provenance, not necessarily to show the entire exhibition itself, but just parts of it, supplementing local collections. Another form of collaboration might consist in sharing and making available of photographs and other materials and findings that emerged in the course of the exhibition in Zurich. The Museum Association of Namibia, having been approached to broker such a cooperation, proposed a mobile exhibition on movable panels in order to reach a broader public. Contacts and meetings were established with the National Museums in Windhoek (OWELA) and Cape Town as well as the Nakambale Museum in Olukonda, in the Ndonga Kingdom of Northern Namibia, close to the Angolan border. That is where Schinz spent half a year in what was then the Finnish Lutheran mission station. However, this plan has not as yet led to any concrete results, partly because of the lack of staff and financial resources in Zurich. Consequently, it has been difficult to carry out follow-up work with the necessary thoroughness. It has proved even more difficult to set up a partnership with a suitable and interested institution which can join forces in the planning stage of the project, not just when it is already up and running. A further step was taken towards cooperation with the region of provenance while the exhibition was on in Zurich: the people in charge of the museum handed over some 40 digital copies of historic photographs taken by Hans Schinz between 1844–86 in what was then the German colony of South-West Africa, the recipi-

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ents being scientific and research institutions in Namibia and South Africa.28 Most of his photographs had remained unpublished and came to light only in the course of research for the Ethnographic Museum’s exhibition. The photographs originate from the Ethnographic Museum, itself as well as from various archives in Switzerland.29 This ‘repatriation’ of photographs, making them accessible to scientific institutions in the region of provenance, was conceived not just as a token of restitution but rather of willingness to seek common ground. It is not out of the question – indeed it is to be hoped – that the involvement with Schinz and his work will continue at local levels, be it in the form of an exhibition or other research projects. * An earlier version of this paper was presented at the Annual Meeting of the American Anthropological Association in Chicago in November 2013. I am grateful to Gitte Beckmann, Caroline Schütz, Kathrin Schwarz and Raphael Walser for our fruitful discussions. I am greatly indebted to Dag Henrichsen, Larissa Förster and Mareile Flitsch for many inspiring suggestions. My special thanks go to David Roscoe, who translated large sections of the text and whose editorial improvements made it altogether more reader-friendly. BIBLIOGRAPHY Beckmann, Gitte (ed.), „Man muss eben Alles sammeln”. Der Zürcher Botaniker und Forschungsreisende Hans Schinz und seine ethnographische Sammlung Südwestafrika (Zürich: Verlag Neue Zürcher Zeitung/Völkerkundemuseum der Universität Zürich, 2012). Förster, Larissa, Postkoloniale Erinnerungslandschaften. Wie Deutsche und Herero in Namibia des Kriegs von 1904 gedenken (Frankfurt a. Main/New York: Campus-Verlag, 2010). Förster, Larissa, ‘‘These skulls are not enough’. Der Restitutionsprozess in Namibia zwischen Vergangenheits- und Interessenpolitik’ , Informationszentrum 3. welt, Juli/August, Ausgabe 331 (Freiburg i.Br.: 2012), pp. 36–7. Franco, Barbara, ‘Review of “Museum Frictions”’, The Journal of American History, 99 (2) (2007), p. 656. Henrichsen, Dag (ed.), Hans Schinz. Bruchstücke. Forschungsreisen in Deutsch-Südwestafrika. Briefe und Fotografien (Basel: Basler Afrika Bibliographien, 2012). 28

29

The photographs were handed over in September 2012 to the National Archives of Namibia, the University of Namibia and the Museums Association of Namibia, all of them based in Windhoek, as well as to IZIKO, South African Museum (SAM) in Cape Town. Some 40 photographs of Hans Schinz have survived. They can be regarded as important historical visual documents for a period of time in the 1880s which saw a marked increase in photographic activity in Southwestern Africa, not least because of European imperial expansion into the region and an increase in the number of research expeditions in the name of colonial sciences. Many photographs of the period were taken by scientists, missionaries or colonial officials and they survive primarily in archives in South Africa, Finland and Germany. The copies of his photographs originate from three archives in Switzerland: the Ethnographic Museum in Zurich, the Staatsarchiv Aargau and the Historisches und Völkerkundemuseum St. Gallen.

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Henrichsen, Dag & Gesine Krüger, ‚Kreuz- und Querzüge in Afrika‘, in: Gitte Beckmann (ed.), „Man muss eben Alles sammeln” (Zürich: Neue Züricher Zeitung, 2012), pp. 127–35. Henrichsen, Dag, ‘The African travels of Hans Schinz, biological transfer and the professionalisation and popularisation of (African) botany in Zurich’, in: Patrick Harries & Martin Lengwiler (eds.), Knowing the world: Science and Expert Knowledge between Europe and Africa. Forthcoming. Hoffmann, Annette (ed.), What we see. Reconsidering an anthropometrical collection from southern Africa. Images, voices, and versioning (Basel: Basler Afrika Bibliographien, 2009). Münzer, Verena & Peter R. Gerber, 100 Jahre Völkerkundemuseum Zürich 1889–1989 (Zürich: Völkerkundemuseum der Univ. Zürich, 1989). Schinz, Hans, Deutsch-Südwest-Afrika. Forschungsreisen durch die deutschen Schutzgebiete Gross-Nama- und Hereroland, nach dem Kunene, dem Ngami-See und der Kalahari, 1884– 1887 (Oldenburg/Leipzig: Schulz 1891). Schinz, Hans, Mein Lebenslauf (Zürich: Fretz, 1940). Stoecker, Holger, ‚Post vom Feldlazarett. Namibische Schädel in Berliner anthropologischen Sammlungen‘, Informationszentrum 3. welt, Juli/August, Ausgabe 331, (Freiburg i.Br.: 2012), pp. 32–3. Szalay, Miklós, Die ethnographische Südwestafrika-Sammlung Hans Schinz, 1884–1886 (Zürich: Völkerkundemuseum der Universität Zürich, 1979).

MATERIALITIES OF THE SCIENTIFIC PROCESS – WHAT CAN BE LEARNT FROM THE HISTORY OF ELECTRICITY IN AN OLD UNIVERSITY TOWN Giuliano Pancaldi ABSTRACT The paper will compare and reflect on three different plots, all having to do with the history of electricity in the 19th and 20th centuries. The first plot is a classical history of science plot. It is the story of the world-wide-known discoveries concerning electricity that took place in Bologna from the times of Luigi Galvani (‘animal electricity’, 1791) to those of Guglielmo Marconi (‘wireless telegraphy’, 1895). This plot is an example of how the history of science could be bent to satisfy the needs of the professors and the public of an ancient university town like Bologna. The second plot is a history of technology plot, and also an economic history and social history plot. It is the story of the slow take-off of electricity as an industry, paralleling the rise of the middle and working classes in a medium size, provincial town like Bologna. The third plot is the story of the collections of instruments illustrating the history of electricity that were assembled, dispersed, and reassembled in town to celebrate science and technology in the public sphere. Systematic comparisons among these three plots will be used to reflect on the different materialities in which science is involved, and on the pleasures and dangers of what has been called the ‘museification’ of science.

INTRODUCTION The scene for the story discussed in this essay is the old university town of Bologna, considered in a long-term perspective, from the mid-nineteenth century to the Cold War. The connecting thread will be the history of electricity, which will include science and technology as well as its uses and users. The scientific, technological and industrial dimensions will play a role side by side with the symbolic, social, and political dimensions displayed in a town that was shifting from an economy and a culture based on agriculture, landed aristocracy, and the professions, to one in which industry, the administrative sector, and the middle and working classes were expanding steadily. The uses and the users will be given due attention because, in the period under review, the population of the town multiplied by 3.8,1 while the local production

1

Between 1861 and 1961: Franco Tassinari, ‘La popolazione di Bologna dall’unificazione a oggi’, in: Walter Tega (ed.), Storia illustrata di Bologna, vol. 5 (Milan: Sipiel, 1989), pp. 181–200, p. 190.

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and consumption of electric power might double in a mere ten-year period, for instance between 1901 and 1911.2 The narrative will be organized around three plots. The first concerns the history of science. It is the story of some of the notions or discoveries concerning electricity that originated in Bologna, known worldwide, from the times of Luigi Galvani (animal electricity, 1791) to those of Guglielmo Marconi (wireless telegraphy, 1895). This plot will be used as an example of how the local history of science was bent to reflect the ambitions of the professors and the cultivated elites of an ancient university town. The second is a history of technology plot, including the economic and social dimensions. It is the story of how the take-off of electricity as an industry paralleled the slow rise of a medium size, provincial town: a latecomer in the history of the belated industrialization of Italy, which was nonetheless determined to play a visible, respected role within the young nation, and Europe. The third plot is the story of the local collections of instruments illustrating the history of electricity: instruments that over the years were assembled, dispersed, and reassembled again to celebrate science and technology, the University of Bologna, and the town in national and international contexts. Systematic comparisons between the three plots will be used to reflect on the different materialities in which science is involved, and on the pleasures and dangers of the ‘museification’ of science and technology. The materialities discussed will be, above all, electrical. But I will be dealing with the no less real institutions involved, and with the heroes and symbols used to shape the collective memory of the town in connection with the history of electricity. Real people – from the professors, to industrialists, public administrators, and technicians, down to the consumers of electricity – will be included. I will assume throughout that the ‘things’ we are discussing in this collection of essays are best understood as part of these broader networks, made up of people and things. In the conclusion I will argue that, in order to avoid the risks of an unreflexive popularization of science, museum curators should address in their narratives the broader materialities, and the long-term perspectives of the kind touched upon in this case study. A TOWN’S ROMANCE WITH THE SCIENCE OF ELECTRICITY In a classic treatise on “animal electricity” published in Bologna in 1791, Luigi Galvani, professor of anatomy at the local university, had included the description of a couple of surprising observations. The observations acquired new, unexpected meanings more than a century later, in the age of radio waves. While experimenting on frog’s legs used as exquisite detectors of weak electricity, Galvani had noticed that the legs reacted also to distant lightning in the atmosphere or a big spark, if the legs were combined with a metal wire acting – in 2

Alexander Laszlo & Ignazio Masulli, ‘Elettricità e vita sociale’, in: Giorgio Mori (ed.), Storia dell’industria elettrica in Italia. Le origini. 1882–1914, vol. 2 (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1992) pp. 645–96, p. 687.

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20th- and 21st-century parlance – as an aerial.3 In the same publication, Galvani described another intriguing observation which was to acquire unexpected meanings later. Around the metal knob protruding from a charged Leyden jar (a capacitor, in 20th- and 21th-century parlance), he noticed a temporary luminescence forming whenever an electrostatic machine produced sparks at some distance from the jar.4 Had Galvani detected radio waves a century before Heinrich Hertz and the several inventors competing for priority over the discovery of the radio? On 13 February 2013, many countries celebrated the first World Radio Day. According to a recommendation by UNESCO, the February date was chosen to remember when, in 1946, “the United Nations established the whole concept of United Nations Radio”.5 The first ever radio day to be celebrated, however, was probably the one on 7 May 1945, when citizens of the then Soviet Union celebrated their Radio Day to mark the fiftieth anniversary of Alexandr Popov’s first public demonstration of an apparatus for detecting electromagnetic waves.6 The subsequent, yearly celebrations by the Russians of Popov as inventor of the radio – against the claims of a conspicuous list of co-inventors or alternative inventors belonging to the West, including Guglielmo Marconi – were minor but revealing events for historians of science and technology during the Cold War. The Soviet celebrations of Popov raised special concerns in Bologna, where both Luigi Galvani and Guglielmo Marconi were born. The Italian Communist Party, still very much under Soviet influence, held the government of the town throughout the Cold War and beyond, despite Italy’s adherence to the western alliance after the Second World War. Little surprise, then, that in 1965 an initiative to celebrate Galvani and Marconi together, on the occasion of the seventieth anniversary of Marconi’s early experiments with wireless telegraphy near Bologna, was launched in the town by the political opposition, and especially by the local, pro-American Lions Club with the support of a number of Catholic notables.7 Little surprise, either, that support for Galvani, Marconi, and Bologna’s cause arrived from a professor of the University of California at Berkeley. This was Charles Süsskind, a former immigrant from Prague, a radar specialist for the US Air Corps during the War, and an electrical engineer with an interest in bioengineering and a passion for the history of technology. Süsskind’s vindication of 3

4 5 6

7

Luigi Galvani, ‘De viribus electricitatis in motu musculari’, De bononiensi scientiarum et artium insituto atque academia commentarii, 7 (1791), pp. 363–418, p. 365; see Tab. I, Fig. 2, wire kk. For that wire interpreted as an aerial: Giorgio Tabarroni, Bologna e la storia della radiazione: a 70 anni dalle prime trasmissioni di Guglielmo Marconi a Villa Griffone (Bologna: Compositori, 1965), p. 33. Galvani, ‘De viribus’, p. 397; Charles Süsskind, ‘Observations of Electromagnetic-Wave Radiation Before Hertz’, Isis, 55 (1964), pp. 32–42, p. 33. UNESCO, Proclamation of a World Radio Day, Executive Board, 187 EX/13, Paris, 26 August 2011. Leonid Kryzhanovssky & Khatskel Ioffe, ‘Aleksandr Popov. Il pioniere russo della telegrafia senza fili’, in: Anna Guagnini & Giuliano Pancaldi (eds.), Cento anni di radio. Le radici dell’invenzione (Turin: Seat, 1995), pp. 419–66, p. 464. Giorgio Tabarroni, Bologna e la storia della radiazione, note 3.

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Marconi over Popov, though, did not win uncontroversial support from historians of technology in the West.8 By 1965, celebrations of Galvani, and of Galvani jointly with Marconi and the radio, had already a long tradition in Bologna. The arguments used in the celebrations asserted that some important, enduring link connected the history of electricity, the history of the University of Bologna, and the history of the town. The most impressive such celebrations were those organized in 1937 to mark the bicentenary of Galvani’s birth. On this occasion, the professors and the town’s elites attracted to Bologna no less than nine Nobel Prize winners – including stars such as Niels Bohr, Werner Heisenberg, and Erwin Schrödinger – and other scientists representing some sixty universities, academies, and research institutions worldwide. Marconi himself chaired the comitato d’onore organizing the congress, and was expected to inaugurate the meeting, had he not died less than three months before the opening of the congress. A radio message broadcast to the nation by the professor of physics at the University of Bologna, Quirino Majorana, presented Marconi’s work as “a tribute to Galvani’s primigenial work”. The celebrations were honoured by the presence of the king and queen of Italy, who on the occasion were greeted as emperor and empress of Ethiopia, in compliance with titles offered to them by Mussolini after the recent, cruel Ethiopian war.9 By 1937, attempts to re-appropriate Marconi were already a long-established, elaborate ritual. Though he had been born and had grown up in Bologna, to the town’s and the university’s regret Marconi had pursued most of his impressive career abroad. Above all, he had never been a student of the Alma Mater Studiorum, despite having been in touch as a young man with some of its professors informally through his well-connected family. The conferment on Marconi of honorary degrees in engineering (1904) and physics (1934) were the main steps organized by the University and the town to reappropriate part of Marconi’s glory. But similar exercises were already in place as early as 1897, barely a year after Marconi had taken out his first patent for wireless telegraphy. On the initiative of a local newspaper, the professor of physics at the University of Bologna, Augusto Righi, who had had a chance to talk about electricity (though not wireless telegraphy) with young Marconi, was then interviewed to ascertain his possible role in the origins of the new technology.10 A few years later Righi was being greeted – Charles Süsskind, Popov and the Beginnings of Radiotelegraphy (San Francisco: San Francisco Press, 1964). A critical review of the latter, by W. James King, ‘Charles Susskind, Popov and the Beginnings of Radiotelegraphy. Book Review’, Technology and Culture, 7 (1) (1966), pp. 98–102. 9 See: Rendiconto generale della celebrazione del secondo centenario della nascita di Luigi Galvani, Bologna, Tipografia Luigi Parma, 1938 (the words from Majorana’s radio address are on p. 37). 10 Il resto del carlino, 8 July 1897; as quoted in Giorgio Dragoni & Marina Manferrari, ‘Il rapport Righi-Marconi attraverso nuovi documenti inediti’ (1996), http://www.radiomarconi.com /marconi/dragoni.html#fnB590 (accessed 30 May 2013).

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before the Italian physicists meeting in Bologna’s anatomical theatre where Galvani had lectured – as the worthy continuator of Galvani’s work in the field of electromagnetic waves.11 By the early twentieth century Galvani and his cult had been part of the town’s landscape for some twenty years. A noteworthy statue of Galvani, showing him experimenting with one of his portentous frogs, had been inaugurated in a central piazza next to the main church of Bologna in 1879.12 Twenty years later the statue was visited by ‘grateful’ telegraph operators from many countries who had convened in Italy to celebrate the first centennial of Volta’s invention of the electric battery, which had well-known, if controversial, connections with Galvani’s work.13 On its inauguration the statue was greeted by the mayor as “the first civic monument in town”; a town where religious monuments erected during the long period when Bologna was part of the Papal States were the norm. That the statue was meant to celebrate “talent and science” was duly emphasized by the mayor.14 Indeed the statue offers several interesting clues to the town’s search for an identity through the history of electricity. The first recorded suggestion (1851) that Bologna should erect a monument to Galvani is attributed to a German archeologist turned entrepreneur in the field of galvanoplastics, which he used to produce replicas of ancient sculptures. His name was August Emil Braun, and he was active in Rome.15 The initiative for a monument to Galvani gathered momentum ten years later. Those were the years when, after the comparative eclipse of galvanism due to Volta’s astounding success with the battery, Galvani’s notion of an animal electricity was being revived by the works of Carlo Matteucci and Emil Du Bois-Reymond. Those were also the years when telegraphy was becoming the most visible, useful application of the electric currents first studied by Galvani and Volta. Those were, finally, the years when Bologna passed from the Papal States to the newborn Kingdom of Italy (1861). For reasons that require some further explanation, the town’s elites that had supported the adherence to the new nation found in Galvani a convenient symbol to celebrate, and used him to circulate the name and the spirit of the town nationally and internationally. Galvani was known to have been a devout Catholic, but to popular audiences his name meant above all science, a science that was beginning to display its several useful applications. Also, Galvani had been a famous physician as well as a professor, and his studies had proved seminal to physics as well, thus conveying an ecumenical view of science that could be cherished by academics from many 11 12

13 14 15

Il resto del carlino, 25–6 September 1901. See: Candido Mesini, ‘L’inaugurazione del monumento a Luigi Galvani in Bologna, 9 novembre 1879’, Il Carrobbio, 29 (1979), pp. 243–60. I was led to this article by Marco Bresadola. A plaque commemorating the visit is on the column supporting the statue. From the text of the poster affixed by the mayor on the occasion, reproduced in Gazzetta ufficiale del Regno d’Italia, 8 November 1879, n. 262. See: Mesini, ‘L’inaugurazione’, note 9.

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fields. Finally, the popular image of Galvani the physician and the experimenter was associated with notions of utility and industriousness, which appealed to the most dynamic sectors of a town trying to recover from the economic torpor that characterized the last decades of the Papal administration. What we know for sure is that when, in 1863, a new Masonic lodge was created by a comparatively diverse group of citizens from the traditional professions, members of the University, merchants, public officers and accomplished artisans, they called the lodge “Galvani”.16 We also know that when, a few years later, the new Italian state ruled that the schools belonging to the former religious orders, now under the public administration, should be given new names, one of the bestknown high schools in town was named after Galvani.17 So it does not come as a surprise that the head of the committee of private citizens who sponsored Galvani’s statue was a well-known physician, university professor, and a freemason (Francesco Rizzoli), and that the mayor who finally inaugurated the monument (Gaetano Tacconi), and who ruled the town uninterruptedly for fifteen years, was also a freemason. The elites who administered the town after national unification, clearly, found it useful to convey an image of the town that presented the pursuit of science as a characterizing trait. This was in keeping with the presence of the old university, which in 1888 celebrated its 800th anniversary, with the process of secularization supported by several members of the elites, and with the promise, later the reality, of a wave of industrialization connected with the spread of electricity. The special link with the history of electricity was presented as a guarantee of the town’s commitment to modernization, while the international renown enjoyed by Galvani and later Marconi was to sanction that commitment in the eyes of national and international audiences when they were invited to join in the celebration of local glories. The historical evidence supporting the town’s commitment to the science of electricity after Galvani was thin, to be sure: The University’s contributions to the field in the 19th century were not as impressive as before.18 Early in the 20th century Marconi had come to the rescue, but his ties to the University were very limited, we know, and the role of the town in his international career especially so. In the domain of the symbolic, however, one does not need to bother about such details. One may ask, however: how did the science of electricity practiced in the town, and its romance with the history of electricity, contribute to the process of electrification and the take-off of electric industries in the region? In order to find an answer, we must shift to the second plot of our story. 16

17 18

Carlo Manelli, La massoneria a Bologna dal 12° al 20° secolo (Bologna: Analisi, 1986), pp. 94–7, and pp. 101–3, and Francesca Tarozzi, ‘Uno sguardo sulla massoneria bolognese nell’Ottocento’, in: Giovanni Greco (ed.), Bologna massonica (Bologna: CLUEB, 2008), pp. 143–55, pp. 149–51. I cento anni del liceo Galvani (Bologna: Cappelli, 1965), pp. 15–6. See, however, the works of Silvestro Gherardi, Carlo Matteucci, and the already mentioned Augusto Righi and Quirino Majorana.

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ELECTRIFICATION: ENDOGENOUS AND EXOGENOUS FACTORS Historians of technology estimate there was about a fifteen-year delay in the beginning of the process of electrification in Bologna, as compared with Milan, two hundred kilometres north of Bologna, and to several other even much smaller towns on the Peninsula. The first electric plant was installed in Bologna in 1897.19 Three years later, three small but enterprising villages nearby already had systems for public electric lighting that the town would adopt only much, much later.20 To the self-confessed shame of Bologna’s local administrators, public lighting in the town was still running on gas as late as 1939.21 The early steps of the electrification process in Bologna indicate that foreign capital and know how played a key role. The first important installation for generating electricity, inaugurated in 1901, came with the initiative of Ganz, of Budapest. On the occasion local entrepreneurs – especially the Gallotti family, who a few years earlier had built an important Hoffmann kiln for producing bricks on the outskirts of Bologna – joined forces with Ganz. It is worth remembering that a Swiss firm (the Compagnie Genevoise de l’Industrie du Gas) had been granted the monopoly for gas lighting in the town from 1869. With the advent of electricity, in an attempt to outcompete the Ganz initiative, the Swiss had joined forces with the German Siemens. In those same years, the American Thomson-Houston International Electric Company applied to the local government for a licence to introduce electric tramways, to compete with a Belgian firm, Les tramways de Bologne, already active in the town. In the end, Giuseppe Gallotti and the local entrepreneurs acting in agreement with Ganz got the concession for distributing electricity to private consumers in Bologna.22 The electric technology and know how used in the first important power station in town, combining hydraulic and steam energy, were mostly imported. The hydraulic turbine was built by a Swiss-Italian firm. The machines for converting steam energy into electricity were provided by Tosi and Steinmüller, and installed by Ganz. Some of the engineers and technicians running the plant came from abroad.23 Nevertheless, when a new Italian Association for Electrotechnology (AEI) was created in Milan in 1898, 54 engineers based in Bologna felt it convenient to create a local section, the first such section after the national organization based in Milan. It was headed by Luigi Donati, professor of “technical physics” in the School of Engineering attached to the University of Bologna.24 Among its

19 20 21 22 23 24

Laszlo & Masulli, ‘Elettricità e vita sociale’, note 2, p. 674. Annuario statistico italiano 1900 (Rome: Tipografia Nazionale), p. 469. ‘L’illuminazione elettrica del nucleo urbano’, Il Comune di Bologna, Feb.–March 1939, p. 15. Laszlo & Masulli, ‘Elettricità e vita sociale’, note 2, p. 687. ‘La visita dei fisici allo stabilimento elettrico del Battiferro’, Il resto del carlino, 25–6 September 1901. Atti della Associazione Elettrotecnica Italiana, vol. 2, Sept. 1899, p. 279 and p. 291; on Donati: B. Brunelli-Giorgio Dragoni, ‘Donati, Luigi’, in: Dizionario Biografico degli Ital-

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sponsors the new association had a firm based in Bologna: the Ditta Alessandro Calzoni, which produced hydraulic turbines “especially appropriate for moving dynamos”. By 1899 the firm claimed to have produced already 500 such turbines.25 When the professor of physics at the University of Bologna – Augusto Righi who, we know, was hailed as a worthy continuator of Galvani’s work and perhaps an inspirer of young Marconi – convened the yearly congress of Italian physicists in town in 1901, he showed them round the new electric plant. At the time – despite the shabby buildings hosting and surrounding it – its machines were the most futuristic pieces of apparatus available in Bologna.26 The visit of Italian physicists led by Righi to Bologna’s new electric plant is, of course, a converging point of plots one and two of our story. So is the homage that telegraph operators from many countries paid to Galvani’s statue two years earlier. But other, more pervasive circumstances were pushing towards electrification in early twentieth-century Bologna. The monthly consumption of electricity in Bologna in December 1900 was about 39,000 kWh, of which more than half went on private lighting – with shops, cafés, hotels and theatres as the top consumers. Private homes accounted for only about 10% of the total – the rest went on factories, workshops and machinery. In 1905, private consumption had reached one million kWh yearly, which doubled by 1910 thanks to a new hydroelectric plant built 56 km away, and consumption doubled again before the First World War. In the same time span, the electric power used for private lighting, tramways (electric from 1904), and factories reached 6.5 million kWh yearly.27 The expansion of electricity consumption went hand in hand with other, major changes, demographic and social. From 1901 Bologna’s demographic curve began an upward trend that was to continue until the 1970s. That trend was due mainly to the immigration of people from the countryside attracted by the expanding opportunities offered by a town which was becoming an important railway centre, and was characterized by a substantial industrialization, mostly in the mechanical sector. Between 1881 and 1931 the population of Bologna almost doubled, and doubled again between 1931 and 1971, when it reached 490,000 inhabitants.28 Class distribution within this growing population has not been studied as systematically as one would wish. Nonetheless, a recent study estimates that from 1881 to 1961 the town saw a substantial decline of the lower middle classes (from 28.9% to 16.8%), a moderate increase in the working classes (from 52.7% to 54.4%, including industrial, agricultural, and service sectors), and a sizeable in-

25 26 27 28

iani, 41 (1992), now in: http://www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/luigidonati_(Dizionario-Biografico)/ (accessed 30 May 2013). As advertised in Atti, note 24, in those same years. ‘La quinta riunione dei fisici italiani a Bologna’, Il resto del carlino, 25–6 September 1901. Laszlo & Masulli, ‘Elettricità e vita sociale’, note 2, p. 687. Tassinari, ‘La popolazione di Bologna’, note 1, pp. 189–90; Vera Zamagni, ‘L’economia’, in: Renato Zangheri (ed.), Bologna (Rome Bari: Laterza, 1986), pp. 245–314.

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crease in the middle classes: office workers, technicians, professionals, and entrepreneurs, who together grew from 18.4% to 28.8% of the working population.29 In the absence of detailed studies on the patterns of electricity consumption in the city, it is tempting to regard the expansion of the electric sector as paralleling the growth of the middle and working classes of Bologna in the period under review. The success of electricity may have benefited from the elites’ welladvertised romance with electricity; but success certainly benefitted from the growing population and its changing social composition. Because, of course, to produce and distribute electricity with its expanding applications, local consumers and local technicians were needed. We do not have systematic surveys of the employees, technicians, and workers active in the city in the field of electricity, but they must have been themselves a growing number. Courses of lectures and schools for telegraph operators had been established since 1868, and courses for electro technicians since 1898.30 In 1924, when plans aimed at municipalising electric tramways materialised, 879 employees were involved, including the technicians and personnel running the thermoelectric power plant that generated electricity exclusively for Bologna’s tramways.31 The use of the telephone got off to a very slow start in the city, and in 1926 there were still only 1.6 telephones for every 100 inhabitants, while foreign towns could boast of 25 or 30.32 However, a couple of years later an advanced, automatic telephone central office was inaugurated in Bologna.33 In those same years several private schools in the region began to offer well-attended and comparatively expensive courses for radio telegraph operators.34 Finally, in 1935, a two-year, university-level School of radio communications was launched by the professor of physics at the University of Bologna, Quirino Majorana.35 For a long while, however, the electric technology and know how employed in the region continued to be imported as shown by the hydroelectric plant already mentioned which in 1910 doubled the amount of electricity available. The plan for a dam to serve the plant was designed by Angelo Omodeo, a Lombard, a brilliant young engineer who had graduated at Milan’s polytechnic school, and an active member of Lombardy socialist circles, who would later become internationally 29 30

31 32

33 34 35

Data extrapolated from Marzio Barbagli & Maurizio Pisati, Dentro e fuori le mura. Città e gruppi sociali dal 1400 a oggi (Bologna: il Mulino, 2012), pp. 296–7, Tab. 1.5. Giorgio Dragoni, ‘L’introduzione delle telecomunicazioni: Antonio Pacinotti, Augusto Righi, Guglielmo Marconi’, in: Walter Tega (ed.), Lo studio e la città (Bologna: Nuova Alfa Editoriale, 1987), pp. 309–15, p. 310; Comune di Bologna, Macchine, scuola, industria. Dal mestiere alla professionalità operaia (Bologna: il Mulino, 1980), pp. 114–5, pp. 170–76. Giuseppe Brini, Quelli del tramway, vol. 1 (Bologna: ATC, 1977), pp. 164–6. ‘Sistemazione degli edifici e servizi telefonici a Bologna’, Il Comune di Bologna, September 1926, p. 664. On the telephone in Italy: Gabriele Balbi, Le origini del telefono in Italia (Milan Turin: Bruno Mondadori, 2011). ‘Il telefono e l’arte bolognese’, Il Comune di Bologna, November 1928, p. 44. Umberto Mazzone, ‘Scuole di radiotelegrafia negli anni 20’, http://digilander.libero.it/caselli domenico/Scuole%20di%20RT%20anni%20venti.htm (accessed 30 May 2013). Giorgio Dragoni, ‘Majorana, Quirino’, Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani, vol. 67 (Rome: Istituto Della Enciclopedia Italiana, 2007).

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known as a dam designer.36 The turbines of the power-plant were of the Pelton type built by the Swiss Escher Wyss, the alternators were AEG, and the transformers were produced by the Swedish ASEA. Only subsequent expansions of the power-plant, carried out in the 1910s and 1920s, saw the introduction of hydraulic machines built by a well known local firm.37 From the mid-1920s with the diffusion of radio technologies and national broadcasting the situation changed and, for some two decades, Bologna could boast having one of the most dynamic radio industries in the country, exporting world-wide. This achievement, and its subsequent demise, are associated with a firm whose story offers several interesting clues to the intertwining of the different plots discussed in this paper. A SCIENTIFIC RADIO INDUSTRY IN TOWN On 7 January 1922, a radio amateur from Bologna – Adriano Cavalieri Ducati, barely 18, a first-year student in the Engineering School attached to the University of Bologna – submitted his first application for a patent to the Italian Ministry for Industry and Commerce. This concerned a variable capacitor of unusual form, to be used in radiotelegraphy. Less than two years later, the same amateur submitted another patent application for a radio apparatus that he called “radiotelegrafonico”, claiming several improvements over similar radio sets.38 In January 1924, Adriano managed to be heard by several stations in the United States: he was using a low-power (90 watts), short-wave apparatus (100 meters; aerial: 30 meters) that he himself had built.39 The son of an engineer who had graduated in Milan, and who was well-known in Bologna as an expert in aqueducts and railways, Adriano had attended the first two years of the Engineering School, and would later enrol as a physics student. His record as a student was far from impressive. He managed to attend and pass only two out of the eleven exams expected from engineering students in their first two years, and not one in the physics programme. After the January 1924 exploit testified to by amateur radio

36 37 38

39

Andrea Filippo Saba (ed.), Angelo Omodeo: vita, progetti, opere per la modernizzazione: una raccolta di scritti (Rome Bari: Laterza, 2005), p. 39. Aldo Righi, ‘Gli impianti idroelettrici del Brasimone’, Sincronizzando, 58 (10) (1926), pp. 443–57. Archivio Centrale dello Stato, Rome, (Archivio Brevetti e Marchi): Cavalieri Ducati Adriano, Bologna, Condensatore elettrostatico variabile a grande capacità, 206993; Cavalieri Ducati Adriano, Bologna, Apparecchio radiotelegrafonico ‘Ducati’, 226279. On the radio industry in those years: Hiram L. Jome, Economics of the radio industry (Chicago, New York: Shaw, 1925). Bruno Cavalieri Ducati, Guglielmo Marconi (Rastignano Bologna: Editografica, 1995), p. 118.

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organizations in several countries, Adriano was absorbed in a number of initiatives that had only indirect links with his career as a student.40 Adriano’s performance over long distances with short waves (Marconi’s stations for radiotelegraphy used very long waves) attracted the attention of the Italian Navy. In the summer of 1924 he was asked to install his short-wave radio equipment on board the Italian Navy’s cruiser San Marco destined for Argentina, and to join the transatlantic cruise. The steps by the Navy before formalizing the invitation included a telegram sent by the Minister to the Rector of the University of Bologna to enquire about Adriano’s personal qualities and performance. The Rector’s answer mentioned, in a rather uncustomary way, the high esteem in which Adriano was held among the technicians as well as the professors of the University. The professor of geodesy, who had worked for the Istituto Geografico Militare for many years, was perhaps instrumental in seconding Adriano’s contacts with the Navy. These would continue after the San Marco expedition, when Adriano performed an additional series of experiments in Leghorn, at the Navy’s Laboratory for Radiotelegraphy.41 While on board the San Marco, Adriano conceived the idea of compiling a systematic, practical treatise devoted to the use of short waves in radio communications (published in 1927 in 637 pages).42 For a while, he pursued a threefold goal: to expand and circulate through new experiments the notion that short waves were a strong asset for radio communications world-wide; to secure more patents for his apparatuses; and to launch a new industrial venture. The latter was established on 4 July 1926 in Bologna under the compelling name of Società Scientifica Radio Brevetti Ducati (known as SSR Ducati or simply Ducati), with capital provided by the family and a select group of the family’s rich friends.43 While mention of patents (brevetti) was frequent in the name of similar firms in those days, the appeal to science (Società scientifica) was unusual, and went hand in hand with the recurrent use of the word ‘precision’ in the firm’s ads in subsequent years. For about eighteen years, SSR Ducati was a leading producer of radio components (especially capacitors) and radio sets, open to the promises and challenges of the new, international radio industry. The impressive expansion of the firm up to the outbreak of the Second World War is easily summarized. Launched with a modest capital of 100,000 liras and with most of the management in the hands of three brothers (Adriano, Bruno and Marcello Cavalieri Ducati), the firm increased its capital from two to eight million by 1938. In 1935 the firm claimed to be selling one fourth of its products abroad, to clients scattered in twenty-five countries. The work force employed increased 40

41 42 43

Info on Adriano’s career as a studenti and his connections with the University of Bologna is based on a file under his name preserved in Archivio Storico dell’Università di Bologna, Facoltà di Scienze. Bruno Cavalieri Ducati, Storia della Ducati (Rastignano Bologna: Editografica, 1991), pp. 15–7. Adriano Ducati, Le onde corte nelle comunicazioni radiotelegrafiche (Bologna: Zanichelli, 1927). Archivio Notarile Distrettuale, Bologna, notary Giovanni Marani, N°1547.

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from a few dozen in 1926 to 750 in 1935 and, after a new, modern plant was built on the outskirts of Bologna beginning in 1935, reached 1326 in April 1940, and 3865 in March 1942. By the mid-1930s, SSR Ducati was the largest factory in Bologna and, given the advanced technological character of its products and its international clientele, nurtured a notable population of technicians and clerical staff, amounting altogether to about 16% of the total work force in April 1940.44 From 1926 to 1934, the expansion of the firm was linked mainly to the expansion of the Italian market for radio and broadcasting apparatus. Broadcasting transmissions on a regular basis began in Italy in 1924. Between 1927 and 1934 the number of radio listeners paying the national annual subscription multiplied by ten.45 In the same years, SSR Ducati played a leading role in efforts to modify the tax system affecting the radio industry in Italy; a system that, according to industrialists, was hampering the much faster expansion seen in other countries. As Bruno Ducati lamented in 1934, in a 167-page-long book collecting the plethora of Italian laws concerning radio, twelve different taxes applied to the production, selling, and use of a typical radio-set with five thermionic valves.46 From the mid-1930s, the expansion of SSR Ducati was linked to militarization and the arms race in which the Fascist regime was engaged. In the summer of 1935 the firm, together with ten other major firms based in Bologna (mostly mechanical or chemical), was declared of primary military interest, or “auxiliary”, for the purposes of arms production and mobilization in case of war.47 A couple of months later, Italy launched the second Italian-Ethiopian War. The war marked a decisive step in the process that led to Italy’s joining Germany in June 1940, and to the collapse of Fascist Italy on 8 September 1943. The very next day, the recently-built plant of SSR Ducati on the outskirts of Bologna was surrounded by twenty German tanks, and the managers were asked to transfer production and personnel to Germany. Before that could materialize, on 12 October 1944 the plant was mostly destroyed by Allied bombs. After the war, Ducati struggled fiercely to recover. In the process, the mechanical branch – which had been launched together with an optical branch during the war – turned out to be more successful than the radio branch.48 Thus it happened that over the past fifty years Ducati (now owned by VW-Audi) has been associated with motorbike production and world championships rather than with capacitors and the radio industry. The existence of a forward-looking, leading producer of electronic apparatus in Bologna with broad international ambitions did not survive. The firm found no place in the new world map of the electronic industry after the war.

44

45 46 47 48

All data on SSR Ducati above are from Archivio di Stato, Bologna, Fondo Ispettorato del Lavoro, vol. 2, folders 37–9. I was led to this important collection of documents by archivists Ingrid Guglielmo and Salvatore Alongi, to whom I wish to express my gratitude. See: Peppino Ortoleva & Barbara Scaramucci (eds.), Enciclopedia della radio (Milan: Garzanti, 2003), pp. 988–9, and p. 1014. Bruno Cavalieri Ducati, La legislazione radioelettrica italiana (Milan: Pirola, 1934), p. 8. Archivio di Stato, Bologna, Ispettorato del Lavoro, note 44. Ducati, Storia della Ducati, note 41, pp. 83–127.

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The few ties that SSR Ducati at its origins entertained with the University of Bologna enabled owners and managers to claim that the firm had deep roots in national and local scientific traditions. The twenty divisions of the new building inaugurated in the mid-1930s were each named after an Italian with Galvani and Marconi prominent among them.49 A quick visit that Marconi paid to the firm in 1934, when the University of Bologna conferred on him a second honorary degree, was celebrated as a sort of foundation event at Ducati.50 And indeed, side by side with the rhetoric, SSR Ducati did pursue policies of intense industrial research and of “scientific management” that did not have parallels in other factories in the city, nor indeed in the University. These policies were no doubt inspired by the extensive, direct knowledge of developments abroad conveyed to Bologna by the nine ‘sister’ Ducati firms established in as many foreign countries. A visit Bruno Ducati paid to Anton Philips and the Eindhoven factory in 1928 left a permanent impression on the former. SSR Ducati’s commitment to research and rigorous training culminated in 1942 with the establishment of a special, internal school devoted to the education of its technicians.51 The focus on education and training had repercussions that went well beyond the life of SSR Ducati. After the war, several former Ducati technicians were instrumental in establishing new firms in the region that continued the tradition of sophisticated electronic and electromechanical devices. These technicians were in turn instrumental in seconding the further development, modernization and internationalization of two of the most dynamic industrial sectors in the region to the present: the production of packaging machines and of biomedical apparatus.52 Historians of science and technology have long since dismissed the notion of a ‘linear model’ which presents science as leading technology, which in turn drives industrial developments and societal change.53 The story sketched in this section confirms how intricate and multidirectional the paths connecting the different domains are. It shows that when considering the materialities of the scientific process, we should adopt interpretive models able to accommodate, side by side, the circumstances that play a role in regulating the traffic along the connecting paths, including demographic and political developments, war and peace, and the heroes and myths cultivated within long-established, local traditions.

49 50 51 52

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Ibid., p. 50. Ducati, Guglielmo Marconi, note 39, pp. 91–7. Ducati, Storia della Ducati, note 41, p. 77, pp. 35–7, and p. 27. Vittorio Capecchi, ‘L’industrializzazione a Bologna nel Novecento. Dal secondo dopoguerra a oggi’, in: Walter Tega (ed.), Storia illustrata di Bologna, vol. 5 (Milan: Sipiel, 1989), pp. 161–80, pp. 172–3. See also: Vera Zamagni, ‘L’economia’, in: Renato Zangheri (ed.), Bologna (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1986), pp. 245–314; and Fabio Gobbo (ed.), Bologna 1937–1987. Cinquant’anni di vita economica (Bologna: Cassa di Risparmio in Bologna, 1987). On the linear model: The Science-Industry Nexus: History, Policy, Implications, Nobel Symposium 123, (Sagamore Beach: Science History Publications, 2005).

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MUSEUMS How much of the story sketched in the preceding pages is preserved and/or narrated in the museums now open to the public in Bologna? The quick answer is: not much. There are three main collections in the city including sections devoted to the history of electricity: the Palazzo Poggi collection and the history of physics collection, belonging to the University, and the collection, owned by the city’s government, called the Museo del Patrimonio Industriale. However, the narrative offered to visitors in each of the three museums is clearly inspired by a different historiographic tradition. The Palazzo Poggi museum offers a combined history of ideas, institutional history, and art history perspective, reserving only limited space for the history of the town and the life of its inhabitants.54 The elegant rooms devoted to Galvani, anatomy, and electricity focus mainly on a few personalities illustrating the history of the University, and of the attached Academy of Sciences. Not one of the electrical apparatuses on display belonged to Galvani: unfortunately, his instruments, including the fine electrostatic machine shown in the famous 1791 publication, were sold abroad during the nineteenth century. Happily, though, a substantial collection of Galvani’s original manuscripts and laboratory notes is preserved in the archives of the Bologna Academy of Sciences, not far away.55 The university’s history of physics collection originated in the museum that Augusto Righi, the professor of physics at the University of Bologna in the decades around 1900, thought fit to place at the centre of the new institute of physics he had planned. Including instruments from the seventeenth century, this collection provides telling proof of the endeavours of the professors and their technicians at the turn of the nineteenth century.56 Of the three museums, the best is probably the Museo del Patrimonio Industriale. This museum preserves the old apparatus left by Giovanni Aldini, nephew of Galvani, himself well-known for his work on animal electricity, and the founder of the oldest technical school in town. The museum pays special attention to Bologna’s industrial heritage, beginning from the 15th to the 17th centuries, when it was a leading centre of silk production. Another strength of the museum is the

54 55

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See: Walter Tega (ed.), Guide to the Museo di Palazzo Poggi. Science and Art, vol. 2 (Bologna: Compositori, 2007). The Museum’s website: www.museopalazzopoggi.unibo.it/. For a sample of the treasures they preserve for historians of science see: Marco Bresadola, ‘At play with nature: Luigi Galvani’s experimental approach to muscular physiology’, Archimedes, 7 (Reworking the bench. Research notebooks in the history of science, Frederic L. Holmes, Jürgen Renn, & Hans-Jörg Rheinberger eds.), ( 2003), pp. 67–92. See Giorgio Dragoni & Ivana Stojanovic, ‘The Physical Tourist. Physical science in Bologna’, Physics in Perspective, 15 (2013), pp. 92–115. The Museum’s website: http://www.fisica-astronomia.unibo.it/it/biblioteche-e-musei/museo-di-fisica.

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collection of specimens of local industries in the 19th and 20th centuries.57 By concentrating most of its attention on the history of technology and the history of the town’s factories, however, the museum does not encourage a multidisciplinary perspective. It appears that, through the museums mentioned, three scholarly traditions, well-rooted in 20th-century Italian universities, have managed to shape the history of the town along the lines of their own special vantage point and idiosyncrasies. Palazzo Poggi offers a history of ideas/history of science/art history perspective, valued especially within the humanities. The history of physics collection offers a kind of perspective cultivated mainly by physicists with an interest in the history of their discipline. And the Museo del Patrimonio Industriale privileges the history of technology and industrial history. Needless to say, this split view is unlikely to encourage, or to instill in visitors, the need to explore the full range of different actors and interests, varied motivations, connecting threads and unintended consequences that, together, have shaped the history of science and technology in Bologna.58 CONCLUSION What can be learnt from the history of electricity in an old university town, and what can this say about the materialities involved in the scientific and technological process? When the tempo and mode of the history of electricity are studied in a longterm perspective some interesting features of the scientific process emerge. The old notion, according to which science leads and technology and society follow appears the reasonable if debatable product of a strategy adopted by generations of academics to secure a place for themselves in a local community, conveniently charged with the universal mission attributed to science and technology. The celebrations of Galvani that took place in Bologna throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, while electrical technologies mostly produced elsewhere were arriving in town, pursued a strategy which merged easily with local needs and local politics, as is confirmed by the lives of the academics themselves, who often combined academic and political careers in the town’s and the nation’s governing bodies. Contrary to what can be expected from the ‘linear model’ of the relationship between science, technology and society, the asserted primacy of scientific heroes like Galvani did not carry with it a primacy in the local diffusion of electrical 57

58

Roberto Curti & Maura Grandi (eds.), Guide to the Industrial Heritage Museum. In a brickworks five centuries of history (Bologna: Museo del Patrimonio Industriale, 2003). The Museum’s website: www.comune.bologna.it/patrimonio-industriale/index.php?lang=it. A new, important museum for the history of the town was inaugurated in January 2012 in Palazzo Pepoli, in the center of Bologna. Only four out of its 34 rooms or sections are devoted to themes connected with science, technology, and industry. See: Museum of the History of Bologna. Palazzo Pepoli (Bologna: Bononia University Press, 2011). The Museum’s website: www.genusbononiae.it/index.php?pag=25.

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technologies. Electrification started late in town and, as far as public lighting was concerned, Bologna earned the distinction of being the last major city in Italy to shift from gas to electricity. The fact that the local government was earning from gas taxes it could not earn from electricity was apparently a main cause. A similar record Bologna earned in the diffusion of the telephone. As for radio, the recurrent, pressing attempts by the University and the town to re-appropriate Marconi, after he had built his success and his entire career far from Bologna, speak for themselves; and confirm that no celebration of local glories could ever provide short cuts or solutions for structural, long-term problems. Generally, the diffusion of electrical technologies in the town seems to have followed demographic and social trends associated with population increase and with the expansion of the town’s middle and working classes. Until the mid 1920s no major electrical or radio industries developed in Bologna. When that happened, their destiny was shaped by the political geography of electrical industry worldwide. The impressive progression of SSR Ducati in the 1930s and during the war, and its demise soon afterwards, are telling examples. So was, with its much less impressive but steady development, the case with the local producers of medical-electrical and electronic apparatus who, with their roots in the local, rich health system in which the University of Bologna played a role, could rely on a market continuing also in peace-time.59 Finally, the long-term, multidisciplinary approach tried out in this essay invites a conception of the materialities of science significantly broader than the one advocated in recent historiography and museology. In order to capture the tempo and mode of historical developments, the current emphasis on “material culture” (Galison), “materialized epistemology” (Wise), and the “material sources of science” (Beretta) is important, but is not enough.60 A broader view of the materialities of the scientific and technological process is needed: a view able to accommodate demographic, social, and political developments, as well as the transnational vicissitudes of war and peace, and – last but not least – the scientific heroes and myths produced and nourished within local cultural traditions. BIBLIOGRAPHY Annuario statistico italiano 1900 (Rome: Tipografia Nazionale, 1900). Balbi, Gabriele, Le origini del telefono in Italia (Milan-Turin: Bruno Mondadori, 2011). Barbagli, Marzio & Maurizio Pisati, Dentro e fuori le mura. Città e gruppi sociali dal 1400 a oggi (Bologna: il Mulino, 2012).

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An example in this field was, from 1920, the firm Rangoni & Puricelli, specializing in electric and electronic medical instruments. Peter Galison, Image and logic: a material culture of microphysics (Chicago London: The University of Chicago Press, 1997); M. Norton Wise, ‘Making Visible’, Isis, 97 (2006), pp. 75–82, p. 81; Marco Beretta, ‘Editorial’, Nuncius. Journal of the Material and Visual History of Science, 26 (2011), pp. 3–6.

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Beretta, Marco, ‘Editorial’, Nuncius. Journal of the Material and Visual History of Science, 26 (2011), pp. 3–6. Bresadola, Marco, ‘At Play with Nature: Luigi Galvani’s experimental approach to muscular physiology’, Archimedes, 7 (2003), pp. 67–92. Brini, Giuseppe, Quelli del tramway, vol. 1 (Bologna: ATC, 1977). Capecchi, Vittorio, ‘L’industrializzazione a Bologna nel Novecento. Dal secondo dopoguerra a oggi’, in: Walter Tega (ed.), Storia illustrata di Bologna, vol. 5 (Milano: Sipiel, 1989), pp. 161–80. Cavalieri Ducati, Bruno, La legislazione radioelettrica italiana (Milan: Pirola, 1934). Cavalieri Ducati, Bruno, Guglielmo Marconi (Rastignano Bologna: Editografica, 1995). Cavalieri Ducati, Bruno, Storia della Ducati (Rastignano Bologna: Editografica, 1991). Comune di Bologna, Macchine, scuola, industria. Dal mestiere alla professionalità operaia (Bologna: il Mulino, 1980). Curti, Roberto & Maura Grandi (eds.), Guide to the Industrial Heritage Museum. In a brickworks five centuries of history (Bologna: Museo del Patrimonio Industriale, 2003). Dragoni, Giorgio, ‘L’introduzione delle telecomunicazioni: Antonio Pacinotti, Augusto Righi, Guglielmo Marconi’, in: Walter Tega (ed.), Lo studio e la città (Bologna: Nuova Alfa Editoriale, 1987), pp. 309–15. Dragoni, Giorgio & Marina Manferrari, ‘Il rapporto Righi-Marconi attraverso nuovi documenti inediti’ (1996), www.radiomarconi.com/marconi/dragoni.html#fnB590 (accessed 30 May 2013). Dragoni, Giorgio & Ivana Stojanovic, ‘The Physical Tourist. Physical science in Bologna’, Physics in Perspective, 15 (2013), pp. 92–115. Ducati, Adriano, Le onde corte nelle comunicazioni radiotelegrafiche (Bologna: Zanichelli, 1927). Galison, Peter, Image and logic: a Material Culture of Microphysics (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1997). Galvani, Luigi, ‘De viribus electricitatis in motu musculari’, De bononiensi scientiarum et artium insituto atque academia commentarii, 7 (1791), pp. 363–418. Gobbo, Fabio (ed.), Bologna 1937–1987. Cinquant’anni di vita economica (Bologna: Cassa di Risparmio in Bologna, 1987). I cento anni del liceo Galvani (Bologna: Cappelli, 1965). Jome, Hiram L., Economics of the radio industry (Chicago and New York: Shaw, 1925). Kryzhanovssky, Leonid & Khatskel Ioffe, ‘Aleksandr Popov. Il pioniere russo della telegrafia senza fili’, in: Anna Guagnini & Giuliano Pancaldi (eds.), Cento anni di radio. Le radici dell’invenzione (Turin: Seat, 1995), pp. 419–66. King, W. James, ‘Charles Susskind, Popov and the Beginnings of Radiotelegraphy. Book Review’, Technology and Culture, 7 (1) (1966), pp. 98–102. Laszlo, Alexander & Ignazio Masulli, ‘Elettricità e vita sociale’, in: Giorgio Mori (ed.), Storia dell’industria elettrica in Italia. Le origini. 1882–1914, vol. 2 (Rome and Bari : Laterza, 1992), pp. 645–96. ‘L’illuminazione elettrica del nucleo urbano’, Il Comune di Bologna, Feb. – March 1939, p. 15. Manelli, Carlo, La massoneria a Bologna dal 12° al 20° secolo (Bologna: Analisi, 1986). Mazzone, Umbrerto, ‚Scuole di radiotelegrafia negli anni 20‘, http://digilander.libero.it/casellidom enico/Scuole%20di%20RT%20anni%20venti.htm (accessed 30 May 2013). Mesini, Candido, ‘L’inaugurazione del monumento a Luigi Galvani in Bologna, 9 novembre 1879’, Il Carrobbio, 29 (1979), pp. 243–60. Museum of the History of Bologna. Palazzo Pepoli (Bologna: Bononia University Press, 2011). Ortoleva, Peppino & Barbara Scaramucci (eds.), Enciclopedia della radio (Milan: Garzanti, 2003). Rendiconto generale della celebrazione del secondo centenario della nascita di Luigi Galvani, (Bologna, Tipografia Luigi Parma, 1938). Righi, Aldo, ‘Gli impianti idroelettrici del Brasimone’, Sincronizzando, 58 (10) (1926), pp. 443– 57.

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Saba, Andrea Filippo (ed.), Angelo Omodeo: vita, progetti, opere per la modernizzazione: una raccolta di scritti (Rome and Bari: Laterza, 2005). Süsskind, Charles, ‘Observations of Electromagnetic-Wave Radiation Before Hertz’, Isis, 55 (1964), pp. 32–42. Süsskind, Charles, Popov and the Beginnings of Radiotelegraphy (San Francisco: San Francisco Press, 1964). The Science-Industry Nexus: History, Policy, Implications, Nobel Symposium 123 (Sagamore Beach, Maine: Science History Publications, 2005). Tabarroni, Giorgio, Bologna e la storia della radiazione: a 70 anni dalle prime trasmissioni di Guglielmo Marconi a Villa Griffone (Bologna: Compositori, 1965). Tarozzi, Francesca, ‘Uno sguardo sulla massoneria bolognese nell’Ottocento’, in: Giovanni Greco (ed.), Bologna massonica (Bologna: CLUEB, 2008), pp. 143–55. Tassinari, Franco, ‘La popolazione di Bologna dall’unificazione a oggi’, in: Walter Tega (ed.), Storia illustrata di Bologna, vol. 5 (Milano: Sipiel, 1989), pp. 181–200. Tega, Walter (ed.), Guide to the Museo di Palazzo Poggi. Science and Art, vol. 2 (Bologna: Compositori, 2007). UNESCO, Proclamation of a World Radio Day, Executive Board, 187 EX/13, Paris, 26 August 2011. Wise, M. Norton, ‘Making Visible’, Isis 97 (2006), pp. 75–82. Zamagni, Vera, ‘L’economia’, in: Renato Zangheri (ed.), Bologna (Roma and Bari: Laterza 1986), pp. 245–314.

COLLECTING COINS AT A NORTH-EUROPEAN UNIVERSITY: THE COIN CABINET OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OSLO John Peter Collett ABSTRACT Shortly after the first Norwegian university was founded in 1811, it spent a substantial sum to buy a collection of 6,300 ancient Greek and Roman coins. The university had long been foreseen by the Norwegian population as a centre for studies of national history, language and culture. The purchase of the antique coins from this point of view seems much as a paradox. The investment becomes meaningful, however, when seen in a larger European context. The Norwegian university was founded at a time when Göttingen University was the ideal for a modern European university, and the coin collection was essential to the classical Bildung that had been established in Göttingen under Christoph Gottlob Heyne. The coins possessed both an historical and an aesthetic value. They were representations of Greek and Roman art, well suited for contemplating the eternal ideals of harmony and beauty of the Antiquity, as part of the broadly defined Altertumswissenschaft. After less than two decades, the coin collection of the Norwegian university changed in meaning. Old Norwegian coins and foreign coins found in Norway became primary sources for the scientific exploration of Norwegian history. The coins left the Bildung context and came to the forefront of Forschung – much as a parallel to the development of other disciplines of the university, especially the studies of language and history. Large sums were spent on purchasing coins from all parts of the world to be used as material for comparing the development and diversification of human culture over time and space, as part of the larger endeavour of 19th century Historism.

The first Norwegian university, the present-day University of Oslo, started its operations in 1813. Four years later, in 1817, the new university made a substantial investment by acquiring no less than 6,300 Greek and Roman coins as “the foundation of our future museum”.1 The acquisition stands out as remarkable for several reasons. First, for the size of the sum spent on the purchase – the equivalent of three years of a professor’s salary.2 The money could well have been used for other purposes. Three years earlier, Norway had been established as an independent state, in a personal union with Sweden, but the Napoleonic wars and the subsequent economic crisis had left the new state – and its state-funded university – in an economically desperate situation. The university lacked almost everything. However, government and parliament agreed to grant the university sums for pur1

2

Georg Sverdrup, Christiania, to Christian Ramus, Copenhagen, 13 April.1816, in: H. Holst, ‘Universitets myntkabinett gjennom 125 år (1817–1942). I. De gresk-romersk-bysantinske samlinger’, Nordisk Numismatisk Årsskrift, (1943), p. 120. The price paid was 1,500 Norwegian Speciedaler in silver, equivalent to £ 400 sterling at the current rate. A professor’s salary was 1,000 to 1,200 Speciedaler, but salaries were paid in banknotes of much less (external) value.

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chases abroad of equipment that the university decided it needed. Most of this money bought books for the university library, and some was used to acquire instruments for astronomy, physics and chemistry. But the sums spent on coins were not less than those spent on astronomical instruments. Obviously, a coin collection had to be of the greatest importance to the new university. Why was it that the university needed the coin collection? Today, it would not be easy to explain the purchase of some thousand Greek and Roman coins for a new university in the northernmost country in Europe, during a period of deep economic and social stress. Even at the time, such a large investment in Southern European antiquity could seem surprising. There were great expectations in Norway for the university, but these focused on what the university could do for the nation, for its economic and social development and for its cultural identity. Two hundred years ago, however, it was taken for granted that a university aspiring to reach the highest standards should have a coin collection, just as it should have a well-equipped library, an astronomical observatory, an anatomical theatre, a physics cabinet, a chemical laboratory, a museum of natural history, and a botanical garden. Without such institutions, the university would remain incomplete. According to plans confirmed by the king of Denmark and Norway in 1812, the university would need buildings for teaching, but also for the library, for “the natural cabinet, the technological collections, [and for] the collections of antiquities and coins, etc”.3 What was it that made this range necessary? Where was the model for such a university? Certainly not Copenhagen, where the only university in DenmarkNorway was located, and where all Norwegian university professors had once been students. Both the King’s advisors in Copenhagen and Norwegians campaigning for a university in Norway wanted the new university in Christiania (now Oslo) to be different, more modern and up-to-date than Copenhagen. They looked for a model elsewhere. This they found in Göttingen, in the state of Hanover. Proposals for a Norwegian university had been discussed for half a century before it came into being, and Göttingen was cited as the model to emulate.4 Less than thirty years after its foundation, the Georgia Augusta was regarded in Copenhagen as the best university in the world, and Göttingen retained that position throughout the century. This view was not confined to the Danish-Norwegian monarchy. Göttingen was widely admired throughout Europe and in North America. Göttingen was the place where the European elites preferred to send their

3

4

‘Allerunderdanigst Forestilling fra Commissionen for det Norske Universitets Anlæg og Indretning den 15de Martii 1812’, in: Christian Holst, Christian, Det Kongelige Norske Universitets Legater, samt Aktstykker, vedkommende Universitetets Oprettelse, dets Donationer m. M. (Christiania, 1851), p. 194. John Peter Collett, Universitetet i nasjonen 1811–1870. Universitetet i Oslo 1811–2011, vol. 1 (Oslo: Unipub, 2011), chapters 2 and 3; Ole B. Thomsen, Embedsstudiernes universitet, vol. 2 (Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag, 1975).

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sons, to hear scholars widely known and admired, and to be taught fashionable and useful topics.5 The short answer to the question of why a modern university needed a coin collection, would be that Göttingen had one – and any university aspiring to emulate Göttingen, had to have one itself. In the case of Oslo, Göttingen’s influence was even more direct. Those involved in the acquisition of the coins had personal connections. The seller, Professor Christian Ramus, was the custodian of the Royal Collection of Coins and Medals in Copenhagen; the buyer, Georg Sverdrup, was the professor of Greek and Latin in Christiania. Both had been students in Göttingen, where they had attended the lectures of Christian Gottlob Heyne, Professor of Poetry and Eloquence from 1763. Christian Gottlob Heyne (1729–1812) was a towering figure of the Enlightenment. In his prime, he was Germany’s most famous university teacher. In 1789, the Danish government tried to persuade him to leave Göttingen and accept the vice-chancellorship of Copenhagen University, where he would be given a free hand to reform the entire school system. However, Heyne declined the calling, to the dismay of his family, which was impressed by the princely salary the Danes offered.6 Heyne decided to stay in Göttingen for the rest of his life. Heyne led a neohumanist renewal of Greek and Latin education at Göttingen, breaking out of the confines of ‘pedantry’ – as Göttingen professors contemptiously described the pedagogical practices of the traditional Arts faculties – turning the Classics into a fashionable subject for the well-off clientele that Göttingen sought to attract. Classics offered a privileged route to the highest levels of Bildung. Through the study of Ancient literature, mythology, history and art, the students could gain direct access to ancient Greek citizens and Roman republicans, and to the timeless ideals of humanity. Heyne lifted the Classics to the summit of the disciplines that could refine the mind and mould character. The study of the Ancients would inspire students to seek virtue and beauty, and to become competent leaders of society. Heyne pioneered what was to become known as Altertumswissenschaft, a cross-disciplinary, macroscopic view of the Ancient world. For Altertumswissenschaft, works of art – especially the plastic arts – were as essential as literary texts and historical documents as objects of study. For this purpose, Heyne created a collection of plaster copies of sculptures – and the coin collection – as pedagogical tools. Collecting coins had a long history before universities acquired collections. Through centuries, kings and nobles proudly displayed coins and medals, bearing witness to their proud heritage. But Greek and Roman coins enjoyed special prominence. Antique coins were rarities, worthy of a place in a collector’s cabinet. However, with renewed interest in the study of Antiquity, what had been objects of curiosity became historical documents, subject to systematic research. Heyne’s 5 6

Charles E. McClelland, State, Society and University in Germany, 1700–1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980). Johann Georg Forster, Johann Georg Forsters Briefwechsel, vol. 1 (Leipzig 1829), p. 821.

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contemporary colleagues invested enormous amounts of time in constructing catalogues of coin collections, establishing order and chronology. Out of a mass of loose facts had emerged a science, as Heyne wrote in praise of Joseph Hilarius Eckhel (1737–1798), “the Linnaeus of numismatics”.7 To Heyne, ancient coins were historical documents – rare, authentic relics of the Antiquity suited for documenting monetary systems and political organization, but also miniature objects of plastic art, lending themselves to analyses of iconography, mythology and style. Added to this was their tactile quality – students could touch objects that men of Antiquity had handled. A more direct connection to the Ancient world could hardly be conceived, especially in Northern Europe, far removed from the architectural vestiges of Antiquity. From being collectors’ objects of curiosity, coin collections became public collections for scientific study. This took place in many European countries. The Royal Collection of Coins and Medals in Copenhagen began as a private hobby of the Danish Baroque King Frederik III (1609–1670),8 and his successors enlarged the collection. Later Danish monarchs of the Enlightenment and their advisors encouraged scholars to study coins on a scientific basis, as part of a wider programme of research in science and the humanities.9 In fact, the Royal Coin Collection played a part in the institutionalisation of Danish science. In 1739, a commission of courtiers and scholars was appointed to make a systematic inventory of the collection, and in 1742, King Christian VI (1699–1746), who followed the project closely, decided that the commission should be enlarged and transformed into an academy of sciences.10 This marked the beginning of the Kongelige Danske Videnskabernes Selskab (the still existent Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters).11 In 1781, the Royal Collection of Coins and Medals was organized as a separate institution, and, gradually, the collection was turned into a museum for the use of scholars, and its treasures were made available to the public. In 1791, a printed catalogue was published, a monumental illustrated inventory of the Danish coins and medals in the collection.12 This completed a project in national history, conforming with the wish of Christian VI for the coin collection to serve a “renewal of the memory of Our Forefathers, the Most Venerable Kings of Denmark 7 8

9

10 11 12

‘Eckhel, Joseph Hilarius’, Encyclopædia Britannica (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1911), 11th ed. Jørgen Stehen Jensen, ‘Det kgl. Møntog Medaillekabinet fra 1652 til 1832’, in: Otto Mørkholm (ed.), Den kongelige Møntog Medaillesamling, 1781–1981 (Copenhagen: Nationalmuseet, 1981), pp 9–122. An inventory of the Royal Coin Cabinet, commissioned by the King Christian V, was published by the learned Danish anatomist Professor Holger Jacobæus (1650–1701) in 1696, and won general acclaim from the learned European public. The inventory was a pioneering work in numismatic science. Jensen, ‘Det kgl. Møntog Medaillekabinet’, pp. 15–7. Ibid., pp. 24–5. Olaf Pedersen, Lovers of Learning – A History of the Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters, 1742–1992 (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1992). Beskrivelse over danske Mynter og Medailler i den kongelige Samling, 2 vols. (Copenhagen, 1791). The text volume comprises 816 pages.

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and Norway, and of whatever illustrious by Them founded, accomplished and undertaken”.13 Only a few years after the national coins in the collection had been documented, the purpose of the collection was redefined in 1798 by the appointment of Christian Ramus (1765–1832), a young philologist, as its curator. Under Ramus, the collection was no longer seen as a tool for the understanding of national history; rather, the Greek and Roman coins were seen as sources for the understanding of Ancient history and culture. After graduating from Copenhagen University, Ramus studied in Göttingen under Heyne, by whom he was inspired to study numismatics in Vienna and Rome. His curatorship echoed the importance of coins to the neohumanist Classics, as taught by Heyne: coins of Antiquity were not only sources on par with Ancient writings, but were superior to texts, in so far as they were authentic and had not been distorted by later copying and editing. Coins gave rich and precise information about events, buildings, customs and artefacts of the time, of which written sources gave only vague descriptions. Moreover, coins represented “a multitude of the most beautiful pictures and the most subtle allegoric figurations, occasionally executed with the finest artistry”, as Ramus explained.14 With the appointment of Ramus, the Copenhagen collection became a privileged source for the study of Ancient civilization. For Ramus, combining the collection with teaching was a sine qua non. Coins were not self-explanatory. Students of Antiquity had to be guided by teachers who could explain their significance on a truly scientific basis. The famous Eckhel had given public lectures in his capacity as keeper of the Imperial Coin Collection in Vienna, and Ramus aspired to the same role in Copenhagen. Again drawing upon the Göttingen model, the coins of Copenhagen were to be given a central place in Altertumswissenschaft. Ramus was appointed curator of the Royal Collection of Coins and Medals and, at the same time, a public teacher of numismatics, and was given the honorific tile of professor in 1803. He did not win a university chair, as Eckhel had in Vienna, but he gave lectures, combined with demonstrations, aimed at university students of classics and those who could follow his lectures in Latin. His use of coins was for true classicists and not for the general public, and he was known for restricting access to the collections as a privilege of the few. With the coming of a new university in Christiana, the coin collection could be integrated in a way that had never been accomplished in Copenhagen. Classics professors would make use of the coins in teaching. Heyne’s programme could be adopted in full. This was the programme of Christiania’s first Classics professor, Georg Sverdrup (1770–1850), a graduate of Copenhagen, who studied with Heyne in Göttingen in 1797–99. As professor of Greek, Sverdrup wished to hold in Christiania the status that Heyne enjoyed in Göttingen. Accordingly, he not only taught Classics, but also established a Philological Seminar, modelled upon

13 14

Jensen, ‘Det kgl. Møntog Medaillekabinet’, p. 25. Ibid., p. 113.

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Heyne’s seminar in Göttingen, and became chief of the University Library, completing the trifecta that had been Heyne’s in Göttingen. Sverdrup was deeply impressed by Heyne’s approach. Writing from Göttingen to a Danish colleague, he praised Heyne for creating an environment that won students to the Classics.15 Aesthetics were central to this programme. Following the political upheavals of 1814, Norway had become a constitutional monarchy with a remarkably liberal constitution. Responsibility for defending the country’s newly-won freedom fell to the graduates of Christiania University, who became administrators and members of parliament. The Classics, combined with philosophy and history, would be fundamental to their education. A concept of Bildung based on neohumanist and aesthetic ideals, illustrated by museum collections, was at the core of this programme. In 1816, Sverdrup saw his chance. In Copenhagen, he visited Christian Ramus and the Royal Collection of Coins and Medals, where the two Georgia Augusta alumni discussed how a similar collection could be established in Christiania. They agreed that Norway could buy duplicate coins the Copenhagen collection no longer needed.16 According to the museological principles of the day, a collection needed only one specimen of each coin. Ramus was about to complete the large catalogue on which he had worked for almost 20 years, and was willing to clear out duplicates. But there could be no question of ceding duplicates free of charge. The King of Denmark was no longer King of Norway, and was under no obligation to subsidize his former citizens. In any case, Ramus needed the money for the purchase of other coins on the international market. Writing to his superior, the Lord Chamberlain Adam Wilhelm Hauch, Ramus explained that the transaction was “in a way [...] treated as a private matter between Professor Sverdrup and me”,17 and the price the two colleagues agreed was reasonable. Both the Lord Chamberlain and the King accepted the deal, as they saw fit to help Norway to develop its university, which still (and until 1939) bore the Danish king’s name: The Royal Frederik University. That the Royal Collection in Copenhagen was in a position to cede duplicates was the result of large acquisitions undertaken by Ramus, and paid for by the Danish government. The acquisitions were advised upon by a Danish scholar, Georg Zoëga (1755–1809), yet another Copenhagen philologist inspired by Heyne, who taught him in Göttingen. Zoëga settled in Rome where he won fame as a leading Classic archaeologist and numismatist,18 and acted as an agent for the 15

16 17 18

Ludvig Daae, ‘Professor Georg Sverdrup’, in: Axel Charlot Drolsum (ed.), Biografiske Meddelelser om Universitets-Bibliothekets Chefer (Kristiania: Det Kongelige Frederiks Universitet, 1911), pp. 7–9. Georg Sverdrup to Christian Ramus, 13 April 1816, quoted in Holst, Universitetets myntkabinett gjennom 125 år, p. 120. Christian Ramus to Adam Wilhelm Hauch 28 September 1817, quoted in Jensen, ‘Det kgl. Møntog Medaillekabinet’, p. 70. Otto Mørkholm, Holst, ‘Det Kongelige Norske Universitets Legater, 1780–1880’, in: Otto Mørkholm (ed.), Den kongelige Møntog Medaillesamling, 1781–1981 (Copenhagen: Nationalmuseet, 1981), pp. 123–35. Several monographs have been devoted to G. Zoëga e.g.,

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Danish government, purchasing coins on the European market. Important acquisitions also came to Ramus through the purchase of private Danish collections. The investment of public money in such collections followed aesthetic principles. In painting, architecture and the plastic arts, the ideals of Antiquity enjoyed immense prestige. In Denmark, the Classical heritage was embodied in its leading artist, Bertil Thorvaldsen (1770–1844), one of the most admired neo-classical sculptors in Europe. Residing in Rome, where Zoëga was his friend and advisor, Thorvaldsen exerted unrivalled authority over Danish art. Classical ideals defined aesthetic values and timeless norms of beauty. Antique coins exemplified these ideals. As teaching tools and specimens of eternal beauty, the value of the coins was self-explanatory. In a letter to the Senate of Christiania University – the collegium academicum – in July 1816, in which he proposed to buy coins from the Copenhagen collection, Sverdrup only briefly mentioned pedagogic values. these could be taken for granted: “To which extent such a collection would be important and almost indispensable for the teaching of antiquarian and historical disciplines, I shall not have to remind the honourable collegium”. Instructively, he added: However, also in another respect such a collection would be of great importance: The [Greek] civic coins and the oldest Roman Imperial coins are – as will be well known – of sublime plastic beauty. In a country, like ours, where the eye meets nothing of beauty except in Nature, such a collection would also serve to awaken the slumbering sense of beauty of both the young students and others.19

Classical education was not to be the exclusive privilege of university students. The coin collection would serve the whole nation. Norway lacked public museums and art collections. Nowhere could Norwegians contemplate authentic relics of Antiquity that captured the ideals of civilization. The coins of Copenhagen were small, but they were of the greatest importance. Plans for the university museum in Christiania soon gathered momentum. While the purchase of the coin collection was being negotiated, the professors prepared plans for new buildings. It was agreed that the library should have priority. When approving the idea of a Norwegian university in 1811, King Frederik VI had promised his Norwegian subjects a large number of duplicate volumes from the Royal Library in Copenhagen. The King stood by his promise, and in the summer of 1815, a shipload of books arrived from Copenhagen. There was, however, no library building in Christiania, so, in 1816, an architect was engaged. The university collegium insisted that the ground floor should be set aside for books, and that the upper floor should have space for two museum collections: the collection of Antique coins (the Coin Cabinet) and the Cabinet of Antiquities. Interest-

19

Friedrich Georg Welcke, Zoega's Leben, Sammlung seiner Briefe und Beurtheilung seiner Werke, 2 vols. (Stuttgart: Cotta, 1819); and Adolf Ditlev Jørgensen, Georg Zoega – et Mindeskrift (Copenhagen: Samfundet til den Danske Litteraturs Fremme, 1881). Zoëga’s Briefe und Dokumente are being published by Det Danske Sprog og Litteraturselskab from 1967 onwards, with 5 vols. planned. Georg Sverdrup to Collegium academicum, 24. July 1816, in: 1. Departements arkiv, Datosaker okt. 1816, Riksarkivet, Oslo.

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ingly, neither the first nor the second of these collections actually belonged to the university at the time when these plans were made. The purchase of the coins had not yet been finalized, and the Antiquities collection was still in the hands of a private organization. Unlike the coin collection, the Cabinet of Antiquities, which the university expected to take over, would be a National History Museum, with objects from Norway’s past, similar to Copenhagen’s planned archaeological museum for the history of Denmark. Christiania’s plans were ambitious. Christiania’s university library then counted 63,000 volumes.20 The new building was to accommodate no fewer than 300,000 volumes21 – larger even than Göttingen’s 250,000 volumes, which during Heyne’s directorship was regarded as the largest university library in the world. The new library should be large enough to keep pace with the world’s everincreasing literary and scientific production. Like the museum collections, the library would not be restricted to students and professors. These would be national institutions, the common possession of all Norwegians. If the combined library and museum building had been erected, it would have been the first national institution to get its own purpose-built edifice, and would both symbolically and materially have represented the three pillars on which the nation was to be constructed: the proud heritage of the Old Norse, the timeless ideals of the Ancient Greeks and Romans, and the new knowledge of science. This was the credo of Georg Sverdrup and most of the new university’s professors. The founding fathers of the Norwegian Constitution of 1814 – Georg Sverdrup, one of them – saw no problem in identifying the free citizen of Norway with the free citizen of a Greek polis and, at the same time, with the freeman of the Old Norse.22 However, the one would not be sufficient without the others. The Norwegian nation would be a Kulturstaat. The pursuit of knowledge was at the very centre of the nation’s existence. The priority given to the historical collections in 1816 was in marked contrast to the plans for the new university presented to the King in 1812. Those plans had taken for granted that the university eventually would get a numismatic collection and an archeological museum,23 but no budgetary provision was made for them. In contrast, the planning commission advised that substantial sums should be set aside to cover the annual running costs of the library, the natural history cabinet, the physics and chemics laboratories, the astronomical observatory and the botanical gardens. The preference for the natural sciences and medicine was in line with the overall priorities of the planners. The university at Christiania had been conceived as an institution with an accent on professional and practical disciplines. Copenhagen had been criticised for its neglect of economics and the natural sci20

21 22 23

Christopher Andreas Holmboe (ed.), Universitetsog Skole-Annaler, vol. 1 (1834–1835), pp. 473–75; cf. Elisabeth Eide, ‘Grunnstammen i Universitetsbiblioteket ved Det Kongelige Frederiks Universitet’, in: Ruth Hemstad (ed.), Opplysning, vitenskap og nasjon (Oslo: Nasjonalbiblioteket, 2011), pp. 113–36. Collett, Universitetet i nasjonen 1811–1870, pp. 192–5. Charles Wille Schnitler, Slegten fra 1814 (Kristiania: Aschehoug, 1911). Holst, Christian, Det Kongelige Norske Universitets Legater, p. 199.

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ences. In the eyes of utilitarian reformers, the concept of a backward-looking university, training clerics, jurists and oldfashioned physicians, had to be transformed into a modern institution. This could now be realized in Norway. The commission of 1812 was dominated by men who saw a university where Classics would be relegated to a position on a par with mathematics, natural sciences, economics and technology. Their programme was inspired by the suppression of the ancient French universities and their replacement by specalized professional schools during the Revolution and under Napoleon. But the idea of a more modern university could also draw upon Göttingen where, side by side with C. G. Heyne, Johann Beckmann (1739–1811) taught technology and agriculture. Göttingen epitomized the two prevailing currents of higher education in Europe at the end of the 18th century – the neohumanist revival of Classics, and the utilitarian and encyclopedic curriculum advocated by reformers. Both currents were present in the new university at Christiania. No sooner had the first professors been appointed, however, the Norwegian University was torn between the two.24 Most professors sided with Sverdrup, under whose leadership the university rejected most of the utilitarian, practically oriented functions it had been promised, and opted instead for a strengthened Classics curriculum. The university was not a place for training practitioners, the professors said, but rather a scientific institution – in the sense of Wissenschaft – and for the same reason had to rest on the pillars of Classical languages, philosophy and history – “those disciplines [that are] the true foundation of all Videnskabelighed [i. e. Wissenschaftlichkeit])”.25 With the support of parliament, the professors succeded in outmanoeuvreing those who advocated a more professional university. Georg Sverdrup’s main adversary, the professor of philosophy Niels Treschow, left his chair in 1814 to become a member of the government and Minister of Church and Education. Treschow had been a prominent member of the planning commission in 1812. In his view, a practical orientation for the university was so important that he proposed to write the principle into the Constitution of 1814. However, against the combined professors and members of parliament (professors often elected representatives themselves), Treschow was powerless. He could only watch the university drifting away from the utilitarian programme planned for the new university in 1812.26 In Georg Sverdrup’s view, shared by his colleagues, the Norwegian university had as its foremost duty to educate an elite destined for the clergy, the judicial system, and state administration, together with some physicians and surgeons and a few philologists preparing to teach in grammar schools. For these, the Liberal Arts curriculum with Classics at its heart was the core of their education. The 24 25 26

Anton Frederik Andresen, Nytte, dannelse, vitenskap? Universitetet og økonomifaget I det nye Norge, 1811–1840 (Oslo: University of Oslo 2005). Collett, Universitetet i nasjonen 1811–1870, p. 240. John Peter Collett, ‘Universitetet I staten. Striden om fundasen for Det Kongelige Frederiks Universitet, 1813–1824’, in: John Peter Collett, Jan Eivind Myhre & Jon Skeie (eds.), Kunnskapens betingelser. Festskrift til Edgeir Benum (Oslo: Vidarforlaget, 2009,) pp. 97–123.

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Christiania University turned from the utilitarian towards the neohumanist ideals. In this, Sverdrup and his colleagues aligned to the development that took place elsewhere in Europe. The ideals of the neohumanists were en vogue on the continent, particularly in the German-speaking states. Sverdrup and his followers in Norway echoed the ideals advocated by Wilhelm von Humboldt at the foundation of the new Berlin University in 1809. The Norwegian university was planned according to principles very different from those which Humboldt defended in Berlin, but the professors in Christiania rejected the utilitarian role they had been prescribed and endorsed the ideals of Wissenschaft. Even as they endorsed the purchase of the coin collection from Copenhagen, the collegium academicum told the Ministry of Church and Education that they did not wish to spend the university’s money on a collection of machine models that, they insisted, would “belong [more] to an economic institution, for example an Agricultural Society, than to a university”.27 Antique coins belonged to a university. Machine models did not. The purchase of the coin collection was completed in 1817, and Sverdrup, as head librarian, was responsible for it. As professor of Greek and Latin, Sverdrup was also closest to utilize the coins for teaching. However, he could not find time to unpack and catalogue the coins from Copenhagen, and they remained in their casks until 1826, when a young philologist, Søren Bruun Bugge (1798–1886), Sverdrup’s student and a lecturer in Latin from 1820, was appointed curator of the Coin Cabinet. Bugge began cataloguing, but in 1830 asked to be relieved. Whether Bugge or Sverdrup actually used the coins in their teaching, is uncertain. What remains certain, is that the collection was not made public.28 The treasures of the Coin Cabinet remained hidden. As Bugge’s successor as curator of the Coin Cabinet, the university chose Christopher Andreas Holmboe (1796–1882), a lecturer from 1822, and professor from 1825. Holmboe held a degree in Theology, and his chair was in Oriental Languages. His main obligation was to teach Hebrew to first-year students preparing for the Lutheran church. In 1834, after completing the cataloguing of the collection in Christiania, Holmboe went on a study tour of Denmark and Sweden, to acquaint himself with the leading Scandinavian collections, the Royal Collection of Coins and Medals in Copenhagen, and the Royal Coin Cabinet in Stockholm, and the university coin collection in Uppsala. In both Denmark and Sweden, coin collections had been given a new role. The Danish collection was no longer primarily a resource for documentation of Greek and Roman Antiquity, but rather for research in national history from the early Middle Ages. This had been underway since Christian Ramus somewhat reluctantly had begun to cultivate national history in Copenhagen.29 At his death 27

28 29

Collegium academicum to the Ministry of Church and Education, 17. May 1816 (Universitet I Oslos arkiv. Det akademiske kollegium. Kopibok, 1813–1816. Currently in the archives of the Coin Cabinet, Museum of Cultural History, University of Oslo). M. B. Gulen, Kunsten og vitenskapen. Kunsthistorie ved Det Kgl. Fredriks Universitet inntil 1875 (Oslo: Forum for universitetshistorie, 1999). Jensen, ‘Det kgl. Møntog Medaillekabinet’, pp. 66–77.

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in 1832, Ramus was succeeded by Christian J. Thomsen (1788–1865), and the Royal Collection of Coins and Medals became linked to the Old Nordic Museum of which Thomsen, a noted archeologist and museologist, was director. A few years later, the Royal Collection was integrated into the National Museum of Denmark, where it remains today. To Thomsen, the functions of a state coin collection were two: it had to contain, first “a decent and well-ordered suite [of coins] that can give an overview of the coinage of Antiquity, and, secondly, the coins proper to the country and the coins that have circulated in the country at different periods. Everything else is good if one can have it, but these are, in my opinion, absolutely unconditional”, he explained to Holmboe in 1831.30 In fact, the University Coin Cabinet in Christiania had by then already expanded into national history. A few hundred coins were obtained when the private Norwegian Antiquities Collection was transferred to the university in 1829,31 and shortly afterwards, the keepers of the Cabinet began to acquire old Norwegian coins by purchase from private collections. Thomsen and his colleagues in Copenhagen offered their assistance to the Christiania collection in the Danish antiques market. The Norwegian collection also purchased duplicates from the Copenhagen collection, although not on the same favourable conditions as in 1817.32 Similar assistance was offered the Christiania collection by Bror Emil Hildebrand (1806–1884), keeper of the Royal Coin Cabinet in Stockholm.33 Hildebrand and Thomsen had a close working relatioonship, and welcomed Holmboe as their 30

31

32

33

Christian J. Thomsen, Copenhagen, to Christopher Andreas Holmboe, Christiania, 2 June 1831, quoted in Kolbjørn Skaare, ‘Korrespondanse mellom C. J. Thomsen og C. A. Holmboe’, Nordisk Numismatisk Årsskrift, 1987–88 (1992), p. 16. According to a note of 20 July 1829, a total of 438 coins were registered as belonging to the Antiquarian Collection that was transferred from Det Kongelige Selskab for Norges Vel to the university, but only 359 were found when the collection was handed over. (Document in the archives of the University Coin Cabinet, Museum of Cultural History, University of Oslo.) For the origins of this collection, see Ernst Bjerke, ‘Selskabet for Norges Vel og norsk kultur’, in: John Peter Collett & Ernst Bjerke (eds.), Vekst gjennom kunnskap. Det Kongelige Selskap for Norges Vel, 1809–1814 (Oslo: Norges Vel, 2009), pp. 109–17. Christopher Andreas Holmboe to Christian J. Thomsen, 18 October 1854, cf. Christian J. Thomsen and C. L. Müller to Christopher Andreas Holmboe, 15 October 1854, both in Skaare, Korrespondanse, pp. 69–71. Even if the responsibility for the Coin Cabinet was only a sidejob for Holmboe “[i]t does does not seem to me that he has treated this as something secondary, but, on the contrary, that he has made efforts to gain comprehensive insights even in this part”, B. E. Hildebrand wrote in a letter to Christian J. Thomsen in 1834. Holmboe’s problem, in Hildebrand’s view, was that he worked with a collection that was too small. “In order to come further in this matter it is indispensible that one can use a larger collection. The Christiania collections are not of great importance today, but they are enlarged every year through Holmboe’s care and the annual budgets”, Hildebrand added optimistically, and promised that his collection in Stockholm could help to fill the gaps in the Swedish collection in Christiania by offering its duplicates. (B. E. Hildebrand, Stockholm, to Christian J. Thomsen, Copenhagen, 12 June 1834, quoted in I. Wiséhn, ‘B. E. Hildebrand om C. A. Holmboe’, Nordisk Numismatisk Unions Medlemsblad, (1989), p. 148).

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collaborator. To Hildebrand, coins were not pedagogical tools, nor objects of beauty, but sources for the study of old Swedish and Nordic history. Hildebrand wrote treatises on Anglo-Saxon and Swedish medieval coins. He hoped that Holmboe could contribute to the research on Nordic history with his expertise in oriental languages.34 Arabic coins were present in large numbers in Scanidnavian archeological digs, and once inscriptions were deciphered, invaluable in dating the finds. In 1834, a rich treasure of gold and silver jewellry and coins was excavated at Hoen in Buskerud, in Southern Norway. The riches of the Norse chieftains were known from the sagas, but this was the first time they were documented. Arabic coins helped date the treasure to the 9th century. Holmboe’s description of the Hoen coins was published the following year, in Norwegian and in Latin, and translated into German and French.35 The find won Holmboe a place among European numismatists. Two subsequent large finds in Norway in 1836 and 1840 were also published by Holmboe immediately after they were excavated.36 The second, from Dæli, Hedmark, of more than 5,000 Norwegian and European coins, gave Holmboe a valuable collection of duplicates that could be exchanged with other collections, and thereby enlarge the collection in Christiania. Some 50 duplicate bracteates from the Dæli treasure, presented as a gift to The Numismatic Society in London in 1843, earned Holmboe honorary membership.37 Until his retirement in 1876, Holmboe was custodian of the University Coin Cabinet, and during his 46 years, explanded its collection from 9,000 coins to 43,000.38 The collection was universal, with a special emphasis on national and Nordic coins and medals, and aligned closely with the coin collections in the other Scandinavian capitals. In 1851, Hildebrand observed: I have seen several foreign coin cabinets. In most places there are good supplies of the country’s own coins, but if you ask for the coins of other European states, they look weak. In that respect it is better in both Christiania and Stockholm. Copenhagen’s cabinet is the best I have seen. In one royal cabinet I saw ‘four coins’ from Sweden, from the Middle Ages. Even with C. J. Thomsen’s insistence on the primacy of national coins, the Royal Collection in Copenhagen continued to acquire Antique Greek and Roman coins, and the same aplied to the Christiania collection, albeit on a much smaller 34 35

36 37 38

“Holmboe should become very important for the Kufic coins, as Oriental languages are his main subject, and he reads them perfectly”, Hildebrand assured Thomsen. (Ibid.). Christopher Andreas Holmboe, Descriptio ornamentorum maximam partem aureorum et numerum seculi VIII. et IX. in prædio Hoen in parochia Eger nupier repertorum (Christiania: Universitas Regia Fredericiana, 1835). Translations are listed in Jens Brage Halvorsen, Norsk Forfatter-Lexikon 1814–1880, vol. 2 (Kristiania: Den Norske Forlagsforening, 1888,), pp. 712–3. Ibid., p. 713. Christopher Andreas Holmboe to the Numismatic Society, London, 8 May 1843 (copy in the archives of the University Coin Cabinet, Museum of Cultural History, University of Oslo). Kolbjørn Skaare, Universitetets myntkabinett, 1817–1967 (offprint from Nordisk Numismatisk Unions Medlemsblad, 1967), p. 4.

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scale.39 In fact, while C. A. Holmboe concentrated on Norwegian coins, he had from 1837 as a co-custodian the Professor of Greek at the Christiania University, Frederik Ludvig Vibe (1803–81). Vibe departed in 1848, and was succeeded by Professor of Latin Ludvig C. M. Aubert (1807–87), who retained the post until 1873. In parallel with Copenhagen, the shared custodianship underlined Christiania’s plan to have both a Greek and Roman collection, and a collection for national history. However, in contrast to Copenhagen, Christiania did not become a centre for research on Ancient coins. The purchase and cataloguing of acquisitions absorbed the time that Holmboe’s co-custodians could spare.40 The Norwegian literary output in numismatics was almost exclusively about Norwegian and Nordic coins and coinage. The single most important contribution to the numismatic litterature from Norway was not from the Coin Cabinet’s staff, but by by an amateur collector, Claudius Jacob Schive (1792–1872), whose monumental Norges Mynter i Middelalderen (The Coins of Norway in the Middle Ages) was published between 1858–1865 with a special grant from parliament. Holmboe contributed an erudite introduction, explaining the monetary system in Old Norse and later periods, and in this way, the publication represented a cooperation between the amateur enthusiast and the professor.41 Under Holmboe’s custodianship, the University Coin Cabinet became a tool for historical and archeological research. By the middle of the 19th century, Bildung gave way to Forschung as the foundational ethos of the university. Wissenschaft was no longer synonymous with systematic, logical thinking. The emphasis was now shifted to the systematic development of new knowledge through rigourous scientific method, and the publication of new research-based insights. Gone were the days when a Georg Sverdrup, who published hardly a single text in his lifetime, could dominate the profession. Belief in the refinement of minds through the contemplation of Classical ideals in literature and art – and in coins – was waning. The university that Sverdrup left at his retirement in 1845 was very different from the university that in 1817 had used its money to buy Antique Greek and Roman coins in Copenhagen. From the 1830s, The Classics curriculum had been under attack. The nation did not need mock statesmen trained in Greek rhetoric and Latin verse. Instead, Norway needed practitioners, educated in natural science, mathematics, and economics to lead the material development of the country. With Sverdrup’s departure, Classics lost its privileged position. In 1845, parliament, with strong support from the professoriate, abolished Latin, Greek and history as compulsory subjects for all students except theologians and philologists, while retaining mathematics, physics and chemistry as obligatory for all. Symbolically, Latin was abolished the same year as the academic language used at university solennities.42 39 40 41 42

Holst, ‘Universitetets myntkabinett’, pp. 114–8. Ibid., p. 118. Skaar, Universitetets myntkabinett, p. 4. Collett, Universitetet i nasjonen, pp. 409–18.

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C. A. Holmboe and his cocustodian of the Coin Cabinet, L. C. M. Aubert, took up the challenge. Philology could not remain unchanged. Comparative indoeuropean linguistics had taken over, and Holmboe and Aubert followed suit. Topics never touched upon during Sverdrup’s long tenure were now offered students. Languages43 – even the Classical languages – were no longer regarded as tools for the refinement of the mind, but as potential sources for research in historical change, even in prehistorical times from which little else has survived. Holmboe made the comparative study of Old Norse and Indian language and culture the project of his life. His search for evidence of a Central Asian cultural influence on Europe earned him criticicism from his contemporaries,44 and subsequent scholars have not been persuaded by Holmboe’s fanciful theories of cross-cultural influence from India to Scandinavia. Memory of his Traces de Bouddhisme en Norvège avant l’introduction du Christianisme (1857) has survived mostly as the subject of jokes among a small community of experts. His work on Nordic coins, by contrast, bears witnesses to thorough and patient study. Only occasionally did Holmboe use coins as evidence for his grand theories. But a paper delivered in 1868, comparing the effigies of wild boars on Celtic and Indian coins, remains a classic example of his ‘method’.45 With all his shortcomings, Holmboe was honoured by memberships in learned societies and received academic awards46 his grand themes touched on the questions of the day: How did the various branches of humanity relate to each other, how could the diversity of nations, languages and cultures be explained from a comparative and evolutionary perspective; and how could peoples of common ancestry have developed in very different directions and produce widely differing levels of culture and civilization? These grand questions defined the agenda of the Coin Cabinet in Christiania. Amassing coins meant that both scholars and public had access to material evidence of differentiated humanity. Under Holmboe’s custodianship, the coins were opened to the public. They were displayed in the new university buildings in central Christiania, which opened in 1852,47 and remained in that building until 1904, when it moved into a new, purpose-built museum close by, together with the university’s Ethnographical and Antiquarian Collections. C. A. Holmboe was an able administrator and knew the right strings to pull. In 1833, for example, the annual budget of the Coin Cabinet was 390 speciedaler, the largest budget of any institute (the library exepted), a third of a professor’s salary, and more than the 370 speciedaler granted the combined Physics Cabinet and Chemical Loaboratory. The expansion of the natural sciences eventually re43 44 45 46 47

Trond Werner Pettersen, Fra dannelse til forskning. Filologien ved Det Kongelige Frederiks Universitet 1811–1864 (Oslo: Forum for universitetshistorie, 2007). Halvorsen, Norsk Forfatter-Lexikon, pp. 713–4. Christoph Andreas Holmboe, ‘Om Vildsvintypen paa galliske og indiske Mynter’, Forhandlinger i Christiania Vidensksabsselskab, (1868), pp. 237–45. Halvorsen, Norsk Forfatter-Lexikon, pp. 711–2. The Coin Cabinet was open to the public every Monday and Friday from 1 to 2 pm. Skaare, Universitetets myntkabinett, p. 9.

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versed this order, but during Holmboe’s curatorship, the Coin Cabinet continuously received funding for purchasing coins, which were valuable collectibles and could attain high prices in the European market. Despite his success, Holmboe did not obtain university funds for a full-time curator for the Coin Cabinet. In 1855, the university turned a deaf ear to his plea for a modestly salaried amanuensis.48 The difficulty of combining responsibility for an ever increasing collection with the obligations of a professor forced Holmboe to the conclusion that collections should be separated from the university. In Stockholm and Copenhagen, museums were organised as state museums without university attachments. The same could be advantageous, or even necessary, in Norway. It was, after all, only because no other institutions existed, that the Christiania University had assumed responsibility for the national museum and library collections.49 There could never be in Norway “separate posts for the directors of each collection, which we find in great and rich states, but we could be helped, as for example in Sweden and Denmark, with combined directorships for closely related collections”, Holmboe stated in 1860.50 In Denmark, the Royal Collection of Coins and Medals and the other collections of the National Museum were placed under common leadership, and in Sweden, the Royal Coin Cabinet was put under the direction of the State Antiquarian. The Coin Cabinet was originally attached to the university for pedagogical reasons. But with the dissolution of the cross-disciplinary Altertumswissenschaft, this rationale disappeared. The Bildungsuniversität needed a collection of objects of beauty for students to contemplate; for the emerging Forschungsuniversität, collections were wanted for research. But the increasing demands of research strained the resources available, and made the collections difficult to contain under the same institutional umbrella. Teaching, research and collecting pointed in different directions. CONCLUSION The history of the European university is often told as a success story of the emerging Research University. In fact, the road towards what eventually became the differentiated university of the 20th century, with its multitude of specialized facilities, laboratories, collections, clinics and seminars, which combined research with teaching and other functions, was long and sinuous. Museum collections played a major role in the transformation of the university. Their mere size made them highly visible, and for research they were essential. However, as the history of the Coin Cabinet in Christiania demontstrates, the resolution of the different 48 49 50

Notes, n. d. [1855], from Christopher Andreas Holmboe and L. C. M. Aubert (in the archives of the University Coin Cabinet, Oslo). Ibid. Christopher Andreas Holmboe to Det akademiske kollegium, 26 March 1860 (Copy in the archives of the University Coin Cabinet, Museum of Cultural History, University of Oslo).

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forces of the university – Bildung and Forschung, teaching and research – was never easy to manage. Collections might be essential, but was it obvious that they should remain inside a university? The history of the university museum was a history with both winners and losers. The Christiania Coin Cabinet was a winner in the first years of Christiania University, and a loser in the long run. From its prominent position as the pride of the university, with funds for large acquisitions, it was reduced to a marginal position, as an auxiliary to the expanding discipline of archaeology. When in 1904, the Coin Cabinet finally moved into its new (and present), premises alongside the Archeological and Ethnographical collections, it was already in the shadow of the other two collections that occupied most of the building. The number of visitors remained significant, but the Coin Cabinet had failed to become a professionalized research institution like the ethnographical and archeological museums. What was it that made winners and losers? One could suggest the importance of disciplinary differentiation and specialization, which is a distinctive feature of the historical period. In this process, numismatics as a discipline lost ground. Unlike archeology and ethnography, there was no separation of a special field of numismatics. The Christiania University appointed its first chair in Nordic archeology in 1875 and in Ethnography in 1890. In the academic world of the late 19th century, the fields that attained the status of independent disciplines were the winners. Numismatics was not among them. In fact, it was not until 1927 that the Coin Cabinet for the first time, more than one hundred years after its foundation, got a fulltime academic position, when the Classical philologist Hans Jørgen Holst (1891–1956) was appointed curator. The subsequent development of the university coin collection Oslo is beyond the scope of this article. From 1999 the Coin Cabinet has been integrated in the university’s Museum of Cultural History, where it decidedly remains a junior partner alongside the ethnographic and archeological departments. Even so, it is not an insignificant collection. Today it counts 250,000 coins from all over the world, amassed through purchases and important donations. A steady flow of research publications has emerged from its small scientific staff and continues to do so as the 200th anniversary approaches.51 With all due respect, however, it is hard to imagine that the Coin Cabinet once had a budget larger than the combined laboratories of physics and chemistry. The University of Oslo has collected coins from 1817 until the present, but the rationale has changed fundamentally. The university took over a collection that was the pride of a royal museum. For a time, coins became material representations of timeless ideals of beauty and virtue. With the rise of Forschung the significance of coins changed again. They now became evidence for national history

51

Svein H. Gullbekk, Norsk numismatisk bibliografi (Oslo: Universitetets Myntkabinett, 1998).

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and for the history of mankind. The first coins purchased in 1817 are – probably52 – still in the collections of the University Coin Cabinet in Oslo, but their original significance to the university has long been forgotten. BIBLIOGRAPHY ‘Allerunderdanigst Forestilling fra Commissionen for det Norske Universitets Anlæg og Indretning den 15de Martii 112’, in: Christian Holst, Det Kongelige Norske Universitets Legater, samt Aktstykker, vedkommende Universitetets Oprettelse, dets Donationer m.M. (Christiania, 1851). Andresen, Anton Frederik, Nytte, dannelse, vitenskap? Universitetet og økonomifaget I det nye Norge, 1811–1840 (Oslo: University of Oslo 2005). Beskrivelse over danske Mynter og Medailler i den kongelige Samling, 2 vols. (Copenhagen: Möller, 1791). Bjerke, Ernst, ‘Selskabet for Norges Vel og norsk kultur’, in: John Peter Collett & Ernst Bjerke (eds.), Vekst gjennom kunnskap. Det Kongelige Selskap for Norges Vel, 1809–1814 (Oslo: Norges Vel, 2009), pp. 109–17. Collett, John Peter, ‘Universitetet I staten. Striden om fundasen for Det Kongelige Frederiks Universitet, 1813–1824’, in: John Peter Collett, Jan E. Myhre & Jon Skeie (eds.), Kunnskapens betingelser. Festskrift til Edgeir Benum (Oslo: Vidarforlaget, 2009,) pp. 97–123. Collett, John Peter, Universitetet i nasjonen 1811–1870. Universitetet i Oslo 1811–2011, vol. 1 (Oslo: Uni-pub, 2011. Daae, Ludvig, ‘Professor Georg Sverdrup’, in: Axel Charlot Drolsum (ed.), Biografiske Meddelelser om Universitets-Bibliothekets Chefer (Kristiania: Det Kongelige Frederiks Universitet, 1911), pp. 7–9. ‘Eckhel, Joseph Hilarius’, Encyclopædia Britannica (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1911), 11th ed. Eide, Elisabeth, ‘Grunnstammen i Universitetsbiblioteket ved Det Kongelige Frederiks Universitet’, in: Ruth Hemstad (ed.) Opplysning, vitenskap og nasjon (Oslo: Nasjonalbiblioteket, 2011), pp. 113–36. Forster, Johann Georg, Johann Georg Forsters Briefwechsel, vol. 1 (Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1829). Gullbekk, Svein H., Norsk numismatisk bibliografi (Oslo: Universitetets Myntkabinett, 1998). Gulen, M. B., Kunsten og vitenskapen. Kunsthistorie ved Det Kgl. Fredriks Universitet inntil 1875 (Oslo: Forum for universitetshistorie, 1999). Halvorsen, Jens Brage, Norsk Forfatter-Lexikon 1814–1880, vol. 2 (Kristiania: Den Norske Forlagsforening, 1888). Holmboe, Christopher Andreas (ed.), Universitetsog Skole-Annaler, vol. 1 (1834–1835). Holmboe, Christopher Andreas, Descriptio ornamentorum maximam partem aureorum et numerum seculi VIII. et IX. in prædio Hoen in parochia Eger nupier repertorum (Christiania: Universitas Regia Fredericiana 1835). Holmboe, Christopher Andreas, ‘Om Vildsvintypen paa galliske og indiske Mynter’, Forhandlinger i Christiania Vidensksabsselskab, (1868), pp. 237–45. Holst, Christian, Det Kongelige Norske Universitets Legater, samt Aktstykker, vedkommende Universitetets Oprettelse, dets Donationer m. M. (Christiania, 1851). 52

Owing to the cataloguing practices of the early 19th century, which omitted information about provenience, not a single coin in the present collection of the University Coin Cabinet can with certainty be identified as part of the original stock. J. H. Nordbø, ‘Den greske samlingen i Universitetets Myntkabinett’, Nordisk Numismatisk Unions Medlemsblad, (1983), p. 158.

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Holst, H., ‘Universitetets myntkabinett gjennom 125 år (1817–1942). I. De gresk-romerskbysantinske samlinger’, Nordisk Numismatisk Årsskrift, (1943). Jensen, Jørgen Stehen, ‘Det kgl. Møntog Medaillekabinet fra 1652 til 1832’, in Otto Mørkholm (ed.), Den kongelige Møntog Medaillesamling, 1781–1981 (Copenhagen: Nationalmuseet, 1981), pp 9–122. Jørgensen, Adolf Ditlev, Georg Zoega – et Mindeskrift (Copenhagen: Samfundet til den Danske Litteraturs Fremme, 1881). McClelland, Charles E., State, Society and University in Germany, 1700–1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980). Mørkholm, Otto, ‘Holst, Det Kongelige Norske Universitets Legater, 1780–1880’, in Otto Mørkholm (ed.), Den kongelige Møntog Medaillesamling, 1781–1981 (Copenhagen: Nationalmuseet, 1981), pp. 123–35. Nordbø, Jan H., ‘Den greske samlingen i Universitets Myntkabinett’, Nordisk Numismatisk Unions Medlemsblad, (1983). Pedersen, Olaf, Lovers of Learning – A History of the Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters, 1742–1992 (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1992). Pettersen, Trond Werner, Fra dannelse til forskning. Filologien ved Det Kongelige Frederiks Universitet 1811–1864 (Oslo: Forum for universitetshistorie, 2007). Schnitler, Charles Wille, Slegten fra 1814 (Kristiania: Aschehoug, 1911). Skaare, Kolbjørn, Universitetets myntkabinett, 1817–1967 (offprint from Nordisk Numismatisk Unions Medlemsblad, 1967). Skaare, Kolbjørn, ‘Korrespondanse mellom C. J. Thomsen og C. A. Holmboe’, Nordisk Numismatisk Årsskrift, 1987–88 (1992). Thomsen, Ole B., Embedsstudiernes universitet, vol. 2 (Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag, 1975). Welcke, Friedrich Gottlieb, Zoega's Leben, Sammlung seiner Briefe und Beurtheilung seiner Werke, 2 vols. (Stuttgart: Cotta, 1819). Wiséhn, Ian, ‘B. E. Hildebrand om C.A. Holmboe’, Nordisk Numismatisk Unions Medlemsblad, (1989).

MUMMIFIED HEADS (MOKOMOKAI / UPOKO TUI) FROM NEW ZEALAND IN THE ETHNOGRAPHIC COLLECTION OF THE UNIVERSITY OF GÖTTINGEN Gundolf Krüger For a long time Anthropological Museums missed to reflect on the restitution of objects which are nowadays important with regard to the construction of cultural identity or rather to the certification as cultural heritage and of which therefore the repatriation should be made from an indigenous point of view. Amongst others such objects are especially human remains. Because of their ethnic-judicial and political brisance they are seldomly shown during exhibitions and are by now the focal point of recent restitution debates. This also applies to two mummified heads (mokomakai) of the Maori of New Zealand which remain in the Goettingen University’s Ethnographic Collection until today. Enquiries concerning the origin of the heads have shown that there used to be a third head in the Collection. This one got lost in mysterious ways after the year 1942 and is nowadays most probably privately owned. This means that Goettingen not only has to deal with questions concerning the restitution, but also with a legal problem which lays in the loss of such an object.

INTRODUCTION For many years, ethnographic museums and their collections failed to give any concrete thought to the repatriation of cultural objects taken in the act of travel and colonization. From an indigenous perspective, such objects belong in their place of origin, where they have acquired significance in terms of ethnicity, cultural identity and cultural heritage. Today examples of objects deemed particularly worthy of repatriation include human remains and materials of sacred significance, as codified by the “Code of Ethics for Museums from the International Council of Museums” (ICOM), “the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act” (NAGPRA), and the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, in 1990 and 2007, respectively. Given their ethically and politically explosive nature, and their doubtless exotic effect, human remains are rarely put on exhibit. In Germany, the Institut für Museumsforschung in Berlin is currently working in collaboration with the Deutscher Museumsbund and the federal government to determine which human remains are still being exhibited in German museums and which lie dormant in their storerooms. Efforts are also being made to formulate recommendations for their restitution. Two mummified and tattooed heads – mokomokai/upoko tui1 from the Maori of Aotearoa in New Zealand – which are part of Göttingen University's Ethno1

Georg Schifko, ‚Anmerkungen zur literarischen Rezeption des Leipziger Völkerkundemuseums und dessen mumifizierten Maori-Kopfes‘, in: Claus Deimel, Sebastian Lentz & Bern-

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graphic Collection (Fig. 1), are affected by these proceedings. Research on their origins has revealed that a third head was once in the collection, but was mysteriously lost after their acquisition in 1942. According to all indications, this third head is now in the possession of a private individual. The author of this essay is aware of this individual's name, but does not wish to mention it out of consideration for the owner's personal interests. The emergence of this third head presents a legal issue for the University of Göttingen concerning the circumstances surrounding how the object was lost.

Fig.1: The two Göttingen mokomokai heads, on the left female (Oz 344), on the right male (Oz 345) (max. H 16 cm, B 16 cm, L 42 cm). Photo: Harry Haase, Institute for Social and Cultural Anthropology of the University of Göttingen.

THE ENCOUNTER SITUATION The cultural significance of mokomokai can be derived from the testimonies of Europeans in their encounters with the Maori in the 18th Century. These mention hard Streck (eds.), Auf der Suche nach Vielfalt. Ethnographie und Geographie in Leipzig (Leipzig: Leibnitz-Institut für Landeskunde, 2009), pp. 501–8, p. 507, has recently made it clear that the conventional name mokomokai has a pejorative connotation from the Maori perspective, and should be replaced by the term upoko tuhi, meaning “beloved memento mori”, according to the Maori anthropologist Te Awekotuku. However, for the sake of contemporary accuracy, the traditional term mokomokai will be used hereinafter. I thank George Schifko from the Institute of Social and Cultural Anthropology, University of Vienna, and Benjamin Ochse, an expert on Maori film culture in Berlin, for the evidence they provided. Not least thanks to their help, this paper presents a revised version of Krüger 2012 and will appear in the German version of a Berlin conference proceedings on the Charité Human Remains Project, edited by Holger Stoecker.

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intertribal conflicts of the Maori, and refer to honoring deceased and respected relatives. The heads of slain enemies were intended to demonstrate the weakness of the vanquished, in the sense of war trophies.2 Ritually, the preservation of mummified heads was associated with the idea that strength could be drawn from them and implemented with extraordinary effectiveness, or mana. Often mounted on the border fences of farms, hamlets or villages, mummified heads were meant to deter foreign invaders and is document of the valor and military prowess of a tribe. Carved wooden effigies also occasionally fulfilled such functions, and, with the tattoo patterns carved into them, could be attributed to specific individuals.3 There are two reasons the mokomokai were created. As Sir Peter Buck explains: One was that important chiefs who died or were killed on a campaign in enemy country had only the head preserved because it was impossible to take home the whole body over a long distance. The preserved head in lieu of the body was wept over by the widow and the tribe. The second cause was to bring back the head of a detested enemy chief that he might be insulted and reviled in death by the widows and orphans he had created in life. As the heads of both friend and foe worth preserving were those of chiefs, it followed that the preserved heads were well tattooed.4

The mummification of mokomokai was observed as early as the first South Sea expedition of Captain James Cook (1728–79). On 20 January 1770, HMS Endeavour anchored in Queen Charlotte Sound in the northwest of the South Island of New Zealand. Kupaia, Paramount Chief of Motuara, showed the Europeans four mummified heads: “These skulls had their brains taken out, and some of them their eyes, but the scalp and hair was left upon them. They looked as if they had been dried by the fire, or the heat of the sun.”5 Based on sources available today, this process of mummification proceeded as follows: Eyes and tongue were removed from the head of the deceased; the eyes were either sewn shut, filled with pine resin or anti-rot herbs or – with advancing European contact – replaced by imported glass eyes. The foramen magnum was subsequently enlarged to remove the base of the skull bone and the brain through the opening; the head was steamed to make it easier to remove the flesh of the facial muscles underneath the skin and to replace it with flax (Phormium tenax) as a plastic filler; insertion of wooden sticks in the nostrils served to stabilize the

2

3 4 5

cf. Eva-Maria Günther, ‚Mumien aus Ozeanien – eine kurze Übersicht‘, in: Alfried Wieczorek, Michael Tellenbach & Wilfried Rosendahl (eds.), Mumien. Der Traum vom ewigen Leben (Mainz: von Zabern, 2007), pp. 113–6, p. 114. cf. David Lewis & Werner Forman, The Maori. Heirs of Tane (London: Atlantis-Verlag, 1982), p. 92–3. Rangi Te Hiroa [Sir Peter Buck], The Coming of the Maori (Wellington: Maori Purposes Fund Board, 1950), p. 300. Sydney Parkinson, A Journal of a Voyage to the South Seas in His Majesty’s Ship the “Endeavour” (London: Parkinson, 1773), p. 116.

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shape of the nose. Finally, sun exposure and smoking over a fire or oven-similar devices and subsequent preservation of the head with oils made the head durable.6 A characteristic feature of the heads was their tattooing, called moko (= referring to a lizard-like, or curvilinear appearance), which was an indication of the tribal as well as the social origins of the individual within the stratified society of the Maori. Individual tattoos followed the specific arrangement of standard patterns, which, using straight lines anchored in spiral ornaments and radiating/sinuous lines, differentiated iwi (tribe) or hapu (subtribe) according to superordinate and subordinate affiliation, ngati (locality of a tribe) according to specific local group affiliation and kainga (village or small settlement) according to family background. The status of a chief ariki (who is a member of a hereditary noble rank), also corresponded to a particularly rich decoration with tattoo patterns. In men, tattoos often covered the whole face; in women, only the area around the lips and chin.7 Even today, natural models for the patterns include the lizard, which is respected and feared as the epitome of cunning, of the blooming sprouts of the New Zealand fern leaf, which symbolize strength and resilience.8 During the 18th/19th century, as European interest in acquiring mokomokai grew, the Maori saw the sale as a way to obtain European firearms.9 This produced a flourishing trade, which reached its peak in the 1820s, and included the heads of pakeha (slain white men).10 Some Maori began to engage in manhunts, partly stimulated by white contractors. Members of the lower social classes who had no tattoos were sometimes given elaborate face decorations post-mortem to increase their resale value.11 Trade in mummified heads was particularly intense in the northeast of the North Island, in the ngapuhi area near the Bay of Islands. Opposition originating from a missionary station established in 1814 eventually led to a law prohibiting 6 7

8

9 10 11

cf. Schifko, Anmerkungen zur literarischen Rezeption des Leipziger Völkerkundemuseums, p. 504f.; Günther, Mumien aus Ozeanien, p. 114. Early detailed documentation of Maori tattooing can be found in Horatio G. Robley, Moko or Maori Tattooing (London: Chapman and Hall, 1896), pp. 39–46; and H. Ling Roth, ‘Maori Tatu and Moko’, The Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, 31 (1901), pp. 29–64. An overview of the different designs of tattoos and a related attempt at tribal allocation can be found in Simmons & David, Whakairo. Maori Tribal Art (Melbourne et al.: Oxford Univ. Press, 1985). For a standardized distinction of male and female tattoos, see “Panel of tattooed faces, commissioned by the Dominion Museum in 1894 and carved by Tene Waitere. Primarily an example of the different tattoo designs for men and women”, in Te Awekotua, Ngahuia, ‘Maori: People and Culture’, in: Dorota Czarkowska Starzecka (ed.), Maori. Art and Culture (London: British Museum Press, 1996), pp. 26–49, p. 42. cf. inter alia, Michael Tellenbach et al., ‚Mumien aus Ozeanien in den Sammlungen der Reiss-Engelhorn-Museen‘, in: Alfried Wieczorek, Michael Tellenbach & Wilfried Rosendahl (eds.), Mumien. Der Traum vom ewigen Leben (Mainz: von Zabern, 2007), pp. 350–1, p. 350. cf. Lewis & Forman, The Maori. Heirs of Tane, p. 93. cf. D. Wayne Orchiston, ‘Preserved Human Heads of the New Zealand Maoris’, The Journal of the Polynesian Society, 76/3 (1967), pp. 297–329, p. 297. cf. Robley, Moko or Maori Tattooing, p. 170; Te Hiroa, The Coming of the Maori, pp. 300–1; Lewis & Forman, The Maori. Heirs of Tane, p. 93.

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the trade in 1831. Nowadays, close to 250 heads are assumed to be contained in museums and private collections outside of New Zealand.12 Only a very few mokomokai were collected before 1815. The first heads documented by Europeans can be found in the travel descriptions of Cook's three Pacific expeditions (1768– 80); none are mentioned by other European travelers around the same period.13 PROVENANCE RESEARCH It is rumored that the two mokomokai in Göttingen were collected by one of Cook's expeditions, during his stays in New Zealand in 1769/70, 1773 and 1777. Given proof of their provenance, these would count as some of the earliest evidence of their kinds and could therefore be of particular reluctance to repatriation. The former curator of the Ethnographic Collection of Göttingen, Manfred Urban, sought clarification on this matter during the late 1970s. He turned to D. Wayne Orchiston from the University of Melbourne's Department of History with photos of Göttingen's mokomokai. In his answer, Orchiston denied any possibility of their originating within the time window of Cook's travels, but he did date the alleged mummification of both heads to the period before 1820, with the following words: Incidently, I am amazed by the configuration of the lips on your two specimens: if you refer to pp. 324–5 in my 1967 Polynesian Society Journal paper you will see that this 'pouting' form is only found on the heads of relatives and friends. Now it is generally believed that the Maoris ceased preserving the heads of their relatives and friends when trafficking in heads became commonplace, that is, from about 1820. Consequently, friends' heads are rare, and most of the preserved Maori heads found in the museums of the world are those of warriors taken in battle, and preserved by their enemies. The two heads in your museum therefore have special significance. Moreover, there is a high probability that they were preserved prior to 1820.14

Regardless of Orchiston's assessment, Göttingen has been confronted over and over again with queries about its Cook/Forster collection, which comprise around 500 Polynesian cultural artifacts. Even if the mokomokai did not originate from Cook's travels, they may have belonged to the naturalists Reinhold and Georg Forster, who sailed in the second expedition (1772–75).15 From sources docu12 13 14

15

cf. Schifko, Anmerkungen zur literarischen Rezeption des Leipziger Völkerkundemuseums, p. 506. cf. Orchiston, Preserved Human Heads of the New Zealand Maoris, p. 800–1. D. Wayne Orchiston to Manfred Urban, 30 November, 1977, Wissenschaftliches Kulturarchiv (WKA) of the Institute for Social and Cultural Anthropology Georg-AugustUniversität Göttingen, filing cabinet 1a–3b, custodian's room. Whether James Cook collected a head in situ for the Hunterian Museum in London, or whether one of the two Forsters did so during Cook's second voyage; or they came into possession of one or the other during another South Sea journey in the last third of the 18th Century, after which it eventually landed in the Göttingen collection, were questions that were discussed prior to a recent television production about Georg Forster. There was no conclu-

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menting Cook's three voyages, it seems that the captain and members of his expedition saw a minimum of four and a maximum of seven heads on their first trip to Queen Charlotte Sound (South Island) on 20 January 1770. On 10 November 1773, they saw a mummified female head in Tolaga Bay (North Island). Moreover, in the same month, Third Officer Richard Pickersgill bought from a Maori in Totaranui, Queen Charlotte Sound, the perfectly preserved head of a recently killed youth in exchange for a ship nail.16 This head, however, cannot be regarded as evidence of a mokomokai because it was not preserved in the typical mummification fashion. Submerged in alcohol, it found its way to London as a curiosity and apparently served the purpose of scaring people, as described in a letter from Daniel Solander to Joseph Banks: “Pickersgill made the Ladies sick by showing them the New Zealand head, […] It is preserved in Spirit and I propose to get it for Hunter [Hunterian Museum, G.K.]”.17 The two Forsters did not acquire a head, but rather only human teeth, which later found their way into the Pitt-Rivers Museum in Oxford.18 Since no mention is made of mokomokai in the sources documenting Cook's third voyage to New Zealand in 1777, the following summary can be posited: In addition to the head purchased by Pickersgill, there was only one mokomokai among the heads sighted on the first and second trips that can be shown to have been traded. This made its way to Europe. Joseph Banks acquired this specimen in Queen Charlotte Sound on 20 January 1770 in exchange for a pair of old drawers of my white linen. The head appeared to have belonged to a person of about fourteen or fifteen years of age, and evidently showed, by the contusions on one side, that it had received many violent blows which had chipped off a part of the skull near the eye.19

While a substantial part of the Maori cultural artifacts from the Banks collection later came to the Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, at the University of

16

17 18

19

sive answer; cf. WKA, Korrespondenz Cinecentrum GmbH Hamburg/Adrienne Kaeppler/Gundolf Krüger, 30 May – 10 August 2011. Georg Forster, Reise um die Welt, 1. Teil (Georg Forsters Werke. Sämtliche Schriften, Tagebücher, Briefe. Reise um die Welt, 2nd Volume, ed.by Gerhard Steiner) (Berlin: AkademieVerlag, 1989), pp. 402–8. WKA, “Letter received by Banks from Daniel Solander, 14 August 1775”, State Library of New South Wales, Australia, section 15, series No. 72.181. cf. Adrienne L. Kaeppler, ‚Die ethnographischen Sammlungen der Forsters aus dem Südpazifik. Klassische Empirie im Dienste der modernen Ethnologie‘, in: Claus-Volker Klenke (ed.), Georg Forster in interdisziplinärer Perspektive. Beiträge des Internationalen Georg Forster-Symposiums in Kassel, 1. bis 4. April 1993 (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1994), pp. 59– 75, p. 74. Joseph D. Hooker (ed.), Journal of the Right Hon. Sir Joseph Banks Bart., K.B., P.R.S. During Captain Cook’s First Voyage in H.M.S. Endeavour in 1768–71 to Terra Del Fuego, Otahite, New Zealand, Australia, The Dutch East Indies, Etc. (New York: Macmillan, 1896), p. 248; Cook refers to a tear above the temples in: Beaglehole, J. C. (ed.), The Journals of Captain James Cook on his Voyages of Discovery, Vol. I: The Voyage of the Endeavour 1761–1771 (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press., 1955), pp. 237, 282.

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Cambridge, the head acquired by Banks was “tactfully not mentioned by him”.20 Indications as to its whereabouts are as difficult to find in Kaeppler's Artificial Curiosities (1978) as indicated in the two comprehensive documents on “Preserved Maori Heads” by Orchiston.21 A chronological review of all archives available at the University of Göttingen's Institute for Social and Cultural Anthropology relating to the acquisition and historical allocation of the two Göttingen mokomokai yields the following information:22 – Sixty-six ethnographic items can be found under art objects/artifacts in the first inventory of the Georgia Augusta Academic Museum, but none referring to mokomokai.23 – The acquisition catalogue on the Cook collection contains 349 entries, none of which refers to mokomokai.24 – The estate of Reinhold Forster contains 69 entries, partly in reference to object groups; there is no evidence of mokomokai, even among substantiated private gifts from the Forsters to Göttingen scholars and friends.25 – In the 1830s, a catalogue divided into “Anthropologica” and “Ethnologica” came into being in the form of a collection of loose sheets of paper on which all items are individually listed and numbered: The section “Ethnologica”

20

21

22

23 24 25

Wilfred Shawcross, ‘The Cambridge University Collection of Maori Artefacts, made on Captain Cook’s First Voyage’, Journal of the Polynesian Society, 79 (1970), pp. 305–48, p. 344. Orchiston, “Preserved Human Heads of the New Zealand Maoris”; D. Wayne Orchiston, ‘Preserved Maori Heads and Captain Cook’s Three Voyages to the South Seas: A Study in Ethnohistory’, Anthropos, 73 (1978), pp. 798–816. Correspondence between Blumenbach and Banks in Warren R. Dawson (ed.), The Banks Letters. A calendar of the manuscript correspondence of Sir Joseph Banks, preserved in the British Museum (Natural History) and other collections in Great Britain (London: Trustees of the British Museums, 1958); Frank William Peter Dougherty, COMMERCIVM EPISTOLOGICVM J.F. BLVMENBACHII. From correspondence on the classical age of natural history. Catalogue on the exhibition in the foyer of the Lower Saxony State and University Library, 1st June – 21 June 1984 (Göttingen: Univ. Göttingen 1984); Frank William Peter Dougherty, The Correspondence of Johann Friedrich Blumenbach, Vol. I: 1773–1782. Letters 1–230. Revised, augmented and edited by Norbert Klatt (Brosamen zur BlumenbachForschung, Vol. 2) (Göttingen: Klatt, 2006), might have been able to shed light on the Göttingen mokomokai due to the matching timelines contained in them. However, information is missing in Kroke´s overview of the bibliography of Blumenbach's writings (Claudia Kroke in collaboration with Wolfgang Böker & Reimer Eck, Johann Friedrich Blumenbach. Bibliographie seiner Schriften (Schriften zur Universitätsgeschichte, Vol. 2) (Göttingen: Universitäts-Verlag, 2010), and in a review of the Blumenbach skull collection in Göttingen's Center of Anatomy (Michael Schultz & Hans-Jürg Kuhn, ‚Die Blumenbachsche Schädelsammlung in der Göttinger Anatomie‘, in: Dietrich Hoffmann & Kathrin Maack-Rheinländer (eds.), „Ganz für das Studium angelegt“. Die Museen, Sammlungen und Gärten der Universität Göttingen (Göttingen: Wallstein-Verlag, 2001), pp. 169–72). WKA, Johann Friedrich Blumenbach, Catalogus Musei Academici, 1778/79, pp. 406–9. WKA, George Humphrey, Catalogue (London, 1782). WKA, Anonymous, Loose-leaf collection (Hall, 1799).

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consists of 441 entries and contains reference to two “moko moko” from New Zealand.26 After reviewing all correspondence from the 1820s and '30s, letter dated 1834 have been found showing that Johann Friedrich Blumenbach received the heads from the English royal house: The German-born upholsterer and native of Hanover Heinrich Ludwig Goertz, who was employed at Windsor Castle, gave notice of “2 New Zealand [...] heads”27 intended for the Academic Museum in a letter to Georg Christoph Lichtenberg, tax official in the Kingdom of Hanover and son of the Göttingen philosopher of the same name. Blumenbach, as the responsible curator, received the two heads shortly thereafter (Fig. 2).28

Fig. 2 a 26 27 28

WKA, Cat. A. Ethnologica, o.J., no. 174–5. WKA: Heinrich Ludwig Goertz to Georg Christoph Lichtenberg, 21 April 1834. WKA: Heinrich Ludwig Goertz to Johann Friedrich Blumenbach, 28 July 1834.

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Fig. 2 b Fig. 2 a and b: 2 a (above): in: Robley, Moko or Maori Tattooing, Fig. 178; 2 b (below): in: Wieczorek & Rosendahl, Schädelkult, p. 379.

Considering the Göttingen acquisition date (before or possibly after 1820) with respect to the time of origin of the heads in New Zealand, both heads seem to correspond to what Orchiston told Urban in 1977. In view of these circumstances any connection to Cook's travels can be ruled out. The two mokomokai were properly added to Göttingen´s museum inventory much later, during the introduction of an Ordinariate of Ethnology in 1934. On the index cards of this time and still valid today, they are referred to as New Zealand “head trophies” (Oz 344 and Oz 345).29 When the Second World War began in 1939, the ethnographic collection was closed and all the objects were moved, so 29

It is interesting that the index cards contain the words “Old Collection [= Blumenbach Collection, G.K.] 1834” written in pencil in old German handwriting, barely legible and without further details. Apparently, someone must have encountered earlier correspondence on the acquisition of the two heads in 1834. The former curator, Manfred Urban, has denied having made this remark himself, and could not name the author.

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the discovery of a memo from 1942 that refers to the acquisition of a further mokomokai is interesting. This contains a machine-written receipt and a letter of thanks (without name or signature) certifying that the ownership of mummies from Peru, Chile and Egypt, a skull from the Mundurucu in Brazil, and 26 framed images along with “1 skull trophy from the Maori in New Zealand” from Göttingen University's Anatomical Institute was transferred to the former Institute for Ethnology.30 While all newly acquired items were properly inventoried and are still in the Ethnographic Collection, the Maori “trophy skull” has disappeared. The original Göttingen Center of Anatomy building in Bahnhofstrasse 26, burned down in April 1945, resulting in the destruction of valuable archives. According to information provided by Michael Schultz the present Chairman of Blumenbach's skull collection at the current Center of Anatomy, University of Göttingen (Faculty of Medicine) there appears to be no confirmation, of the provenance of this head however, Part II of a publication on “Anthropological Collections in Germany” entitled “Göttingen. The Anthropological Collection of the University of Göttingen, founded by Blumenbach and taken over by Johann Wilhelm Spengel” in 1874 containes the crucial words: “No. 164, tattooed head of a New Zealander”.31 This revealing entry provoked a further search of Johann Friedrich Blumenbach estate in the Göttingen State and University Library. This produced evidence that the head had found its way to the Center of Anatomy after Blumenbach's death in 1840, and from there into the possession of the Institute for Ethnology in 1942. On 6 December 1822 Blumenbach received a letter from the English Major William Davison which, on behalf of his friend the Duke of Northumberland, announced that a “mail car from Hanover” sent the same day would deliver to Blumenbach a well-secured box containing a “Head of a New Zealand Prince” for his “Cabinet of Natural History”. He stressed: “I think you will acknowledge it wbe [sic] one of the best preserved Specimens [that] ever came to Göttingen”.32 A note from the Duke of Northumberland, Alnwick Castle, dated 2 November 1822, was attached to the letter, in which the Duke expressed to Blumenbach his hope that the donation of a “perfect” specimen of a “mummified head of a New Zealand chief” would be a valuable asset to the museum. The day before Blumenbach received the letter from Davison, he had received a letter from his son Georg Heinrich Wilhelm Blumenbach, an administrative officer in Hanover. Davison had been with him, and had told him “what treasure he has brought

30

31

32

WKA: Confirmation of receipt, 15 September 1942, and letter of thanks to Erich Blechschmidt, Director of the Anatomical Institute of the University of Göttingen, 15 September 1942. Johann Wilhelm Spengel, Die von Blumenbach gegründete Anthropologische Sammlung der Universität Göttingen, aufgenommen im Jahre 1874 (Hermann Schaaffhausen: Die Anthropologischen Sammlungen Deutschlands, Teil II: Göttingen). Verschiedene anthropologische Gegenstände (Braunschweig: Vieweg, 1880), p. 90. Manuscripts Department of the Lower Saxony State and University Library (SUB), Blumenbach V, 43, 9–10, 13, William Davison to Johann Friedrich Blumenbach, 12 June 1822.

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for you from the Duchess of Northumberland”.33 On 7 December 1822, Blumenbach received the precious gift with the following words written on it: “mummified head of a New Zealander from D[uke] o[f] Northumberland”.34 This proof of acquisition demonstrates that there was indeed a third head in Göttingen. This may have been the head which the professor of the Institute for Ethnology, Hans Plischke, received in 1942. Apparently, it was never inventoried, but rather, resold. A close trading partner of Plischke was the art and natural history dealer Arthur Speyer. According to a statement by the current private owner, one mokomokai came from Speyer, who had supposedly acquired it in Göttingen and then resold it to the ancestors of the current private owner. This very fine specimen (with a nephrite ear pendant or kuru) was on display in 2011 at the exhibition “Schädelkult” (Skull Cult) in the Reiss-Engelhorn Museums in Mannheim35 and bears a striking resemblance – especially regarding the rows of teeth – to a picture of a mokomokai (without ear pendant) which Robley had previously described as the only “Specimen in [the] Göttingen Museum” (Fig. 2 a, b).36 By “Göttingen Museum”, Robley must have meant the original Center of Anatomy on the Bahnhofsplatz, since the Academic Museum was dissolved after the death of Blumenbach in 1840, and the building demolished around 1872. THE REPATRIATION ISSUE Based on the proof of a third Göttingen mokomokai, it would be desirable if research could establish a firm connection between Hans Plischke and Arthur Speyer, as well as to reconstruct its history and clarify its legal status. Further research in the correspondence of the Duke of Northumberland – wherever they may be found – might shed light on how the third Göttingen head had originally found its way to Alnwick Castle. A close examination of the mokomokai exhibit in the Mannheim “Schädelkult” exhibition leaves no doubt that this specimen, apparently identical to the third Göttingen mokomokai, did not originate from Cook's journeys. The proof lies in the missing traces of violence that Banks described on the eye and above the temples of the mokomokai acquired in 1770. Moreover, it cannot be the head of a “14- to 15-year-old youth”:37 The beard growth visible on the photograph from Robley as well as in the Mannheim exhibit (Fig. 2 a, b) clearly indicates an adult. “In addition, the extent of the tattoo is not what one would expect on a 15-year-old youth”. Some of the tattoo patterns appear deep and un-

33 34 35

36 37

SUB, Blumenbach V, 43, 11–12; Georg Heinrich Wilhelm Blumenbach to Johann Friedrich, Thursday, 5 December 1822. SUB, Blumenbach V, 43, 7, Blumenbach File “New Zealanders”. cf. Alfried Wieczorek & Wilfried Rosendahl (eds.), Schädelkult. Kopf und Schädel in der Kulturgeschichte des Menschen. Begleitband zur Sonderausstellung (Regensburg: Schnell und Steiner, 2011). Robley, Moko or Maori Tattooing, Fig. 178. Hooker, Journal of the Right Hon. Sir Joseph Banks, p. 248.

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healed, thus it may have been a post-mortem production during a time of head trafficking between the Maori and white traders.38

Fig. 3 Fig. 3: Male mokomokai head, Oz 345. The acrylic glass installation (H 50 cm, B u. L 35 cm) originates with the Maori artist George Nuku and was provided to the Göttingen collection. Nuku refers to his work as “whare o te toa”, which describes a house for the warriors resp. for the temporary accommodation of ancestors and the philosophy that is connected with the circumstances of their accommodation. Photo: Robert Scheck, Institute for Social and Cultural Anthropology of the University of Göttingen.

It is unclear what will happen to the two mokomokai located in Göttingen. Both heads have been registered by the Te Papa Tongarewa Museum in Wellington via personal contact with the Maori ethnologist, Patricia Wallace.39 One point of view, which is gaining increasing acceptance, considers an ethical solution to keep them at the premises where they are currently located, classified as cultural treasures, or taonga, from a Maori perspective. This provides accommodation 38 39

WKA, Notification from Georg Schifko to the author, 14 October 2012. WKA, Herewini to the author, 18 December 2009.

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similar to a Maori wahi tapu (sacred room, sacred place), i.e., an undisturbed room where sacred artifacts are kept40 in reverent peace and where they can be researched (and possibly exhibited) until a consensus on how to proceed further is reached (Fig. 3).41 BIBLIOGRAPHY Beaglehole, J. C. (ed.), The Journals of Captain James Cook on his Voyages of Discovery, Vol. I: The Voyage of the Endeavour 1761–1771 (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press., 1955). Bochenek, Maximilian, Die Ethik der musealen Repräsentation von Human Remains vor dem Hintergrund der gegenwärtigen Repatriations-Debatte, unveröffentlichte Bachelor-Arbeit an der Sozialwissenschaftlichen Fakultät der Georg-August-Universität Göttingen (Göttingen, 2010). Dawson, Warren R. (ed.), The Banks Letters. A Calendar of the Manuscript Correspondence of Sir Joseph Banks, preserved in the British Museum (Natural History) and other collections in Great Britain (London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1958). Dougherty, Frank William Peter, COMMERCIVM EPISTOLOGICVM J.F. BLVMENBACHII. From correspondence on the classical age of natural history. Catalogue on the exhibition in the foyer of the Lower Saxony State and University Library, 1st June–21 June 1984 (Göttingen: Univ. Göttingen 1984). Dougherty, Frank William Peter, The Correspondence of Johann Friedrich Blumenbach, Vol. I: 1773–1782. Letters 1–230. Revised, augmented and edited by Norbert Klatt (Brosamen zur Blumenbach-Forschung, Vol. 2) (Göttingen: Klatt, 2006). Hooker, Joseph D. (ed.), Journal of the Right Hon. Sir Joseph Banks Bart., K.B., P.R.S. During Captain Cook’s First Voyage in H.M.S. Endeavour in 1768–71 to Terra Del Fuego, Otahite, New Zealand, Australia, The Dutch East Indies, Etc. (New York: Macmillan, 1896). Forster, Georg, Reise um die Welt, 1. Teil (Georg Forsters Werke. Sämtliche Schriften, Tagebücher, Briefe. Reise um die Welt, 2nd Volume, edited by Gerhard Steiner) (Berlin: AkademieVerlag, 1989). Günther, Eva-Maria, ‚Mumien aus Ozeanien – eine kurze Übersicht‘, in: Alfried Wieczorek, Michael Tellenbach & Wilfried Rosendahl (eds.), Mumien. Der Traum vom ewigen Leben (Mainz: von Zabern, 2007), pp. 113–6. Kaeppler, Adrienne L., “Artificial Curiosities”. An exposition of native manufactures collected on the three Pacific voyages of Captain James Cook, R.N. at the Bernice Pauahi Bishop Museum, January 18, 1978 – August 31, 1978 on the occasion of the Bicentennial of the European Discovery of the Hawaiian Islands by Captain Cook – January 18, 1778 (Honolulu: Bishop Museum Press, 1978). Kaeppler, Adrienne L., ‚Die ethnographischen Sammlungen der Forsters aus dem Südpazifik. Klassische Empirie im Dienste der modernen Ethnologie‘, in: Claus-Volker Klenke (ed.), 40

41

cf. Maximilian Bochenek, Die Ethik der musealen Repräsentation von Human Remains vor dem Hintergrund der gegenwärtigen Repatriations-Debatte, unveröffentl. Bachelor-Arbeit an der Sozialwissenschaftlichen Fakultät der Georg-August-Universität Göttingen (Göttingen: Universitäts-Verlag, 2010). The two Göttingen mokomokai are in storage and are seldom, using an artistic installation (a hood as a temporary ‘home’) custom-built specifically for these heads by the Maori artist George Nuku. Presentation of the heads in lectures for the purpose of displaying scientific ‘picture citations’ seems permissible (consultation with Ron Lambert, former director of the New Plymouth Museum in New Zealand); mere display in the media, however, is regarded as ethically irresponsible (cf.: WKA, Notice from Benjamin Ochse, 13 October 2012).

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Georg Forster in interdisziplinärer Perspektive. Beiträge des Internationalen Georg ForsterSymposiums in Kassel, 1. bis 4. April 1993 (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1994), pp. 59–75. Kroke, Claudia in collaboration with Wolfgang Böker & Reimer Eck, Johann Friedrich Blumenbach. Bibliographie seiner Schriften (Schriften zur Universitätsgeschichte, Vol. 2) (Göttingen: Universitäts-Verlag, 2010). Krüger, Gundolf, ‚Mokomokai aus Neuseeland in der Ethnologischen Sammlung der Universität Göttingen. Ergebnisse einer Provenienz-Recherche vor dem Hintergrund der derzeitigen Restitutionsdebatte‘, in: Alfried Wieczorek, Wilfried Rosendahl & Andreas Schlothauer (eds.), Der Kult um Kopf und Schädel. Interdisziplinäre Betrachtungen zu einem Menschheitsthema [Colloquium on the occasion of the exhibition “Schädelkult – Kopf und Schädel in der Kulturgeschichte des Menschen” in the Reiss-Engelhorn Museums of Mannheim, 2 October 2011 – 29 April 2012 (publications of the Reiss-Engelhorn Museums 53/Mannheimer Geschichtsblätter Sonderveröffentlichung 5) Heidelberg et al.: Verlag Regionalkultur, 2012), pp. 131–8. Lewis, David & Werner Forman, The Maori. Heirs of Tane (London: Atlantis-Verlag, 1982). Orchiston, D. Wayne, ‘Preserved Human Heads of the New Zealand Maoris’, The Journal of the Polynesian Society, 76/3 (1967), pp. 297–329. Orchiston, D. Wayne, ‘Preserved Maori Heads and Captain Cook’s Three Voyages to the South Seas: A Study in Ethnohistory’, Anthropos, 73 (1978), pp. 798–816. Parkinson, Sydney, A Journal of a Voyage to the South Seas in his Majesty’s ship the Endeavour (London: Parkinson, 1773). Robley, Horatio G., Mokoed Heads in Museums and Collections [Chapter XIII], in: Robley, Horatio G., Moko or Maori Tattooing (London: Chapman and Hall, 1896), pp. 183–208. Roth, H. Ling, ‘Maori Tatu and Moko’, The Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, 31 (1901), pp. 29–64. Spengel, Johann Wilhelm, Die von Blumenbach gegründete Anthropologische Sammlung der Universität Göttingen, aufgenommen im Jahre 1874 (Hermann Schaaffhausen: Die Anthropologischen Sammlungen Deutschlands, Teil II: Göttingen), X. Verschiedene anthropologische Gegenstände (Braunschweig: Vieweg, 1880). Schifko, Georg, ‚Anmerkungen zur literarischen Rezeption des Leipziger Völkerkundemuseums und dessen mumifizierten Maori-Kopfes‘, in: Claus Deimel, Sebastian Lentz & Bernhard Streck (eds.), Auf der Suche nach Vielfalt. Ethnographie und Geographie in Leipzig (Leipzig: Leibnitz-Institut für Landeskunde, 2009), pp. 501–8. Schifko, Georg, ‚Zu einem ungewöhnlichen Diorama, das den Handel von mumifizierten MaoriKöpfen (mokomokai /upoko tuhi) darstellt‘, Anthropos, 107 (2012), pp. 1–5. Schultz, Michael & Hans-Jürg Kuhn, ‚Die Blumenbachsche Schädelsammlung in der Göttinger Anatomie‘, in: Dietrich Hoffmann & Kathrin Maack-Rheinländer (eds.), „Ganz für das Studium angelegt”. Die Museen, Sammlungen und Gärten der Universität Göttingen (Göttingen: Wallstein-Verlag, 2001), pp. 169–72. Shawcross, Wilfred, ‘The Cambridge University Collection of Maori Artefacts, made on Captain Cook’s First Voyage’, Journal of the Polynesian Society, 79 (1970), pp. 305–48. Simmons, David, Whakairo. Maori Tribal Art (Melbourne et al.: Oxford Univ. Press, 1985). Te Awekotua, Ngahuia, ‘Maori: People and Culture’, in: Dorota Czarkowska Starzecka (ed.), Maori. Art and Culture (London: British Museum Press, 1996), pp. 26–49. Te Hiroa, Rangi [Sir Peter Buck], The Coming of the Maori (Wellington et al.: Maori Purposes Fund Board, 1950). Tellenbach, Michael et al., ‚Mumien aus Ozeanien in den Sammlungen der Reiss-EngelhornMuseen‘, in: Alfried Wieczorek, Michael Tellenbach & Wilfried Rosendahl (eds.), Mumien. Der Traum vom ewigen Leben (Mainz: von Zabern, 2007), p. 350–1. Wieczorek, Alfried & Wilfried Rosendahl (eds.), Schädelkult. Kopf und Schädel in der Kulturgeschichte des Menschen. Begleitband zur Sonderausstellung (Regensburg: Schnell und Steiner, 2011).

JURIDICAL AND ETHICAL ASPECTS OF DISPLAYING ANATOMICAL SPECIMENS IN PUBLIC Robert Jütte ABSTRACT Until recently the legal community has tolerated, at least, the practice of creating, storing and displaying specimens of human remains without the consent of the deceased. Current legislation regulating the treatment of human remains held in collections, museums and public places is still highly fragmentary, and is insufficient for the resolution of the legal and ethical problems associated with them. This was one of the reasons why a working group consisting of experts from different academic fields (museums studies, pathology, anatomy, forensic medicine, law, medical history, bioethics) was set up in Germany in 2000. It should be mentioned that their work was not commissioned by any governmental institution but that it was initiated by a few people who were concerned about the lack of regulation in a highly sensitive field. Its task was to draft recommendations on the treatment of human remains in collections, museums and public places. In view of the fact that legislation regulating the treatment of human remains in collections, museums and public places is highly fragmentary these recommendations published in 2003 intended to set up a legal framework for the dignified treatment of human remains in the future. These recommendations have in the meantime been approved by the German Medical Association as well as by the Secretariat of the Standing Conference of the Ministers of Education and Cultural Affairs of the German federal states. They did not become, however, legally binding, but had nevertheless a positive effect on the display of human remains in medical museums and anatomical collections all over Germany. They also serve as a kind of benchmark for handling human remains in ethnographic collections. The bottom-up approach (initiative by experts in the field, then seeking approval by legal institutions and government institutions) proved to be very successful in the German context. The paper deals with the rationale behind these recommendations and the impact they had on the display of human remains.

In 2005 the Los Angeles Police Department investigated the theft of a plastinated specimen. A thirteen-week-old human fetus, acquired from an old anatomical collection, was taken from Gunther von Hagens’ Bodyworlds 2 at the California Science Center. The theft occurred in the early hours of Saturday, March 26, during the last weekend of the exhibit, which officially closed at midnight. This spectacular theft must have disturbed the self-image of Dr. von Hagens, creator of the exhibits and inventor of the plastination technique, who – according to his own words – “has designed BODY WORLDS 2 to reveal significant insights about human anatomy, physiology and health, presenting an unprecedented view of the

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structure and function of the human body and offering an unforgettable lesson on the importance of leading a healthy lifestyle.”1 Obviously, not everybody in the United States – a country which von Hagens considers a land of liberty, guarding the freedom of scientific research – felt happy with some of the specimens displayed in the exhibition. It seems likely that anti-abortionist pressure groups were involved in the theft because they suspected that there was something wrong about the fetus on display. Perhaps the specimen was acquired by abortion and was not the product of a miscarriage. The debate, both on the origin of the plastinated specimens in Bodyworlds and on the way some of the objects are displayed, pinpoints the legal and ethical problems involved in using authentic specimens for educational purposes. The fact that Bodyworlds addresses lay people is of secondary importance, as in Europe many anatomical and pathological museums and collections are open to the general public. However, in most European countries, legislation regulating the treatment of human remains held in collections, museums and public places is still highly fragmentary. In 2003, the UK-Department for Culture, Media and Sport in England published a report of its Working Group on Human Remains, which dealt with the legal status of human remains within publicly funded Museums and Galleries in England and Wales. The report looked at, among other things, current laws relating to collections of human remains in UK museums and claims for their repatriation. The recommendations led to much concern in the scientific community and among museologists. The main issues are: 1) Whether current laws relating to the holding of human remains by UK museums, taken together with the new provisions of the Human Tissues Bill, are adequate; 2) Whether museums holding human remains should be subject to some form of Code of Practice or regulation; 3)Whether the British Government should establish a Human Remains Advisory Panel to mediate claims for repatriation; and 4) How museums should handle claims for restitution of human remains and what model of consent should be adopted in dealing with such claims. In Germany the situation looks different. In the late 1990s the author was approached by the German Hygiene Museum in Dresden. The reason was that yellow press reports had cast some darks clouds on a substantial part of its anatomical collection, namely the famous Spalteholz-specimens. There were rumours that some of the human remains on display were taken from victims of political trials during the communist rule after World War II. Some years earlier, in 1989, an official complaint by some Jewish physicians in the United States and Canada had forced the German federal states to carry out investigations into medical institutions and collections in which remains of human origin were used for research or teaching. This resulted in the following action. In accordance with the communiqué of 22 December 1994 from the Secretariat of the Standing Conference of the Ministers of Education and Cultural Affairs of the German federal states, any human remains found to be from the Nazi era, or of unidentified origin, were to be 1

http://www.prnewswire.com/news-releases/gunther-von-hagens-body-worlds-2-54100017.html, retrieved 1 September 2013.

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removed. However, human remains that were acquired under circumstances which we today also consider unlawful, or at least unethical, were not included in this action. This established procedure could therefore not be applied to the Dresden case. It became clear that a new and comprehensive code of ethics was needed in order to deal with past, present and future problems in displaying human remains. I therefore suggested convening a group of experts from different professional backgrounds to produce a code of practice for the keeping of human remains in anatomical, pathological collections and, where appropriate, other human remains collections in Germany, in accordance with the existing legislation and in line with modern ethical standards. The first meeting was in the year 2000. The committee published its recommendations in August 2003. These recommendations produced by an independent committee were never intended to reflect Government policy. Nevertheless, the guidelines were later endorsed by the Standing Conference of the Ministers of Education and Cultural Affairs of the German federal states and by the executive board of the German Medical Association. Sinces these recommendations are not binding, but have developed into a much acclaimed code of ethics adopted by many museums and referred to by law courts and health ministries in some German and Austrian states. An English translation is available, for example, on the website of the European Association of Museums of Medical History. In the following I shall present a largely verbatim account of the most important issues addressed in these guidelines. The recommendations cover the treatment of human remains for the purposes of presentation and display to those with a professional interest and to the general public. They apply to anatomical, anatomical-pathological and forensic medical collections and, likewise, to anthropological collections. They do not apply to post-mortem examinations, insofar as these are governed by state legislation. Neither do these recommendations apply to the treatment of human remains held in places of memorial (concentration camp sites, ossuaries etc.). Human remains are to be understood as objects whose fundamental structure consists, wholly or in part, of organic human material which, by means of specialist procedures, has been permanently preserved. This includes bodies or parts of bodies, and organs or parts of organs of a deceased person, dead fetuses or parts thereof, or body parts, organs, parts of organs or tissue that have been severed or removed from a living person, which have no direct clinical use, but which are, rather, prepared and permanently preserved. The treatment of specimens of human remains includes, in particular, their creation, preservation, collection, preparation, presentation and display. Unlike the recommendations of the Human Remains Report in the UK the German recommendations carry a positive message: The creation, preservation, collection and preparation of specimens of human remains for the purposes of presentation and display to those with a professional interest and to the general public is permissible under law. This applies in particular to the communication of biological-medical, cultural, historical or otherwise significant facts. However, the

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dignity of the person shall be respected at all stages of the creation, storage and presentation of the specimens. Last but not least the specimens shall be treated with respect. Difficulties surrounding the treatment of human remains used for presentation and display to a professional or lay audience arise predominantly in the following circumstances: – The use of human remains specimens created before it was general practice or legal requirement for a donor to give his consent. – The use of human remains whose origin is unknown. – The collection, preparation and presentation of specimens of human remains created legally under the terms of earlier rules and/or a different legal system, which would be considered to be unlawful by current standards. – Human remains from jurisdictions and cultures in which consent as required nowadays is not deemed necessary. Ethical and legal considerations have therefore to be taken into account when deciding whether human remains are to be held in collections, museums and public places, and if so, how they are to be treated. Accordingly, general procedures should follow the guidelines known as “Stuttgarter Empfehlungen”: – Insofar as it is possible to do so, the origin of the human remains will be identified. – If there is just cause to believe that particular human remains have been acquired unlawfully, then these remains shall be removed from display during the period of the identification process. Any such human remains shall be entered into the same inventory and their details recorded in the same manner as all other human remains, and for the duration of the identification process they shall be stored in appropriate conditions. – In order to identify the origin of the human remains and to date them, a separate investigation shall take place. The results of this investigation shall be scrutinised by an independent expert, whose recommendation shall form part of the final decision-making process in respect of how to proceed. In the event that doubt remains, or that it has not been possible to resolve the issues, it is recommended that a panel of experts be consulted. In the case of particularly complex investigations, additional financial resources shall be necessary. These should be made available by the governing body of the institution concerned. Special procedures apply in the event of the violation of human dignity. The circumstances of death determine the way in which the deceased is viewed by the living. If the deceased died because of their ethnicity, their beliefs or for political reasons as a result of state-organised and directed violence, or if the facts point towards this being a possibility, then this is a serious violation of the deceased’s human dignity. Should any human remains be identified as originating in unlawful circumstances such as these, they shall be removed from the collection concerned and interred in a dignified manner.

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Furthermore, the following general criteria shall be observed when determining the appropriate treatment of specimens of human origin in collections, museums and public places: – The reason motivating the creation of a specimen of human remains for presentation and display, and the purpose it is intended to serve, shall be examined. – Is its primary function to illustrate an anatomical, anatomical-pathological, forensic-medical, cultural-historical, ideological or other important point? Or does it stand primarily as an independent art object? – Are the remains displayed by themselves, with or without accompanying explanatory notes, as part of a collection or in an exhibition organised around a particular theme? – Are the remains on display and/or the collection as a whole of particular public, professional or private interest? – What is the relative importance of these interests, and what is their importance compared with other public, professional or private interests? Does satisfying these interests infringe the legitimate interests of third parties? Moreover, the process of deciding on the ethics of a particular specimen of human remains shall include consideration of the manner in which it was created and how it is exhibited. The preservation techniques used and the condition of the remains are important factors in this. – Are the remains tissue, organs, parts of organs, or whole bodies or body parts? – Is the specimen anonymous when presented and displayed? Are there good grounds for the specimen not to comply with the principle of anonymity? Does the specimen retain elements, such as facial features or obvious distinguishing marks, which are intended to reveal the identity of the deceased? – How old are the remains? Has all memory of the deceased been lost? Are these the remains of an anonymous person who died in the dim past, or the remains of someone to whom people still have direct or indirect personal connections? If, on application of these or similar criteria and considerations, the human remains are adjudged to be of particular significance, either to professionals or to the general public, they shall be permitted to be used for the purposes of presentation and display. If the human remains are deemed, on evaluation, not to be of sufficient significance to warrant their being presented and displayed, they shall be stored in the proper manner and with due dignity or, if appropriate, interred. Much of the power that human remains possess to attract the attention of spectators lies in the fact that they are genuine ‘remains’ of a human body. This does not of itself prohibit their being used in public presentations and displays. However, it does mean that there are limits determining how they may be used in both professional and public arenas. Also, that measures need to be in place to ensure these objects are handled in a dignified manner in collections and exhibitions. Issues to be taken into consideration include the following:

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The primary aim of the aesthetic preparation, arrangement and display is to present the information the remains reveal accurately, whilst preserving the dignity of the deceased. – Although the concept of the human dignity of the deceased can only be understood by analogy, any presentation and display shall not wilfully demean the human corpse. Human remains altered for artistic purposes shall be neither created nor stored nor put on show to the public. – It is particularly important when presenting and displaying human remains to be clear about the nature of the target audience. If the remains are being presented to the general public, it is imperative to take into consideration the visitor’s need for identification and distancing. Despite careful investigation of the origin of the remains and a manner of presentation and display that is respectful, questions may still remain. For this reason, a symbolic act of remembrance is desirable. This might be realised in the following ways: – a public act of thanksgiving of an appropriate nature for all the persons, known and unknown, whose remains are to be found in the collection; – the creation of a suitable place to remember the dead; – communicating, perhaps during guided tours or by means of special events, the processes involved in preserving the remains. From these general guidelines one can derive recommendations for existing collections. –

CONCLUSION Since these recommendations have been published in 2003, some museums in Germany and Austria have committed themselves to follow these guidelines. The Museum of Natural History in Salzburg, for instance, set up a committee in 2004 to investigate the origin of their small collection of human malformations and abnormalities. An outside expert was then asked for additional expertise. His report ruled out that specimens were taken from victims of Nazi rule in Austria. This verdict enabled the Salzburg Museum to pass its collection of human remains to the Federal Museum of Pathology in Vienna which would have objected to receiving pathological and anatomical objects of doubtful origin. In 2005 a group of anatomists and historians investigated the association of the Institute of Anatomy at the University of Jena with Nazi crimes. Apart from documenting the association, the aim of the investigation in which the “Stuttgarter Empfehlungen” were applied was to clarify the whereabouts of the corpses. In particular, it had to be ascertained that none of the specimens publicly displayed in the anatomical collection of the Friedrich Schiller University originated in the context of Nazi crimes. The guidelines were also referred to in a report by an external committee on the state of the medico-historical collection of the University of Zurich in 2011/12.

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The recent guidelines of the German Museums Association published in July 2013 refer to the “Stuttgarter Empfehlungen” as an important step in dealing with human remains in public collections: The only guidelines available thus far in Germany are the ‘Recommendations on the treatment of human remains in collections, museums and public spaces’ produced by the ‘Working Group on Human Remains in Collections’ in 2003; however, those recommendations relate primarily to anatomical, anatomical-pathological, forensic and anthropological collections. In view of the sensitivity of the issue and the insufficiency of the existing legal provisions, museums and collections want clear regulations and guidance for their day-to-day work, in particular in problematic cases and above all in connection with claims for return. The German Museums Association therefore considers it to be its responsibility to provide assistance to all museums and collections in Germany, in the tradition of the guidelines previously published by the Association.2

The comprehensive guidelines of the German Museums Association bear witness to an ongoing process among curators of museums all over Germany that emphasizes the evaluation of each claim for reburial or repatriation individually within a legal and ethical framework. The German experience proves that best practice rules mandate that professional policies and guidelines have to be developed in order standardize the housing of human remains within museums, both on and off public display. BIBLIOGRAPHY Deutscher Museumsbund (ed.), Recommendations for the Care of Human Remain in Museums and Collections, (www.museumsbund.de/de/publikationen/online_publikationen, retrieved 3 September 2013). Fröber, Rosemarie, Abschlußbericht zur Umsetzung der im Gutachten vom 21. Juni 2005 – Prof. Dr. R. Jütte – ausgewiesenen Empfehlungen über den weiteren Umgang mit den Sammlungsbeständen am Institut für Anatomie I in Jena. 2006, (www.anatomie1.uniklinikumjena.de/anatomie1_media/Inhalte/Dateien_Froeber/NS_Recherche/Abschlussbericht.pdf, retretreived 8 March 2013). Fründt, Sarah, Die Menschen-Sammler: Über den Umgang mit menschlichen Überresten im Übersee-Museum Bremen (Marburg: Tectum Verlag, 2011). Guidance for the Care of Humans Remains in Museums, (http://webarchive.nationalarchives.gov.u k/+/http:/www.culture.gov.uk/images/publications/GuidanceHumanRemains11Oct.pdf, retreived 8 March 2013). Hermes da Fonseca, Liselotte & Thomas Kliche (eds.), Verführerische Leichen – verbotener Verfall. Körperwelten als gesellschaftliches Schlüsselereignis (Lengerich: Pabst Science Publ., 2006). Recommendations on the Treatment of Human Remains in Collections, Museums and Public places, Deutsches Ärzteblatt [German Medical Journal] August 2003, pp. 1532–6 (www. aemhsm.net/ressources/actus/TranslationGuidelines_final.doc, retreived 8 March 2013).

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Deutscher Museumsbund (ed.), Recommendations for the Care of Human Remains in Museums and Collections. www.museumsbund.de/de/publikationen/online_publikationen, retreived 3 September 2013.

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Schärtl, Thomas (ed.), Körperwelten oder Leibesvisitationen? Eine philosophisch-theologische Auseinandersetzung mit Gunther von Hagens' Ausstellung (Münster: Aschendorff, 2011).

THE INTEGRATED RESEARCH MUSEUM: CUTTING EDGE COLLECTIONS-BASED RESEARCH MEETS INNOVATIVE PUBLIC ENGAGEMENT Anita Hermannstädter, Christiane Quaiser, Johannes Vogel ABSTRACT The Museum für Naturkunde in Berlin is one of the world’s largest research museums, housing a vast collection of around thirty million objects ranging from mosquito specimens to elephant hides, amber inclusions to dinosaur bones, dust samples to meteorites, as well as audio tapes, 19th century diaries, and tissue samples. The figures speak for themselves: there are fifteen million insects (including six million beetles), seven million molluscs, 200,000 birds, three million fossils, 350,000 rocks and minerals, and 120,000 sound recordings and media. Collected during a three centrury quest to discover, appropriate, and understand the world, these objects not only comprise an invaluable global scientific infrastructure for studying biodiversity, evolution, and the geological impact of natural disasters, but also provide a vital resource for investigating the history and culture of science. Yet the museum has also achieved great success in its traditional role as a facilitator between science and the general public. Since the new permanent exhibition opened in 2007 the museum has attracted on average 500,000 visitors per year, making it the most visited natural history museum in Germany in 2011. Individual objects from the collections are at the heart of the permanent exhibitions; whether effectively and attractively displayed within a particular setting or forming an eyecatching centerpiece, each of them has something different to tell us, stimulating our scientific curiosity and fostering our own relationship to the natural world. In the face of pressing environmental concerns such as rapid environmental and climate change or increasing extinction rates, the Museum für Naturkunde sees its future role as both an excellent research organisation and as an innovate communative organisation, creating an open forum where the public can participate in our work, through dialog and reflect upon the meaning and value of nature. Thereby we aim to fulfill the museum’s mission: Discovering and describing life and earth – with people, through dialog.

THE MUSEUM FÜR NATURKUNDE AS A RESEARCH MUSEUM The Museum für Naturkunde is one of the most popular museums in Berlin. Since the new permanent exhibition opened in 2007 the museum has attracted on average 500,000 visitors per year, making it the most visited natural history museum in Germany in 2011. Yet, the Museum für Naturkunde is also one of the world’s largest and most comprehensive research museums, housing a vast collection of around thirty million natural objects as part of an invaluable global scientific infrastructure. Many visitors have no idea that only a comparatively small proportion of the building is open to the public, neither do they realize that beyond the

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exhibition spaces are numerous collection rooms and modern research laboratories. While the exhibition follows didactic principles by educating visitors about scientific discoveries and chronicling the history of research, behind the scenes there is a maze of corridors with countless rows of sparsely labelled cabinets and shelves. Anyone who ventures here should have a precise idea of what he is looking for and why. In contrast to the exhibition, specimens kept in drawers, whether bird skins, pinned insects, rock samples, or fossils, must above all be logically arranged and stored in a space-saving and dust-free environment, while the manner of display is comparatively unimportant. Even though there is no obvious explanation attached to these objects, researchers decipher their secrets through detailed examination, aided by supplemental contextual information provided on labels, catalogues, and index cards, invaluable tips from curators and conservators, and by means of additional research in the museum’s historical archives. Here, behind the scences, lies the core of the research museum. The collections embrace everything from mosquito specimens to elephant hides, amber inclusions to dinosaur bones, dust samples to meteorites, as well as audio tapes, 19th century diaries, tissue samples, and much more. The total of thirty million objects include fifteen million insects (including six million beetles), seven million molluscs, 200,000 birds, three million fossils, 350,000 rocks and minerals, and 120,000 sound recordings and media. Each object is unique. Depending on object characteristics, there are many different ways to store these specimens: preserved in alcohol, dried and kept in cabinets, pinned on needles or put in vials and stored in freezers. Looking after them requires specific expertise and careful handling. Collected during the course of a quest to discover, appropriate, and understand the world that has been ongoing for over 250 years, these objects comprise not only an invaluable global scientific infrastructure for studying biodiversity, evolution, and the geological impact of natural disasters, but also provide a vital resource for the history and culture of science. The context of the specimen and how it is presented determines its status, whether as a research specimen, as a visual aid or model organism for teaching purposes, or as an exhibit, whereby displays can regarded as works of art. RESEARCH SPECIMEN AND EXHIBITION PIECE Both the collections and the museum’s architecture reflect major historical changes over the years concerning ideas about collecting, researching, and exhibiting. The building’s interior design features imposing doorways and generously proportioned high-ceiling rooms on every floor, testifying to an idea for a museum that never actually came to fruition. In keeping with traditional museum concepts, no distinction was made between exhibitions and collections. But when the museum first opened its doors in 1889, the public was only permitted to access the ground floor. The decision to divide the collection into one section for display and anoth-

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er solely for research was made only while the building was being constructed. The separation of exhibition and collections was a ground-breaking development that greatly influenced other museums within the German Empire.1 One reason for separating the two collections was the growing level of professionalism and differentiation in the natural sciences. Preparing and preserving specimens for research provided not only a practical means of storage in terms of logistics and conservation, but also an optimal method for conducting morphological measurements, colour comparisons, and histological examinations and crosssections. The resulting collections grew rapidly to include series of animal skins, specimens preserved in alcohol, conserved genitalia, and series of cross-sections. Yet by contrast with the lifelike preserved models, dioramas, and mounted exhibits, these collections were neither easy to exhibit nor self-explanatory, and were thus less suitable for public display. The museum continues to confront this challenge, for whenever new issues and topics of research emerge, new strategies for collecting are developed and new types of collection ensue. The most recent examples include collections of digital objects, and minute tissue samples, serving as a basis for molecular studies. Displaying these samples poses an enormous technical challenge, for they must be preserved in a buffer solution and frozen or stored in liquid nitrogen. If exhibited, visitors gain very little from simply looking at them, thus necessitating elaborate explanations. The scientific value of an object results from a combination of inherent qualities such as its shape, colour, measurements, genetic and chemical characteristics, and the wider context relating to its collection. The most important reference for an object is its accompanying label, which ideally gives a precise account of its history, enabling it to be categorized chronologically and geographically, and placing the collector, client, and conditions within a cultural and historical context. In addition, every object accumulates new knowledge over time, and this is noted down on the label, documented in archives, recorded in databases, or presented in exhibitions and published. Each supplementary piece of knowledge increases the value of this specimen. Objects are particularly valuable to science when they are used to describe new species (type specimens) or when they demonstrate significant transitions in an organism’s evolution, such as the primitive bird, Archaeopteryx, and the holotype specimen of Panderichthys, the ‘evolutionary link’ between fish and tetrapods. Moreover, the value of a specimen can be increased by scientific discoveries. For instance, finding the ‘walking cactus’ (Diania cactiformis), a 520 millionyear-old fossil from China gave insight to the ancestors of today’s insects, spiders, crustaceans, and millipedes, and solved the mystery of the origins of the world’s most species rich animal group, the arthropods.2 Specimens of extinct creatures 1

2

Detailed description taken from Susanne Köstering, Natur zum Anschauen: Das Naturkundemuseum des deutschen Kaiserreichs, 1871–1914 (Köln/Weimar/Wien: Böhlau, 2003), pp. 43–73. Jianni Liu et al., ‘An armoured Cambrian lobopodian from China with arthropod-like appendages’, Nature, 470 (2011), pp. 526–30.

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and objects that are exclusively found in the Berlin collection (or where few examples exist elsewhere) are rare, and hence significant in every respect. This category includes the Brachiosaurus brancai, which is the largest mounted dinosaur skeleton in the world, and the sole existing skin of a cherry-throated tanager Nemosia rourei. This species of starling, with its bright red throat, was long thought to have been lost, and today exists only in a tiny area of Espírito Santo in Brazil.

Fig. 1: Brachiosaurus brancai The dinosaur room at the Museum für Naturkunde Berlin with Brachiosaurus brancai, the largest mounted dinosaur skeleton in the world. Photo: Museum für Naturkunde Berlin, 2008.

Whilst these exceptional specimens were once used to draw visitors into the museum, security is the primary consideration nowadays. The Archaeopteryx, for example, can now be viewed only in a separate room in a specially reinforced display case. Although exhibits in the museum are generally also scientific specimens, their main function is to awaken interest in biodiversity and correlations in the natural sciences. In many cases, the real value of preserved models is their lifelike reconstruction of living animals; while based on scientific insights, their function is ultimately to be looked at. These other exhibits illustrate not only the interrelationships and principles governing natural and geological history, but also unanswered questions. All this must be communicated in an appealing and comprehensible manner. As visitors make their way, they find out about biodiversity, evolution, adaptation, geological processes, and how preservation techniques have developed over the years.

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Fig. 2: Biodiversity Wall. The Biodiversity Wall presents specimens of approx. 3,000 different species. Photo: Museum für Naturkunde Berlin, 2008.

THE MUSEUM FÜR NATURKUNDE – A BRIDGE BETWEEN SCIENCE AND THE PUBLIC Another reason for the physical separation of exhibition spaces and research collections was the enormous growth in collections during the nineteenth century. From a modern perspective, this division between producing and consuming knowledge, between an academic world and one inhabited by amateur researchers and interested visitors, seems to be a matter for discussion or even outdated, particularly since many of the natural sciences, were (and are) underpinned by committed ‘professional amateurs’ and private individuals. The relationship between science, research, and the general public has been in a state of flux, with the boundaries becoming ever more permeable. With a history stretching over two centuries, the Museum für Naturkunde sees itself as a protagonist in the sphere of science education that focuses on the different ways in which original objects from the collections have been presented over time. This is something that can be experienced in the east wing of the museum, which opened in 2010 to a great deal of controversy. This section of the building was completely destroyed during World War II, and reconstructed between 2007 and 2010 as one of the world’s most modern facilities for wet-preserved specimens. On the ground floor, visitors gain an impression of the museum’s extensive research collection of 276,000 glass jars, containing over a million specimens in alcohol solution, spread over twelve kilometres of shelving through an aesthetically stunning glass-walled installation with special lighting effects. With the oldest preserved specimens from the eighteenth century, this collection is particularly valuable for natural history and as a historical source. The collection is visible to visitors, and continues to be used by staff and visiting scholars. The new exhibition space brings together some of the most important functions of a modern natural history museum: it is an archive for research into natural and cultural history, a transparent research site, a collection depot that meets the highest technical standards, and a place where biodiversity can be seen. However, the sheer visual impact of the space, combined with the absence of accompanying explanations, has

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triggered criticism that the educational value of such an ‘artistic’ installation is actually rather limited. In the face of global challenges such as climate change, the loss of biodiversity, conservation of natural resources and their distribution in an equitable manner, the Museum für Naturkunde recognizes that its expertise obliges it to assume scientific and socio-political responsibility for dealing with these concerns. Building on its achievements in research and scientific dialogue, the museum therefore plays an active role in shaping scientific and social debate. The principal focus is no longer on communicating scientific findings and making information available, but rather on understanding science as an unending research process that thrives on dialogue and exchange. Today, the museum is about making knowledge democratic. Success for the Museum für Naturkunde means filling people with enthusiasm for nature, encouraging them to make well-founded decisions, stimulating their curiosity for learning, and involving them actively in science and scientific debates.3 Over and above the traditional functions of researching, collecting, exhibiting, and educating, it seeks to identify local spheres of activity and to initiate a forum for current issues regarding the environment. This is also reflected by the museum’s mission: Discovering and describing life and earth – with people, through dialog. COLLECTIONS THROUGH THE AGES Until the end of the eighteenth century, natural history collections were often described in terms of ‘rarities’ and ‘curiosities’. The dramatic increase in scientific research and collecting expeditions to the most far-flung regions of the Earth also stemmed from the desire to achieve a ‘complete’ collection, a factor that inspired Heinrich Lichtenstein, the first director of Berlin’s zoological museum, which was then part of the city’s university (later known as Humboldt-University). A widespread exchange network was established in which duplicated items from the museum’s collecting expeditions were sold on to trading partners in Europe and the USA to finance further journeys or exchanged for other objects as a way of completing the museum’s collection. Today, it is still possible to find items from these collecting expeditions throughout European natural history museums, and the major institutions in Berlin, Leiden, Paris, and Vienna have always enjoyed particularly close links. During the late nineteenth century, the nature of collections changed under the influence of the emerging sciences of evolution, biogeography and ecology and the variability of characteristics as a new field of research: the age of the series had dawned. Facilitated by colonialism, which made it possible to access other continents and distant regions, scientific expeditions were spurred by international and national competition to secure spectacular or scientifically valuable finds. 3

Esther Turnhout et al., ‘Conservation policy: Listen to the voices of experience’, Nature, 488 (2012), pp. 454–5; doi:10.1038/488454a.

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Series of specimens of a particular species, collected from the same location, formed a basis for researching and describing differences in the sex and age of species, as well as the variability of morphological characteristics such as size, shape, and colour patterns. The aim was to secure a complete understanding of biodiversity on Earth and to clarify how individual species are related, as reflected in the scientific branches of taxonomy (classifying organisms), systematics (the relationships between living forms), and phylogeny (the evolution of species). In addition to these tasks, today’s researchers are also faced with social and political challenges – including natural resources and food security, the spread of disease, and the effects of climatic change on biodiversity – and it is vitally important that natural science collections are up to the task.4 In recent decades, new technologies and methods such as statistical and genetic analysis, not to mention a whole series of conditions governing ethics and the protection of species, have fundamentally changed the nature of collecting. There are now strict guidelines regulating the killing of animals, excavations of any kind, and the collecting of specimens; anyone wishing to carry out these activities must provide detailed reasons and follow strict procedures. As a consequence, expanding a collection – with the exception of accidental finds and purchases – has now become a more purposeful pursuit, often limited to specific subjects and specimen groups. Nowadays, the collection of the Museum für Naturkunde is part of a dispersed international scientific infrastructure that is linked by research projects, exhibitions, and of course by the shared desire among the institutions’ directors and scientists that these collections be maintained, utilized, displayed, and augmented. LOOKING BACK THROUGH HISTORY The museum’s history begins with the foundation of Berlin’s university in 1810. In order to promote research and teaching, the natural history collections of the Königlich-Preussische Akademie der Wissenschaften (Royal Prussian Academy of Sciences) and the Königliche Kunstkammer (Royal Cabinet of Art) were merged with private collections in the converted Prinz-Heinrich-Palais on the main avenue of Unter den Linden. Both wings of the university building, which still houses what is now the Humboldt-Universität, contained the anatomical and zootomical museum, the mineralogical museum, and the zoological museum spread over two storeys. The zoological collection was modelled on the Musée national d’histoire naturelle in Paris, the leading research and teaching institution of the time.5 One 4

5

The contribution made by natural science collections to social issues is discussed in e.g. Andrew V. Suarez & Neil D. Tsutsui, ‘The Value of Museum Collections for Research and Society’, BioScience, 54 (1) (2004), pp. 66–74, and Kevin Winker, ‘Natural History Museums in a Postbiodiversity Era’, BioScience, 54 (5) (2004), pp. 455–9. Ferdinand Damaschun & Hannelore Landsberg, ‚‚…so blieben dem materiell Gesammelten und geographisch Geordneten fast allein ein langdauernder Werth‘ – 200 Jahre Museum für

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private individuals whose collection formed part of the zoological museum’s original inventory was Marcus Elieser Bloch (1723–99), a doctor from Berlin, who specialized in studying fish and became one of the most important ichthyologists of the era. From 1778, Bloch assembled with the assistance of amateur natural historians and collectors one of the world’s largest scientific fish collections, which remained today among the oldest and most valuable of its kind.6 Although the university’s holdings existed primarily for research and teaching, limited public access was granted from the start. When anatomist and director of the anatomical and zootomical museum Karl Asmund Rudolphi penned the first rules for admission in 1810–11, he granted access not only to members of the upper social strata, but also to “cleanly attired persons of the lower orders”. Women, however, were excluded from the collections on the grounds that they would find them “in some part shocking and of little interest”. Only midwives who sought to enhance their vocational training were exempt from this ban.7 Even so, many took the opportunity of visiting the university collections – so much so that in 1875 the university was compelled to close the museum to the public “on account of the great hordes of spectators”.8 While Christian Samuel Weiss, first director of the mineralogical museum, was highly sceptical of visitors and feared theft and disorder, the zoological museum, which opened in 1814, followed a pedagogical programme aimed at a broader public, with preserved specimens that were presented, classified, and painstakingly labelled. Heinrich Lichtenstein, who headed the institution until 1857, described his methodology as teaching by direct observation. The large animal specimens, such as deer, lions, bears, and zebras, were evidence of value placed on exhibiting. The museum opened to the public only two hours on two days per week, and visitor numbers were restricted. Prospective visitors were first required to apply in writing, and generally had to be recommended by someone already known to the museum. These factors achieve the intended effect of limiting the flow of guests. Attendance, nevertheless, was high and continued to rise. Given that Berlin’s zoo was not established until 1844, rarities such as a stuffed camel might well have proved appealing. Thanks to purchases, donations, and collecting expeditions – the latter mainly conducted in the wake of Alexander von Humboldt’s journey to South America between 1799 and 1804 – the university collections grew rapidly. State subsidies, international scientific networks, and improved transport led to a research boom,

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7

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Naturkunde Berlin‘, in: Ferdinand Damaschun et al. (eds.), Klasse, Ordnung, Art: 200 Jahre Museum für Naturkunde (Rangsdorf: Basilisken-Presse, 2010), pp. 13–22. Hans-Joachim Paepke, ‚Ein jüdischer Untertan des Preußenkönigs Friedrich II. studiert die Fischfauna der Welt‘, in: Ferdinand Damaschun et al. (eds.), Klasse, Ordnung, Art: 200 Jahre Museum für Naturkunde (Rangsdorf: Basilisken-Presse, 2010), pp. 84–7. Karl A. Rudolphi, ‚Befohlenes Gutachten des Rudolphi zum Reglementsentwurf und den motivierenden Anmerkungen des Hoffmannsegg v. 28.9.1810‘, and ‚Reglement für das anatomische Museum v. 8 Feb. 1811‘, quoted in Torsten Werner, Das Anatomisch-Zootomische Museum unter Karl Asmund Rudolphi als Lehr- und Forschungsinstitution, 1810–1832 (Berlin, 2012), p. 66, unpublished manuscript. Quoted in Köstering, Natur zum Anschauen, p. 61.

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and trained collectors, dispatched to distant lands considerably enhanced museum holdings. Prominent scholars such as Humboldt, who bequeathed his mineral collection to the university, and globetrotter Adelbert von Chamisso were first among numerous private individuals, landowners, and travelling collectors such as botanist Friedrich Sellow, who sent extensive natural history collections from Brazil to Berlin between 1817 and 1831. Lichtenstein’s successor at the zoological museum, Wilhelm Peters, maintained an entire network of amateur researchers in Germany and abroad who filled gaps in the collection.9 While this development was gratifying for the museum, it did lead to a shortage of space, and conflicts within the university, as the size of the collections impeded teaching. The tipping point came in 1869 when a walrus was discovered blocking the entrance to the auditorium, provoking such anger in the vice chancellor that the university asked the culture ministry to remove the collections. Four years later, a decision was made to construct a new building in Invalidenstraße, which ultimately opened in 1889 as the Museum für Naturkunde. The motivation for selecting a location that was off the beaten track was purely financial, for the site of the former royal ironworks had been made available free of charge. Neither the scientists’ desire to be situated near the university, nor the ease of accessibility was taken into account. During the 1880s the transfer of the natural history collections from the university to a new museum building brought the educational role of this institution clearly to the fore, even eclipsing research. Yet, establishing an “educational facility for the public” required restructuring. In the decade before the relationship between science and the public had led to bitter disagreements about the planned building and its purpose. For the first time in Germany, ideas stemming from the international museum reform movement were discussed and put into practice. THE MUSEUM FÜR NATURKUNDE – A KEY VENUE FOR MUSEUM REFORM One origin for the ‘New Museum Idea’ were the discussions surrounding the new institution being planned by the British Museum in London to house its natural history collections. In the 1850s, botanists and zoologists began demanding that display collections be separated from research collections, and zoologist John Edward Gray provided a summary of these ideas for museum reform in 1864. Closely linked with social reform movements, the New Museum Idea held that the function of a museum was not merely to collect and conduct research, but also to educate and instruct the public, particularly young people of the lower and middle 9

Köstering, Natur zum Anschauen, pp. 37–8; Damaschun & Landsberg, ‚…so blieben dem materiell Gesammelten‘, p. 14; Hannelore Landsberg, ‚Vom ‚Hottentottenarzt‘ zum Museums- und Zoodirektor – Hinrich Lichtenstein‘, in: Ferdinand Damaschun et al. (eds.), Klasse, Ordnung, Art: 200 Jahre Museum für Naturkunde (Rangsdorf: Basilisken-Presse, 2010), pp. 118–21.

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classes. Presenting a universal natural history to the public would require a new concept for the exhibition spaces that differed from those intended for research, with emphasis placed on selected, representative exhibits. August Tiede, the architect of Berlin’s Museum für Naturkunde, was drawn into this international museum debate, but his reformist architectural plans were successfully opposed by the culture ministry and the director of the Zoologisches Museum, Wilhelm Peters. Excluding the public from the collections in their entirety was out of the question, particularly given the important role of the public in expanding the collections. Peters ultimately triumphed, and the museum was constructed to resemble a large and accessible repository.10 Karl Möbius, who replaced Peters in 1887, reversed that decision, and implemented a museum reform programme that established separate exhibition spaces. As a teacher and biologist, Möbius took it for granted that there should always be an educational component to scientific work, and believed this should be made accessible to the public in an appropriate manner. To take an example, in the exhibition, bird specimens were mainly posed on twigs and branches, whereas bird skins were stored in drawers to save space and afford protection from light. When the Museum für Naturkunde opened in 1889, it comprised three institutions: a mineralogical museum, a geological and paleontological museum, and a zoological museum, each of which had its own exhibition spaces. A whale skeleton and large mammalian preserved specimens greeted visitors in the central atrium. The original display cases are still on show in the mineralogy room, giving an impression of what the nineteenth-century exhibition would have been like.11 It is currently possible to view the upper storeys of the building only during special events such as the Long Night of Museums. Today the Museum für Naturkunde intends to open the upper storeys for the first time, these renovations due to be completed by 2018. When visitors stroll through the museum’s exhibitions they are making a journey through time. An extension that was completed during World War I contains three large-scale dioramas dating from 1918 to 1925, presenting lifelike animal specimens in a landscaped setting designed by Berlin painter Viktor Stötzner-Lund. Dioramas, which were first devised for North American natural history museums, were highly popular with the public.12 In an age when few had the opportunity to travel, these showcases created the illusion of faraway lands. What makes dioramas interesting today is their nostalgic value as historical means of depicting nature. A little further along is one of the museum’s most beloved exhibits: Bobby, a gorilla who died in Berlin Zoo in 1935. This mounted speci10 11

12

Köstering, Natur zum Anschauen, pp. 43–73. Susanne Köstering, ‚Eine ‘Musteranstalt naturkundlicher Belehrung’ – Museumsreform im Berliner Naturkundemuseum 1810 bis 1910‘, in: Ferdinand Damaschun et al. (eds.), Klasse, Ordnung, Art: 200 Jahre Museum für Naturkunde (Rangsdorf: Basilisken-Presse, 2010), pp. 39–40. Hans-Jörg Rheinberger, ‚Eine kurze Geschichte des Museums für Naturkunde zu Berlin‘, in: Ulrich Moritz, Agnieszka Pufelska & Hanns Zischler (eds.), Vorstoß ins Innere (Berlin: Alpheus-Verlag, 2010), pp. 55–8.

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men utilized cutting-edge taxidermic techniques (Dermoplastik) and a high degree of artistic skills on the part of Karl Kaestner and Gerhard Schröder at the Museum für Naturkunde.13 Although Bobby is an impressively lifelike exhibit, he has no value in terms of scientific research but shows how the Museum für Naturkunde helps bring together the people of Berlin.

Fig. 3: Bobby. The taxidermists Karl Kästner and Gerhard Schröder in the process of preserving Bobby the gorilla in 1936. Photo: Museum für Naturkunde, HBSB: ZM, B III/1232.

The museum’s most iconic exhibit is its Brachiosaurus brancai, which, although it is the largest mounted dinosaur skeleton in the world, was not presented in the atrium until 1938. The bones were found during a research expedition to Tendaguru Hill in the colonial territory of German East Africa (now Tanzania) between 1909 and 1913. The expedition netted a total of 250 tonnes of dinosaur bones, generated over sixty publications, and was accompanied by the kind of media fanfare that was still celebrating the exploits as a national achievement in the Nazi era.14 By the late 1920s the first dinosaur skeletons were being displayed in the atrium, while the whale skeleton and large mammals were gradually re13

14

Jürgen Fiebig, ‚Basisarbeit für Forschung und Wissensvermittlung – Zur Präparation am Berliner Museum, gestern und heute‘, in: Ferdinand Damaschun et al. (eds.), Klasse, Ordnung, Art: 200 Jahre Museum für Naturkunde (Rangsdorf: Basilisken-Presse, 2010), pp. 49–59. Carsten Kretschmann, ‚Noch ein Nationaldenkmal? Die deutsche Tendaguru-Expedition 1909–1913‘, in: Stefanie Samida (ed.), Inszenierte Wissenschaft: Zur Popularisierung von Wissen im 19. Jahrhundert (Bielefeld: transcript-Verlag, 2011), pp. 194–5.

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moved to a covered inner courtyard that was destroyed, along with its exhibits, during World War II. COLLECTIONS AS CULTURAL ASSETS To date, few have studied the twentieth-century history of the Museum für Naturkunde and its collections, and a comprehensive, critical analysis of this politically turbulent era has yet to be carried out. In 2012, the research initiative PAN – Perspektiven auf Natur (Perspectives on Nature) – was established to promote and professionalize the process of critical self-reflection and develop the museum’s collections as historical cultural sources. PAN aims to investigate past and contemporary contexts of research and science education at the Museum, support artistic approaches to the collections and facilitate an interdisciplinary forum for thinking about the future of natural history museums in the twenty-first century. A dust sample that came to Berlin in the 1840s and was examined by the renowned micropaleontologist and microbiologist Christian Gottfried Ehrenberg (1795–1876), provides a perfect illustration of the cultural and historical value of natural history specimens, as well as how current research can lend these specimens relevance. Although seemingly nondescript, the dust sample is of exceptional importance, for it was collected by Charles Darwin from the sails of HMS Beagle during his 1831–36 expedition. Yet the fame of its collector is not the only reason for its outstanding value; the sample is also evidence of the thoughtful approach taken to observing nature in the nineteenth century. It represents Darwin’s precision, his meticulous preparations, and his focus on what otherwise might be thought unremarkable and banal. Against the backdrop of the increasingly vital issue of how dust influences the global spread of organisms, nutrients, and pathogens, the Beagle sample was reinvestigated in 2007 and a total of 1,832 living germs were found. New research methods made it possible to determine the climatic conditions at the moment when the sample was taken. Thus, Darwin’s dust not only has relevance to a wide range of issues in the natural sciences spanning a period of more than 150 years, but also provides an insight into the practice of natural histories research today. In respect, some objects belonging to the Museum für Naturkunde enable us to answer questions concerning the natural sciences, provide information about other countries, trade relations, transport routes and technical developments, as well as the goals of collectors, scientific and historical watersheds. They bear testament to the appropriation and vanquishing of nature, to the dominant concepts of the world and to epistemological approaches. With relation to collecting, these specimens function as exponents of earlier ways of thinking. Tracing these multiple dimensions and making them accessible to interdisciplinary research is one of the tasks of PAN.

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EXHIBITIONS: A WINDOW INTO SCIENCE Following several years of renovations, the museum’s new permanent exhibition opened in 2007 with four redesigned spaces, sited in meticulously restored nineteenth-century rooms. The guiding principle behind both permanent and temporary exhibitions is to be devised by teams of in-house staff, comprising scientists, exhibitions specialists, technical staff and others. Our exhibitions consistently focus on exhibits that illustrate a particular point. Explanatory texts and detailed information conveyed via a range of media make exhibits easily accessible without detracting from their effect.

Fig. 4: Specimens are systematically categorized, appropriately labelled, and the skins stored in dustproof cabinets to save space. Photo: Hwa-Ja Götz, Museum für Naturkunde Berlin, undated.

In addition, the museum seeks to publicize its own research achievements. In common with all major natural history museums, the institution’s dinosaur skeletons are prominently displayed – their age and size alone make them appealing. The Museum für Naturkunde’s exhibition concentrates on reconstructing the habitat around Tendaguru Hill, with reptiles, insects, crustaceans, fish, and ammonites from the same era – something that is possible only because the museum has comprehensively explored and evaluated the Tendaguru site. The “System Earth” exhibition area, too, is exemplary in the way it displays the museum’s own research, with an explanation of the dependency and mutual influence of biotic (those involving living organisms) and abiotic processes. Items from the geology, zoology, and paleontology collections are exhibited from the perspective of the museum’s current, collection-based research interests such as impact craters, spe-

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cies formation, and climate studies. One highlight of the museum is the aesthetically imposing biodiversity wall in the “Evolution in Action” exhibition, which illustrates the beauty and diversity of natural forms by bringing together preserved specimens and models of fauna. The fact that it reveals so much in such a condensed space may have been the reason why major political events dealing with biodiversity have chosen to use full-scale photographs of the wall to be used as background images, which in turn helps supporting the museum’s socio-political focus and its role as advocate in environmental protection.15 It would appear that the high visitor numbers are proof of how the Museum für Naturkunde has creatively transformed itself from a public educational institution in the late nineteenth century into an allround experience for the twenty-first century.16

Fig. 5: Wet collection. The wet collection for specimens preserved in alcohol was opened in 2010 in the East Wing of the Museum für Naturkunde Berlin. Photo: Carola Radke, Museum für Naturkunde Berlin, 2010.

THE MUSEUM FÜR NATURKUNDE 3.0 As an archive of life and of planet Earth the Museum für Naturkunde has to serve as a research organisation, a global scientific infrastructure and an innovative communications organisation. Our work has to serve current and future scientific and social needs. In order to address major global challenges, the Museum stresses academic networks and partnerships, locally, nationally and internationally. Research museums are ideally placed to carry out relevant, meaningful, worldclass research that draws upon their own collections, while also conducting dialogue with the public on the future of our planet. Being situated in major cites and 15

16

Ferdinand Damaschun & Uwe Moldrzyk, ‚Forschung kommunikativ – die neuen Ausstellungen des Museums für Naturkunde als Schnittstelle zur Forschung‘, Humboldt-Spektrum, 2 (2007), pp. 14–6. cf. Annette Noschka-Roos, ‚Bildung als Auftrag‘, in: Bernhard Graf & Volker Rodenkamp (eds.), Museen zwischen Qualität und Relevanz: Denkschrift zur Lage der Museen (Berlin: G & H Verlag, 2012), pp. 163–82.

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capitals and being both the public face of science and research is conducive to developing partnerships in the realms of science, industry, politics, and society. The Museum für Naturkunde intends to explore a number of social and scientific perspectives in greater depth and develop new participatory forms that promote cooperative research. The future of the Museum für Naturkunde depends upon furthering collectionbased research by addressing fundamental issues in geological and biological sciences, and by participating in major scientific and social issues such as climate change and biodiversity. The museum’s collections are part of a global scientific infrastructure, representing an important basis for interdisciplinary research. Not only the scope, but also the scientific and social standing of natural history museums is steadily increasing. As a member organization of the one of the major German research organisations, the Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz Association, Berlin’s Museum für Naturkunde is perfectly placed to evolve and prosper, and is ready to face future challenges with confidence. BIBLIOGRAPHY Damaschun, Ferdinand & Uwe Moldrzyk, ‚Forschung kommunikativ – die neuen Ausstellungen des Museums für Naturkunde als Schnittstelle zur Forschung‘, Humboldt-Spektrum – Schwerpunktheft zur Eröffnung der neuen Ausstellungen, 2 (2007), pp. 14–6. Damaschun, Ferdinand & Hannelore Landsberg, ‚‘…so blieben dem materiell Gesammelten und geographisch Geordneten fast allein ein langdauernder Werth’ – 200 Jahre Museum für Naturkunde Berlin‘, in: Ferdinand Damaschun et al. (eds.), Klasse, Ordnung, Art: 200 Jahre Museum für Naturkunde (Rangsdorf: Basilisken-Presse, 2010), pp. 13–22. Fiebig, Jürgen, ‚Basisarbeit für Forschung und Wissensvermittlung – Zur Präparation am Berliner Museum, gestern und heute‘, in: Ferdinand Damaschun et al., Klasse, Ordnung, Art: 200 Jahre Museum für Naturkunde (Rangsdorf: Basilisken-Presse, 2010), pp. 49–59. Köstering, Susanne, Natur zum Anschauen: Das Naturkundemuseum des deutschen Kaiserreichs 1871–1914 (Cologne/Weimar/Vienna: Böhlau, 2003). Köstering, Susanne, ‚Eine ‘Musteranstalt naturkundlicher Belehrung’ – Museumsreform im Berliner Naturkundemuseum 1810 bis 1910‘, in: Ferdinand Damaschun et al., Klasse, Ordnung, Art: 200 Jahre Museum für Naturkunde (Rangsdorf: Basilisken-Presse, 2010), pp. 37–45. Kretschmann, Carsten, ‚Noch ein Nationaldenkmal? Die deutsche Tendaguru-Expedition 1909– 1913‘, in: Stefanie Samida (ed.), Inszenierte Wissenschaft: Zur Popularisierung von Wissen im 19. Jahrhundert (Bielefeld: transcript-Verlag, 2011), pp. 191–209. Landsberg, Hannelore, ‚Vom ‘Hottentottenarzt’ zum Museums- und Zoodirektor – Hinrich Lichtenstein‘, in: Ferdinand Damaschun et al., Klasse, Ordnung, Art: 200 Jahre Museum für Naturkunde (Rangsdorf: Basilisken-Presse, 2010), pp. 118–21. Liu, Jianni, et al. (eds.), ‘An armoured Cambrian lobopodian from China with arthropod-like appendages’, Nature, 470 (2011), pp. 526–30. Noschka-Roos, Annette, ‚Bildung als Auftrag‘, in: Bernhard Graf & Volker Rodenkamp (eds.), Museen zwischen Qualität und Relevanz: Denkschrift zur Lage der Museen (Berlin: G+H Verlag, 2012), pp. 163–82. Paepke, Hans-Joachim, ‚Ein jüdischer Untertan des Preußenkönigs Friedrich II. studiert die Fischfauna der Welt‘, in: Ferdinand Damaschun et al., Klasse, Ordnung, Art: 2000 Jahre Museum für Naturkunde (Rangsdorf: Basilisken-Presse, 2010), pp. 84–7.

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Rheinberger, Hans-Jörg, ‚Eine kurze Geschichte des Museums für Naturkunde zu Berlin‘, in: Ulrich Moritz, Agnieszka Pufelska & Hanns Zischler (eds.), Vorstoß ins Innere (Berlin: Alpheus-Verlag, 2010), pp. 55–8. Rudolphi, Karl A., ‚Befohlenes Gutachten des Rudolphi zum Reglementsentwurf und den motivierenden Anmerkungen des Hoffmannsegg v. 28.9.1810‘ and ‚Reglement für das anatomische Museum v. 8 Feb.1811‘, in: Torsten Werner (ed.), Das Anatomisch-Zootomische Museum unter Karl Asmund Rudolphi als Lehr- und Forschungsinstitution, 1810–1832 (Berlin, 2012), unpublished manuscript. Suarez, Andrew V. & Neil D. Tsutsui, ‘The Value of Museum Collections for Research and Society’, BioScience, 54 (1) (2004), pp. 66–74. Turnhout, Esther et al., ‘Conservation policy: Listen to the voices of experience’, Nature, 488 (2012), pp. 454–5, doi:10.1038/488454a. Winker, Kevin, ‘Natural History Museums in a Postbiodiversity Era’, BioScience, 54 (5) (2004), pp. 455–9.

A UNIVERSITY MUSEUM, PAST AND PRESENT: INVENTING (AND RE-INVENTING) THE ASHMOLEAN MUSEUM AT THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD Arthur MacGregor While argument continues about its claims to be the earliest university museum in Europe – or indeed the earliest formally constituted and publicly accessible museum of any kind – the Ashmolean at Oxford is undoubtedly fortunate in having the earliest written programme for what was expected of it at its foundation in 1683 and how it should be administered.1 Here we may apprehend what the founder (and the university) envisaged the museum might achieve, and from our own vantage point we can judge how well or otherwise these ambitions were met. Over the centuries, the Ashmolean (Fig. 1) has had to reposition itself in order to accommodate new demands from the academic community and the public.2 In tracing these developments we may follow the evolution of the idea of the museums in general – at least from the perspective of one such institution. With Elias Ashmole’s gift to the university of the Tradescants’ collection of natural and man-made rarities, together with his own manuscripts, books, pictures, 1

2

There are, of course, other institutional claimants to this accolade, including Leiden (physic garden and anatomy theatre by the early 1600s) and Basel (where the Amerbach collection was displayed after the death of Basilius Amerbach in 1661). There were also important collections formed by professors which remained outside the control of their respective universities: Aldrovandi in Bologna and Worm in Copenhagen come to mind, as well as the slightly later but exceptionally interesting “Museum Cimbricum” of Johann Daniel Major in Kiel (1689), which had an ambitious educational programme as well as a high degree of public accessibility but which was dispersed by sale in 1698: see Cornelius Steckner, ‘Das Museum Cimbricum von 1698 und die cartesianische “Perfection des Gemuthes”: zur Museumswissenschaft des Kieler Universitätsprofessors Johann Daniel Major (1634–1693)’, in: Andreas Grote (ed.), Macrocosmos in Microcosmo: Die Welt in der Stube. Zur Geschichte des Sammelns 1450 bis 1800 (Opladen: Leske & Brudich, 1994), pp. 603–28; Stefan Kirschner, ‘Vom privaten Naturalienkabinett zur öffentliche Schausammlung: Johann Daniel Majors “Museum Cimbricum” (1689)’, in: Gudrun Wolfschmidt (ed.), Popularisierung der Naturwissenschaften (Berlin: GNT Verlag, 2002), pp. 65–77. Even within the University of Oxford, there were earlier collections within the Bodleian Library and the Anatomy School. The Ashmolean, however, appears to be the first institution to be conceived from the beginning as a museum with its own constitution, curatorial staff, and administrative machinery, all dedicated to the furtherance of its museological mission. The early history of the Ashmolean is traced in detail from its beginnings to 1894 in R. F. Ovenell, The Ashmolean Museum, 1683–1894 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986), and to the millennium in Arthur MacGregor, The Ashmolean Museum: A Brief History of the Institution and its Collections (Oxford: Ashmolean Museum, 2001).

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and coins and medals, the Ashmolean Museum was established with a collection that was in a sense already complete – or was, at least, a viable entity. Founded as a private cabinet which had been accessible to the fee-paying public since the early 1630s, the museum of the Tradescant family had already begun to be recognized as a useful resource by the time it passed to Ashmole, but his perception of its worth and its potential would stand it in an entirely new light.3

Fig. 1: The original Ashmolean Museum: the east front, engraved by Michael Burghers, 1685. From the University Almanack, 1895.

3

Arthur MacGregor, Tradescant’s Rarities. Essays on the Foundation of the Ashmolean Museum, 1683, with a Catalogue of the surviving early Collections (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983).

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Its anticipated role with Oxford University is alluded to in a letter from John Lloyd, the vice-chancellor of the day, to the naturalist Martin Lister, in which he charaacterizes Ashmole’s proposed foundation as a “new Library which may containe the most conspicuous parts of the Great Book of Nature, and rival the Bodleian Collection of MSS and printed volumes”.4 While the image is pleasing,5 it makes no acknowledgement of the unprecedented nature of the acquisition, for this would be the first time that Oxford University had formally resolved to acquire a body of physical specimens for use in university teaching and research, a role that hitherto had been dominated by the written word. Ashmole’s vision of the place that might be occupied by the collection is set out in the preamble to the Statutes, Orders & Rules which he drew up for the governance of the new institution: Because the knowledge of Nature is very necessarie to humaine life, health, & the conveniences thereof, and because that knowledge cannot be soe well & usefully attain’d, except the history of Nature be knowne & considered; and to this [end], is requisite the inspection of Particulars, especially those as are extraordinary in their Fabrick, or useful in Medicine, or applyed to Manufacture or Trade: I Elias Ashmole, out of my affection to this sort of Learning [...] have amass’d together great variety of naturall Concretes & Bodies, & bestowed them on the University of Oxford […].6

Here, Ashmole firmly aligns himself and his collection with the school of learning that in England is generally traced from Francis Bacon, and which is characterized by its emphasis on empirical observation – ‘the inspection of Particulars’. Oxford had seen a flowering of this kind of activity in the circle of scholars that gathered around John Wilkins in the 1650s and which in some sense adumbrated the formation of the Royal Society in London in 1660; the Ashmolean was to embody and to promote this kind of learning under the leadership of its first Keeper, Robert Plot, appointed also as Oxford’s first professor of chemistry.7 The integral status of the collection is made manifest by the position it occupied within the newly constituted Musæum Ashmoleanum, a tripartite institution in which the museum displays occupied the upper floor of the building, the ground floor was given over to the teaching of natural sciences, and the basement was occupied by a separately accessed chemistry laboratory – all under the unified direction of Plot. Also worth

4 5

6 7

Bodleian Library, MS Lister 35, fol. 94. The parallel programmes of the library and the museum, manifested famously in the classical prototype at Alexandria – see Roy MacLeod (ed.), The Library of Alexandria: Centre of Learning of the Ancient World (London: I.B. Tauris, 2000, 2002) – found expression in a number of early foundations in Europe. See A. MacGregor, Curiousity and Enlightenment: Collectors and Collections from the Sixteenth to the Nineteenth Century (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), pp. 35–6. Bodleian Library, MS Bodley 594, p. 111. This was only the third occasion when the essentially collegiate university had embarked on a corporate project, following the foundation of the Bodleian Library in 1602 and the Physic Garden in 1621.

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noting is that the museum collection was, from the beginning, open (for a sixpenny fee) to the public.8 To all intents and purposes, everything worked. Plot was well equipped not only to oversee the laboratory, but as the author of a much admired Natural History of Oxford-shire (1677) he was also eminently qualified to undertake the teaching of natural science.9 Some elements of the collection would undoubtedly have featured in his teaching and indeed were expanded in the process, though for others – especially the man-made curiosities – it is difficult to imagine that a role could have been found for them.10 In the museum, he and his assistant Edward Lhuyd busied themselves with drawing up a series of catalogues of the collection,11 not only for their own use but to facilitate the annual inspections to be undertaken by the Board of Visitors (as required by Ashmole’s statutes). There was even time for an element of research, resulting in the publication of a second volume by Plot, his Natural History of Stafford-shire (1686). By the time he died in 1692, Ashmole (who had remained in London throughout this period) would have had the gratification of knowing that his foundation had taken root and was flourishing. Already, however, cracks had begun to appear in the unified facade of learning presented by the Musæum. When Plot retired from his post, the professorship of chemistry was separated from the keepership of the Ashmolean.12 Although some later Keepers would continue to lecture in the laboratory, the initial integrity of the institution was fractured, a development that was to have far-reaching (and mostly negative) consequences for the collections, although the scientific departments would remain comparatively buoyant.13 A degree of ambivalence characterizes the regime of Edward Lhuyd, who succeeded to the keepership in 1691. Certainly, the laboratory (in which he had 8 9

10

11

12 13

The entrance fee remained in place until the eve of the Second World War. In addition to his professional duties, Plot was also instrumental in the running of the Oxford Philosophical Society, which corresponded with the Royal Society in London (of which he was a Fellow) and with the Dublin Philosophical Society. Arthur MacGregor, ‘“The inspection of particulars ... useful in medicine”: Materia Medica in the Curriculum at the seventeenth-century Ashmolean Museum’, in: Sabine Anagnostou, Florike Egmond & Christoph Friedrich (eds.), A Passion for Plants: Materia Medica and Botany in Scientific Networks from the 16th to 18th Centuries (Quellen und Studien zur Geschichte der Pharmazie, Vol. 95) (Stuttgart: Wissenschaftliche Verlagsgesellshaft, 2011), pp. 109–18. There were plans to publish these catalogues, but they failed to materialize. Transcriptions and translations of their (Latin) texts were finally published by Arthur MacGregor et al., Ashmolean Museum, Oxford. Manuscript Catalogues of the Early Museum Collections, 1683–1886 (Part I) (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2000), and Arthur MacGregor & Moira Hook, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford. Manuscript Catalogues of the Early Museum Collections, Part II: The Vice-Chancellor’s Consolidated Catalogue 1695 (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2006). The university had hoped that Ashmole would finance the new chair of chemistry, so maintaining the relationship, but no such help was forthcoming. For the scientific role of the Museum see A. V. Simcock, The Ashmolean Museum and Oxford Science, 1683–1983 (Oxford: Museum of the History of Science, 1984).

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worked since 1684 as Plot’s assistant) would have held little attraction for Lhuyd, one of the greatest scholars associated with the Ashmolean.14 With his interests in the nascent science of palaeontology, in natural history, antiquities and Celtic languages, Lhuyd was quintessentially a field worker who made his principal contributions in survey work away from Oxford – sometimes for years at a time. Lack of direct oversight of the museum undoubtedly led to a falling-off of curatorial standards during his keepership: Ashmole’s tightly-drawn regulations for its administration were by now largely honoured in the breach. In time, the university took steps to try to ensure Lhuyd’s more regular attendance, so that from an institutional point of view it might be tempting to view the turn of the eighteenth century as a period of stasis or even decline, but the truth of the matter is more complex. Lhuyd’s misfortune, it has been suggested,15 was that his life was cut short before he was able to synthesize the findings from his researches, a project that – despite his lengthy absences – he saw as essentially rooted in the museum.16 Indeed his first and most famous publication in palaeontology, the Lithophylacii Britannici ichnographia (1699) has been shown to be intimately connected with the collection of fossils that he deposited in the Ashmolean, even to the extent of the text being arranged according to the order of the specimens within its drawers.17 The five-year expedition on which he embarked, through the Celtic regions of the British Isles and Brittany, resulted in a much greater haul of twenty-two chests of materials being sent back to the museum, comprising not only specimens, but also notes, transcriptions, drawings and site-plans, all of which were to form the basis of a projected multi-volume publication with the title Archæologia Britannica. In the event, only the volume dealing with linguistic matters was published, but for a time towards the end of Lhuyd’s lifetime, the Ashmolean became the home of an industrious team of scholars intent on giving form to his research. The death of their leader at the age of forty-nine in 1709, and the subsequent sale by the university of his papers in an attempt to recover his debts, not only robbed the world of what would have been one of the great monuments of Enlightenment scholarship, but also denied Lhuyd and the Ashmolean a permanent reputation far beyond that which they enjoy today. Instead, the years following Lhuyd’s demise were marked by a period of routine, in which the public at large continued to enjoy the museum. Zacharias Con14

15 16

17

No less a person than Hans Sloane, Secretary (and soon to be President) of the Royal Society, judged Lhuyd “the best naturalist now in Europe”: Frank V. Emery, ‘“The Best Naturalist now in Europe”: Edward Lhuyd, F.R.S. (1660–1709)’, Transactions of the Honourable Society of Cymmrodorion, (1969), pp. 54–69. Arthur MacGregor, ‘Edward Lhuyd, museum keeper’, Welsh History Review, 25 (2010), pp. 51–74. On one occasion, he wrote to Martin Lister, “I have no thought of resigning my place [at the museum] on any terms, and probably shall never doe it; being I think as well satisfyd with it, as I could be had I ten thousand [pounds] a year”: Bodleian Library, MS Lister 36, fol. 148. Marcus Hellyer, ‘The Pocket Museum: Edward Lhwyd’s Lithophylacium’, Archives of Natural History, 23 (1966), pp. 43–60.

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rad von Uffenbach’s well-known description of 1710 paints a picture of buoyant animation (which by no means met with his approval), with ordinary country folk in town for market day taking the opportunity to visit.18 The account books recording visitors and fees tell a similar story, with scholars, ladies and noblemen alternating with “country-people” and bargees from the river. (Even Peter the Great came to visit during Lhuyd’s time – or rather, during one of his absences – though the official records failed to capture the occasion19). Something of a renaissance took place under John Whiteside (1714–29), when improvements were made to the displays and the Keeper lectured regularly to the course in experimental philosophy. In 1731 the university came close to appointing James Bradley, Oxford’s professor of astronomy, to the keepership of the museum, a move that might have brought the institution back into the mainstream of science with far-reaching consequences, but in the event, the moment passed. The institution continued to decline, a process confirmed by the appointment of George Huddesford, the head of one of the colleges, to what by now had become a ‘perfect Sine-Cure’, in which ‘nothing is to be done by the Keeper for the honour of Learning unless he have a strange inclination to Learning, and will follow it himself at his own natural Genius.

Within the space of half a century, the Ashmolean had gone from being a cuttingedge centre of science to a fragmented institution in which chemistry and natural science went their separate ways, while the museum degenerated into a repository with which few cared to be associated. Potential contributors of the calibre of Sloane turned away from the moribund museum which, in the words of the antiquary Richard Gough, lay in the utmost confusion. Lhwyd’s fossils were tumbled out of their papers, and nobody regarded or understood them till his catalogue of them was republished by Mr [William] Huddesford […] son of Dr [George] Huddesford.

The twenty-three-year-old William Huddesford, appointed to the keepership in 1755 in a final act of nepotism by his father, and potentially the final nail in the museum’s coffin, proved to be everything that his parent was not. Modest and industrious by nature, William was imbued with a strong sense of the history already attached to the museum and its collections, and was determined to do what he could to honour those who had gone before him.20 The catalogues specified by Ashmole, and drawn up initially by Plot and Lhuyd, were now transcribed and brought up to date, while the neglected collection was restored to good order. By the end of his first year in office, a correspondent can be found writing to him: 18 19 20

William Henry Quarrell & William James Chance Quarrell, Oxford in 1710 from the Travels of Zacharias Conrad von Uffenbach (Oxford: Blackwell, 1928), p. 31. Arthur MacGregor, ‘The Tsar in England: Peter the Great’s Visit to London in 1698’, The Seventeenth Century, 19 (2004), pp. 116–47. Arthur MacGregor, ‘William Huddesford (1732–1772): his Role in reanimating the Ashmolean Museum, his Collections, Researches and Support Network’, Archives of Natural History, 34 (2007), pp. 47–68.

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I cannot help expressing the Pleasure I have in hearing that you earnestly apply yourself to the Digesting into some order the confus’d heap of natural Bodies which are under your care in the Musaeum […] Tis the only means by which it can increase and become an honour to the University, instead of being the contempt of Strangers.

Huddesford was happy to seek the advice of his older and more experienced contemporaries from outside the museum world, amongst whom was William Borlase, author of much-respected volumes on the Antiquities of Cornwall (1754) and the Natural History of Cornwall (1758): Borlase wrote that he was‘[…] entirely of the opinion that you should classify all the Fossil, Vegetable and Animal curiosities in the manner of Linnaeus’– advice that Huddesford evidently took to heart, for a few years later we find him contemplating a project (never fully realized) to produce a “History of the Foundation of the Museum […] and a Catalogue of its chief treasures digested according to the Linnaean system”, towards which he had “try’d part of the Animal Kingdom and found it possible”.21 With the appointment of this exemplary curator, the Ashmolean found itself not only restored to good order but operating according to the most advanced principles of the day.22 However, there is no evidence to suggest a revival at this period of a role for the collection within the teaching schools of the university; on the contrary, it seems to exhibit a sense of distance from the faculties that would prove greatly to its disadvantage in the following century. It will be apparent that university museums are only as good or as creative as the people who run them, and so it was that, following Huddesford’s premature death in 1772, the Ashmolean slipped into a further period of decline. In retrospect, the most striking acquisition in the following decades was the gift in 1776 from Johann Reinhold Forster and his son George of a considerable ethnographic collection, gathered during Captain James Cook’s second voyage to the South Seas. Significantly, only one account can be found of its display in Oxford (from a Danish visitor in 1777), when it seems to have been displayed in the School of Natural History. Otherwise, there is every indication that it was packed away out of sight. It would take the appointment of another family pair – brothers this time – to galvanize the museum into a new and somewhat unexpected direction. John Shute Duncan, Keeper 1823–29, and his brother Philip Bury Duncan, 1829–54, displayed such an identity of purpose that they may easily be considered together. When John Duncan took over the keepership he found “the skins of the animals collected by the Tradescants had fallen into total decay, that cabinets for those objects that were liable to injury from time were wholly wanting, and that the apartment dedicated to the exhibition of them had become much dilapidated.”

21 22

Arthur MacGregor, ‘The Ashmolean as a Museum of Natural History, 1683–1860’, Journal of the History of Collections, 13 (2001), pp. 125–44. It is noteworthy that these moves came within a decade of the appointment in 1763 of Daniel Solander, one of Linnaeus’s ‘disciples’, to the British Museum, with a mandate to perform a similar function there.

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By 1826, he had prepared a 51-page Introduction to the Catalogue of the Ashmolean Museum in which he presented in tabular form a number of taxonomic systems, including his own – the latter presumably reflecting the arrangement he contemplated; he remained, however, commendably open to persuasion, concluding with a statement that “This arrangement is experimental [...] Remarks of Naturalists who may visit the Museum will be thankfully received. A book to receive such remarks will be produced when required.” Two features of the new displays are worthy of note. Most striking is their programme, driven not primarily by taxonomic considerations but by an ambition to display ‘evidences’ of the work of the Creator through the natural world. This theme had surfaced periodically in the works of naturalists since the seventeenth century, but had gained in momentum with the teachings of William Paley, and especially with his Natural Theology of 1802.23 Now the Ashmolean found itself housing the most remarkable exposition of the tenets of this movement:24 Although there are no records of public (or indeed academic) response to this development, the display would survive with little or no alteration through the regimes of both Duncan brothers. Indeed, the principles it expounded would underpin the initial programme of its successor institution in the field of natural history – the Natural Science Museum (today, the University Museum of Natural History), founded in 1860.25 It fell to Philip Duncan to carry the publication plans of his brother to completion; the Catalogue of the Ashmolean Museum he produced in 1836 would be the first inventory brought into print. The frontispiece (Fig. 2) is instructive in showing not only the character of the museum, but also the fact that it had by now expanded into the ground-floor room that formerly held the School of Natural History. While this might seem to represent an advance in the fortunes of the collections, it should be noted that it became possible only because the university’s first Reader in Mineralogy, William Buckland, had decamped from the building, taking with him the geological and palaeontological specimens in a move that signalled the first stage in the specialization of once-unified collections, a process that would gather momentum in the coming decades.

23

24

25

Paley was well regarded by the community of naturalists: Charles Darwin wrote of his university years at Cambridge that “The careful study of these works [Paley’s Evidences of Christianity and Natural Theology] [...] was the only part of the Academical Course which [...] was of the least use to me in the education of my mind”, so that the Duncan brothers’ regime should not be seen as representing an abandonment of natural for moral philosophy. Arthur MacGregor and Abigail Headon, ‘Reinventing the Ashmolean: Natural History and Natural Theology at Oxford in the 1820s to 1850s’, Archives of Natural History, 27 (3) (2000), pp. 369–406. See the chapter, ‘Nature as Creation’, in Carla Yanni, Nature’s Museums: Victorian Science and the Architecture of Display (London: Athlone Press, 1999), pp. 62–99. The precepts of the Duncan brothers were in tune with their naturalist contemporaries in the University. It seems entirely likely that the Ashmolean collections would have been resorted to for the moral lessons they conveyed, if not for the illustration of more strictly taxonomic themes.

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Fig. 2: The ground-floor gallery of the original Ashmolean (formerly the School of Natural History) in 1834. Title-page illustration from A Catalogue of the Ashmolean Museum, 1836.

A more positive straw in the wind at this time was the arrival in 1829 of an extensive collection of Anglo-Saxon antiquities, excavated in Kent in the previous century by the Revd James Douglas, and now presented (still largely in its original grave-groups) by Sir Richard Colt Hoare. Not only was this the first time that a coherent body of archaeological material had entered the Ashmolean but it was also the first such acquisition of ‘national antiquities’ by any museum in England, and a portent of the direction that institutional collections of antiquities would follow. Before it would emerge as a centre of archaeological excellence, however, the Ashmolean would have to go through further upheavals and for a time would face the prospect of total extinction. In the mid-nineteenth century, Oxford’s scientific landscape was changed by developments within the University that led to the introduction of degree courses in the natural sciences and to the establishment of what is now the University Museum of Natural History – a much larger institution than the old Ashmolean, with a whole suite of associated lecture-rooms, laboratories and offices housing no fewer than ten departments specializing in Astronomy, Geometry, Experimental Physics, Chemistry, Mineralogy, Geology, Zoology, Anatomy, Physiology and Medicine. The specimens first exhibited in the new building were drawn largely

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from the natural history collections of the Ashmolean – some of them (the minerals and fossils) already removed by the professor of mineralogy, while others, including the zoological specimens, were transferred following completion of the University Museum in 1860. The new foundation represented an enormous advance in the role played by museum collections within the university (perhaps a renewed expression of the aims set out by Ashmole in the seventeenth century). A seal was symbolically set on its importance when the University Museum hosted the famous meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science in 1862, at which Darwin’s recently published work On the Origin of Species was hotly debated in a passionate exchange of conflicting views, widely reported in the national press, which put the University Museum at the forefront of public consciousness. These developments had an entirely negative impact, however, on the Ashmolean. Denuded of many of its most significant objects, the future of the museum hung in the balance. The numismatic collections of the Ashmolean had been lost to the Bodleian Library in 1858, along with the manuscripts and books that had formed a major part of Ashmole’s gift, and which had been added to in the interim. The remaining antiquities and curiosities were also offered to the Bodleian at this time, and only their rejection by the curators of the library saved the museum from being utterly extinguished. All remained uncertain until the appointment in 1870 of John Henry Parker, already advanced in years and given to wintering in Rome rather than Oxford, but crucially of a different stamp to his predecessors, being an architectural historian and an antiquary by inclination. Further groups of Anglo-Saxon finds arrived in the museum during the 1850s and 1860s (Fig. 3), while the collections of Greek, Roman, Egyptian and Near Eastern antiquities also began to swell, particularly under the efforts of the Revd Greville Chester, an inveterate traveller in the eastern Mediterranean, who occasionally bought on behalf of the museum and at times presented his purchases as gifts. By the time of his death in 1884, Parker had already gone some way to forging a new role for the Ashmolean, a movement recognized more widely with the signing of a proposal by 132 senior members of the university in 1878 that a museum dedicated to art and archaeology should be formed. This process was carried to completion, and the Ashmolean’s role in housing the proposed institution was secured, under Parker’s dynamic successor, the 34-year-old Arthur Evans, working in association with an important potential benefactor, the collector C. D. E. Fortnum. Within a few months of taking office, Evans submitted a plan to the university which held out the prospect of building on the core collection with the gift of Fortnum’s collection (principally Renaissance and classical antiquities) and by the centralization in the Ashmolean of all the antiquities already housed – inappropriately, as Evans contended – elsewhere within the university. In return, Evans proposed to relinquish all the ethnographic material that had accumulated in the Ashmolean over the centuries, to another institution just established by the university – the Pitt Rivers Museum, founded in 1884 as a gift from General A. H. L. F. Pitt Rivers. Evans backed up his campaign with a series of temporary

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loan exhibitions in the Ashmolean designed to show what the museum might aspire to become, drawing on Fortnum’s collections and on those of his own father, the antiquary and numismatist Sir John Evans.26 Such was the momentum gained by this movement that some 2,000 acquisitions a year were being made by the museum by the time the next phase in its development opened.

Fig. 3. The ground-floor gallery as shown in Fig. 2, now crowded with displays of antiquities, c. 1864. 26

For Fortnum, see B. Thomas & T. Wilson (eds.), ‘C. D. E. Fortnum and the Collecting and Study of Applied Arts and Sculpture in Victorian England’, special issue of Journal of the History of Collections, 11 (2) (1999), pp. 127–277. For Evans, see Arthur MacGregor (ed.), Sir John Evans 1823–1908. Antiquity, Commerce and Natural Science in the Age of Darwin (Oxford: Ashmolean Museum, 2008).

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By the late nineteenth century, the original premises of the Ashmolean were recognized as being inadequate to the task of housing the growing collection, and a solution was found in building new premises to the rear of another institution, the University Galleries, which housed paintings, sculptures and casts, and which had been completed in 1843 (Fig. 4). The new Ashmolean extension opened in 1894 and for some years the two interconnected institutions coexisted and to some degree complemented each other; indeed it came to be recognized that their interests were so intertwined that in 1908, they were amalgamated to form the Ashmolean Museum of Art and Archaeology – the kernel of the museum that exists today.27

Fig. 4: The University Galleries (the wing to the right occupied by the Taylor Institute), designed by C. R. Cockerell as illustrated in 1842, just before their formal opening.

The twentieth century saw a progressive rounding-out of the two founding departments. Fortnum’s collection, formally bequeathed to the university at his death in 1899, established at a stroke the applied art collection of the present-day Department of Western Art, expanded by further bequests to form a well-balanced complement to the picture collection in the University Galleries. From an early stage, the new museum also housed the Ruskin School of Drawing, providing a further interface for the painting and sculpture collections. The Ruskin School moved to new premises in 1975, but with the establishment of a separate degree

27

The former University Galleries formed the grand entrance and the principal galleries of the new institution, interconnecting with the more functional extension behind. The latter presmises have been demolished in the course of the Ashmolean’s recent redevelopment. The old Ashmolean building ceased to function as a museum until it re-opened as the Museum of the History of Science in 1924.

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course in the History of Art in 1955, the Department of Western Art became ever more closely embedded in the fabric of the university. In 1908, the Antiquities Department received a tremendous boost with the gift of Sir John Evans’s collection, through his son Arthur [soon to be Sir Arthur] Evans. The latter resigned at this point to devote more time to his excavations at Knossos (from which the collections would benefit considerably), while museum and other university staff involved in field-work in the Near East and in Cyprus greatly enhanced these areas. The study of Greek ceramics of the classical era developed under the influence of Sir John Beazley and his successor, Sir John Boardman; together with an extensive collection of classical casts, these resources made Oxford an internationally recognized centre of excellence in these fields. A similar situation developed in British studies: particularly noteworthy was the contribution of E. T. Leeds, who laid the foundations of Anglo-Saxon archaeology from within the museum,28 and for a time the Ashmolean (together with the university’s Archaeological Society) undertook most of the rescue archaeology carried out in the region on sites ranging from Bronze Age burials to early urban archaeology. Ultimately, the emergence of dedicated professional units overtook and displaced the museum from field-work of this kind, and curators became more involved in academic teaching. Two further departments emerged in the course of the twentieth century. The collections of coins and medals that had been lost to the Bodleian Library in the mid-nineteenth century were recovered in the 1920s, along with the Bodleian’s own collections, and were swelled further by contributions from several of the university’s colleges, to the point where they were constituted, first, as a specialist collection within the Antiquities department and then, in 1961, as an independent department. In addition to classical and European coinages from the Iron Age to recent times, the currencies of India and of the Islamic world are well represented. Within the past few years, the Keeper of the Coin Room has become also director of the University’s Winton Institute for Monetary History, established to promote the study of monetary and financial history within their broader social and historical context. A very different genesis was experienced by the Department of Eastern Art: a variety of oriental holdings within the Ashmolean had accumulated in the early decades of the twentieth century, to a point where, in 1946, they were amalgamated with the separate collections formed by university’s Indian Institute. Further expansion led to a project to construct a new museum to house these collections, but no new premises emerged, and with a continuing flow of acquisitions, the entire collection was re-incorporated into the Ashmolean on a permanent basis in 1961. The principal areas it surveys are China, Japan, India, and the world of Islam.

28

Arthur MacGregor, ‘E. T. Leeds and the Formulation of an Anglo-Saxon Archaeology of England’, in: Martin Henig & Tyler Jo Smith (eds.), Collectanea Antiqua. Essays in Memory of Sonia Chadwick Hawkes (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2007), pp. 27–44.

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With its curatorial spread now well established and responsive to the demands of the academic community (and with several curators holding lectureships or professorships within the University), the final structural change that overtook the Ashmolean in the latter years of the twentieth century was the emergence of an Education Department. During the first three centuries of its existence, the museum’s primary constituency was seen as the university; today, with funding tied to demonstrable public benefits, a great effort is made to meet the expectations of visitors – approaching one million at present – as well as the needs of those for whom the collections are essential for research. Within the last ten years, a major (£65 million) redevelopment initiative (Fig. 5) has provided opportunities for a complete re-thinking of the ways in which these needs can be addressed. In rationalizing displays to form a coherent whole, opportunities have been taken to move beyond disciplinary subdivisions that had evolved over the years, and to integrate collections under the rubric of “Crossing Cultures, Crossing Time”. While particular themes, periods and regions still form the focus of some displays, material drawn from across the collections now stresses cultural interconnections rather than academic specializations. These changes are designed to engage a wider, international public, with diverse expectations. These developments represent more than mere administrative reforms: they reflect the response of a major university museum to changing times. Change and adaptation have been permanent features of the Ashmolean’s history, and the coming years will surely make no fewer demands.

Fig. 5. Interior (atrium and staircase) of the redeveloped Ashmolean Museum, 2010.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY MacGregor, Arthur, Tradescant’s Rarities. Essays on the Foundation of the Ashmolean Museum, 1683, with a Catalogue of the surviving early Collections (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983). MacGregor, Arthur, The Ashmolean Museum: A Brief History of the Institution and its Collections (Oxford: Ashmolean Museum, 2001). MacGregor, Arthur, ‘The Ashmolean as a Museum of Natural History, 1683–1860’, Journal of the History of Collections, 13 (2001), pp. 125–44. Ovenell, Ronald Francis, The Ashmolean Museum, 1683–1894 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986). Simcock, A.V., The Ashmolean Museum and Oxford Science, 1683–1983 (Oxford: Museum of the History of Science, 1984). Thomas, Ben & Timothy Wilson (eds.), ‘C.D.E. Fortnum and the Collecting and Study of Applied Arts and Sculpture in Victorian England’, Journal of the History of Collections, 11 (2) (1999), pp. 127–277.

FORUM

CRAFTSMEN, MERCHANTS AND SCHOLARS: HIRING PRACTICES AT THE UNIVERSITIES OF LEIDEN AND EDINBURGH, 1575–1750 Aaron Mitchell & Gerhard Wiesenfeldt More than 70 years ago, Edgar Zilsel proposed that the origins of modern science were not confined to the European university and its scholars, but were as much a product of the forges and workshops of early modern craftsmen.1 Although less controversial than when it was first suggested, the idea that craftsmen may have been partly responsible for the formation of early modern science is still provoking discussion amongst historians of science. Zilsel argued that while the university scholars of the time were rational and well educated they would have been unable to create the methods of early science alone. This was due to their belief that physical work was connected with a lower social status and therefore beneath them, a view common throughout the upper classes of that era. As a result they avoided all manual work, which would have made employing an experimental approach impossible. He maintained that it were actually the craftsmen who had first begun to utilise an experimental method. These groups, the scholars and the craftsmen, had each possessed important skills necessary for the development of science, but a convergence of ideas was not possible while those social limits were still in place. Zilsel contended that at some stage near the beginning of the seventeenth century this all changed when “the social barrier between the two components of the scientific method broke down, and the methods of the superior craftsmen were adopted by academically trained scholars: real science was born”.2 Originally criticised and neglected for a long time, the Zilsel thesis was reinvigorated by Paolo Rossi in the 1960s3 and has since undergone a number of revisions and refinements. Several recent historians have added their own contributions, offering novel interpretations of the ways in which artisans may have been involved in the forming of science.4 Despite some variation, the numerous modern versions agree that it was the combined contributions of craftsmen and academics that led to 1 2 3 4

Edgar Zilsel, “Sociological Roots of Science,” American Journal of Sociology, 47 (1941), 544–562. Ibid., 553-4. Paolo Rossi, Philosophy, Technology and the Arts in the Early Modern Era (New York: Harper and Row, 1970). Examples include: Pamela H. Smith, The Body of the Artisan: Art and Experience in the Scientific Revolution, (London: The University of Chicago Press, 2004); Pamela O. Long, Artisan/ Practitioners and the Rise of the New Sciences: 1400 – 1600 (Corvallis: Oregon State University Press, 2011); Lissa Roberts, Simon Schaffer, and Peter Dear (eds.). The Mindful Hand:

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the creation of early modern science. A clear understanding of how this interaction took place is a goal worth pursuing. In her recent book Pamela O. Long has argued that the dichotomies often used when discussing this area of history – such as ‘scholar’ and ‘artisan’ – need to be treated carefully; the activities these men undertook often transcended the roles traditionally associated with these categories. The distinction between those groups became confused as “some artisans took up pens and began to write books, while some learned men began to take up artisanal practices”.5 Long contends that it was this blending of the scholar and the craftsman, as members of each group took on some elements of the other, which was integral to science’s development. The idea of a blending of craftsmen and scholars notwithstanding, Long agrees that the artisanal occupations with the study of nature were quite different from the natural philosophy studied at universities.6 This corresponds with the predominant view among historians of universities that not only the academic habitus was based on the distinction between liberal and mechanical arts and thus placed a strong barrier between those who debated in Latin and those that worked with their bare hands, but that these social distinctions between scholars and artisans were manifested in dress codes and other formal provisions.7 Historians of science working on the relationship between practitioners and academic scholars have frequently pointed to cases in which artisans have been excluded from scholarly institutions for their low social status or for failing to adhere to the proper academic habitus.8 There is no doubt that these instances of exclusion happened and that failing the finer points of proper academic appearance could be – and sometimes were – used to exclude the aspirations of practitioners wishing to be accepted as a scholar. However, that does not mean that these mechanisms were always used when men from practical or poor background attempted to become scholars, nor does it mean that their use when it happened was always successful. Isaac Newton became a professor of mathematics at Cambridge despite coming from a farmer’s family. The slightly less well known apothecary Jacob le Mort could become professor of chemistry at Leiden, although his academic credentials – including his ability to speak Latin – were publicly questioned by a rival.9 Why did some succeed whereas others failed? Contingencies such as the existence of rivals and enemies (or friends) will undoubtedly have played a role in many cases. Yet, the inclusion or exclusion of practitioners in early modern uni-

5 6 7 8 9

Inquiry and Invention from the Late Renaissance to Early Industrialisation (Amsterdam: Koninkliijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen, 2007). Long, Ibid., 7. Ibid., 61. Peter A. Vandermeersch, “Teachers,” in: Hilde de Ridde-Symoens (ed.), A History of Universities in Europe: Volume 2, Universities in Early Modern Europe (1500–1800). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996, pp. 210–255, here 249. E.g. Steven Shapin, “The invisible technician.” American scientist (1989): 554–563, William Eamon, Science and the secrets of nature: Books of secrets in medieval and early modern culture. Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1996. Gerhard Wiesenfeldt, Leerer Raum in Minervas Haus: Experimentelle Naturlehre an der Universität Leiden, 1675–1715. Amsterdam: KNAW, 2002, pp. 202–219.

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versities is to some extent also related to local settings, the structures of different universities and of their respective governing bodies. It has often been noted that early modern universities were treated as ‘closed shops’, in which “inbreeding and nepotism” were prevailing and made entry into academic ranks hard for any outsider.10 The historian Peter Moraw has coined the term “family university” to describe the relationships in which oligarchies of a few families possessed a strong hold over universities leading to professorships that were handed down over generations within a family.11 Sometimes family networks managed to control entire faculties.12 Modern historians tend to be critical of those circumstances, presumably because they do not conform to the modern ideal of awarding academic positions according to merit. It needs to be considered, however, that in the early modern era it would have been even more difficult to define what ‘merit’ constitutes than it does today since academic degrees themselves tended to be assertions of social rather than intellectual distinctions and publications could hardly be used as a measure for appointments as they were generally regarded not as a principle task of a university professors. In such a situation family structures could – and in the better cases did – provide some form of quality control. There are examples in which sons of professors destined for an academic career went through a form of apprenticeship with their fathers before they took over their duties and – after their parent’s demise – their professorship. Both Edinburgh and Leiden had examples for this kind of transition.13 In a sense, this model was the logical outcome of the transition of early modern scholars from members of monastic orders into family men.14 It aligned itself with other systems of knowledge transmissions existing at that time; to a large extent family relations had been at the heart of late medieval knowledge economies – be it in craft guilds or in the prebendary system of the clergy or other professional corporations.15 We do not want to claim here that early modern academia func10 11 12

13

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Peter A. Vandermeersch, “Teachers,” in: Hilde de Ridde-Symoens (ed.), A History of Universities in Europe: Volume 2, Universities in Early Modern Europe (1500–1800). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996, pp. 210–255, here 229. Peter Moraw, “Aspekte und Dimensionen älterer deutscher Universitätsgeschichte,” in: Gesammelte Beiträge zur deutschen und europäischen Universitätsgeschichte, (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 50. On the pertinent example of Copenhagen in which two families dominated three of the four faculties see: Ditlef Tamm, “Københavns Universitet 1621–1732,” in: Svend Ellehøj, Leif Grane & Kai Hørby, Københavns Universitet 1479–1979. Bind I: Almindelig Historie 1479– 1788. Copenhagen: Gads, 1991, pp. 199–314 Cf. the cases of Willebrord Snellius (Liesbeth de Wreede, Willebrord Snellius (1580–1626) : a humanist reshaping the mathematical sciences. PhD thesis, Universiteit Utrecht, Utrecht 2007, pp. 51–75), Frans van Schooten, jr (Jantien Dopper. A Life of Learning in Leiden: the Mathematician Frans van Schooten (1615–1660). PhD thesis, Universiteit Utrecht, Utrecht, 2014, pp. 21–22 and 31) and three generations of Alexander Monros at Edinburgh (Jack B. Morrell, “The University of Edinburgh in the Late Eighteenth Century: Its Scientific Eminence and Academic Structure,” Isis, 62 (1971), pp. 158–171). Cf. Gadi Algazi, “Scholars in Households: Refiguring the Learned Habitus, 1480–1550,” Science in Context 16.1–2 (2003), pp. 9–42. Cf. S.P. Epstein and Maarten Prak (eds.), Guilds, Innovation, and the European Economy,

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tioned as a craft guild at a higher social stratum; for our purpose it is sufficient to state that family networks held a central role in early modern universities and that universities were in this respect structurally similar to craft and merchant guilds. This similarity leads straight to the question how the family networks of academia related to other networks. With respect to the possible inclusion of practitioners in universities it might be useful to look at the relation between academia and local craft guilds. Was there a possible overlap between the respective family networks and what were the structures that either facilitated or prevented such an overlap? Since such questions can only be answered at a local level, the article will look at two different universities – Edinburgh and Leiden – to study whether men from a craft or artisanal family background could enter universities and which role local structures within the universities and within their governing bodies played for the inclusion or exclusion of practitioners.16 There are several reasons to choose Edinburgh and Leiden for such a comparative study. Both were universities founded in the late sixteenth century (1583 and 1575, respectively). In consequence, neither university had existing strong family networks or older academic traditions that might preclude the influx of academics from non-traditional backgrounds. Both universities were set up in sizeable cities. This was rather unusual in the early modern era, as authorities tended to have concerns about student conduct on account of students’ “drunkenness, brawling and whoring”,17 not without reason.18 New universities were thus more often set up in small towns which would not offer the same temptations as a big city and also slowed down news of any misdoings. Given the size of both cities it is not too surprising that city authorities had at least partial governance over the university in both Edinburgh and Leiden including the appointment of academic staff. This would grant family networks in the city access to the university and provide a mechanism for the influx of scholars with an unusual background but strong ties within town politics.

16 17 18

1400–1800, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008; Hans Medick, “The Proto-Industrial Family Economy: The Structural Function of Household and Family during the Transition from Peasant Society to Industrial Capitalism.” Social History, 1 (1976), pp. 291–315; Moraw, ibid., pp. 50–52. For a more detailed discussion of the Edinburgh case, see Aaron Mitchell, Hiring Practices and Craftsmen at the University of Edinburgh, 1583 – 1750. M.A. thesis, University of Melbourne, Melbourne, 2014. Robert D. Anderson, Michael Lynch and Nicholas Phillipson, The University of Edinburgh – An Illustrated History. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2003, 3. Marc Wingens, “Deviant gedrag van studenten: Verkrachters in de zeventiende en achttiende eeuw,” Batavia Academica, 6 (1988), pp. 9–26.

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THE UNIVERSITIES AND THEIR CITIES Edinburgh During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Edinburgh itself was a city which was both populous and prosperous. Scotland itself had only a fairly small population during this era,19 but by 1660 the city of Edinburgh was believed to be home to up to 30,000 inhabitants; it had grown into the second largest city in Britain.20 Also, despite the numerous misfortunes which had hit the town during this period, including bad harvests, religious turmoil and an outbreak of plague, Edinburgh also remained the wealthiest town in Scotland.21 It was most likely this prosperity which attracted individuals from across the country to Edinburgh. This financial success was largely due to the city of Edinburgh’s status as a royal burgh. This meant that it possessed a royal charter granting, among other benefits, privileges regarding trade and exports, including a monopoly on foreign trade until 1672.22 The enviable position which the city of Edinburgh held in regards to trade in Scotland allowed it to set up impressive trade routes with many European countries. As well as the monetary advantages which the city accrued through this system, there were also benefits in the form of a high level of intellectual interaction with a range of European universities. The University of Edinburgh was not created as a university, but slowly came to be accepted as one over time, which has led to some terminological confusion on whether to call it a college or a university.23 Like other Scottish universities it would originally teach in a regency system, in which one academic would take a class of students through their entire Arts degree. Only in 1708, Edinburgh moved to a professorial system,24 although already in 1620 the College of Edinburgh “began to call regents ‘professors’ from the 1620s onwards (though the incumbents continued with the same hard slog of regenting with occasional public lectures now added to their workload)”.25 Due to the unusual way that the University of Edinburgh was founded the town council of Edinburgh was a patron for almost all positions at the college.26 From 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

Robert A. Houston and Ian D. Whyte (eds.), Scottish Society 1500–1800. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989, 3. Robert A. Houston, Social Change in the Age of Enlightenment, Edinburgh 1660 – 1760. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994, 1. Ibid, 3. Neil Davidson, Discovering the Scottish Revolution, London: Pluto Press, 2003, 34. Robert D. Anderson, Michael Lynch, and Nicholas Phillipson, The University of Edinburgh – An Illustrated History. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2003, 41. Rudy Willis, The Universities of Europe, 1100 – 1914: A History. London: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1984, 87. Robert D. Anderson, Michael Lynch and Nicholas Phillipson, The University of Edinburgh – An Illustrated History. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2003, 62. Robert D. Anderson, European Universities from the Enlightenment to 1914. New York: Oxford University Press, 2004, 34. For some appointments the Crown was patron or co-patron, although this was more common after 1750. Jack B. Morrell, “The University of Edinburgh in

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the opening of the college until 1608 the town council had almost complete control over who was to be employed. While the monarch had the right to decide upon appointments, he rarely intervened directly during our era, whereas it became increasingly common after 1750. Although James VI’s charter had clearly stated that the town council and its members should act “with the advice of the ministers forever in posterity”, this order was basically disregarded. Church ministers had been able to influence the council prior to 1608, but only through convincing the appropriate members of the council; the ministers had no actual vote themselves and no direct way to influence these matters, although indirect influence by lobbying could sometimes be very effective. This changed after 1608, when the Kirk-session had agreed to give £8,100 to the Town College, on the condition that the burgh’s ministers would be able to vote alongside the town council when it came to electing new staff members to the college.27 Some of the professorships had other groups helping to decide which individuals would be appointed, such as when the Senators of the College of Justice agreed in 1590 that they would give £1000 towards hiring a “teacher of the lawes”(which later became a “teacher of humanitie”) for the college, if the town council of Edinburgh and the advocates of the town would each agree to contribute the same amount towards that goal.28 These three groups were to share the responsibility of hiring a staff member to that role. As a result of its power, the town council voted on all of the new applicants which would be hired to the college. At some stages they voted on these decisions alone, although they often shared the responsibility with others. In either case, they almost always had a large say in who was to be appointed.29 Due to the way that the city of Edinburgh and its structures developed, the town council at this time came to be populated exclusively by merchants and craftsmen. Although others, such as the King and the church did have input into these decisions, these were the men who generally made all important decisions relating to the college. The town council was made up of 33 men who were all required to be burgesses, thus limiting membership to the craftsmen and merchants of Edinburgh.30 While the ministers and the town council had the final say in who would be elected to almost all positions within the university, this does not mean that this was necessarily a simple matter. The ministers and town council were capable of nominating an individual who they deemed suitable, then immediately placing them in an academic position to begin teaching, but while this could happen, it rarely did. It was important that whoever was chosen should possess the necessary skills to fulfil

27 28 29 30

the Late Eighteenth Century: Its Scientific Eminence and Academic Structure,” Isis, 62 (1971), pp. 158–171, here 160. Robert D. Anderson, Michael Lynch and Nicholas Phillipson, The University of Edinburgh – An Illustrated History. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2003, 40. Alexander Morgan (ed.), University of Edinburgh: Charters, Statutes and Acts of the Town Council and the Senatus, 1583–1858. Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd, 1937, 82–83 & 98. Roger L. Emerson, Academic Patronage in the Scottish Enlightenment. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2008, 13. Robert A. Houston, Social Change in the Age of Enlightenment, Edinburgh 1660 – 1760. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994, 5.

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their academic responsibilities. The most common method which was employed to ensure that an applicant was suitably qualified was to hold a comparative trial with an emphasis on classical texts in both Latin and Greek. The particularly stringent nature of the application process reflected the challenges of being a regent, as they needed to be highly proficient across a range of academic topics.31 The effort involved in running comparative trials meant that they were abandoned around 1703 and the deciding panel no longer had this process to help them in their decision making.32 During the late early modern era many of those with high standing within a European university had begun to realise that the temptation to hire family members, friends or the alumni of the college, including your own students, could have a deleterious effect on the development of both teaching material and university standards.33 Edinburgh was generally unconcerned by this process and took very little action to avoid hiring local men and alumni. This is illustrated from the way that the very first class of students that ever graduated from the college included four men who would go on to become regents in the college: Charles Ferme, Philip Heslope, Patrick Sands and Henry Charteris.34 The latter two were also hired as principals of the college; this is particularly telling at a time when the college had so few teaching positions available. There were a few brief situations when the town council deemed that “the streams of learning at home were running low”35 and an effort was made to hire a college regent from outside of Scotland, but for the vast majority of the time they were happy to hire local graduates, with no legislation or tradition discouraging the employment of friends or contacts. It could be that the frequency with which Scottish graduates spent at least some of their time at overseas institutions meant that they could bring back new concepts themselves. In any case, the college remained a highly successful learning institution, despite being fairly unconcerned with regulating which men could be permitted to fill academic places; without any guiding legislation decisions relied largely on the whim of the town council. As Laurence Brockliss noted “although the University of Edinburgh in the eighteenth century was one of the most dynamic centres of learning in Europe, it was also one of the most corrupt”.36

31 32 33 34 35 36

Notker Hammerstein, “Relations with Authority,” in: Hilde de Ridde-Symoens (ed.), A History of Universities in Europe: Volume 2, Universities in Early Modern Europe (1500–1800). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996, pp. 114–154, here 139. Roger L. Emerson, Academic Patronage in the Scottish Enlightenment. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2008, 337. Peter A. Vandermeersch, “Teachers,” in: Hilde de Ridde-Symoens (ed.), A History of Universities in Europe: Volume 2, Universities in Early Modern Europe (1500–1800). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996, pp. 210–255, here 228. A catalogue of the graduates in the faculties of arts, divinity and law of the University of Edinburgh, since its foundation. (Edinburgh: Neil & Company, 1858). Alexander Grant, The Story of the University of Edinburgh during its first three hundred years, Vol. 1. & 2. London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1884, 673. Laurence Brockliss, “Gown and Town: The University and the City in Europe, 1200–2000”, Minerva, 38, (2000), 147–170, here 155.

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This corruption would have had positive and negative effects on craftsmen and their families who were attempting to enter the college. It illustrates that there was no legislation restricting the effect that favouritism or family influence could have on hiring decisions, which indicates that there was potential to exploit networks at the University of Edinburgh. However, it also suggests that craftsmen would have to compete with other groups who were also attempting to benefit from this situation. Leiden Even more than Edinburgh, the beginning of Leiden University was unusual. It had been founded in the context of the Dutch war of liberation.37 After having successfully fended off a Spanish siege in 1574, the Stadholder William of Orange honoured the city by setting up the first university of what slightly later was to become the Dutch Republic. Owing to the political circumstances and the absence of a governing monarch that would be at least somewhat sympathetic to the cause the university remained without formal approval, although there was a founding charter that was written in the name of the Spanish King Philipp II.38 Unlike other Dutch cities Leiden had been based on industry at least since the middle of the sixteenth century. Of biggest economic importance was the textielnijverheid, the textile manufacture of relatively cheap ‘new draperies’. In this trade Leiden became the second biggest centre in Europe, but it also had a strong brewing, distilling and salt-making industry. In addition, it developed strong artisanry, especially in painting, book printing and associated arts.39 It is important to note that the textile industry was not organised within a guild system, but by the municipally controlled nering, while the non-textile related crafts had a strong guilds, up to 59 in the seventeenth century.40 The town council, the Vroedschap, had a strong representation from crafts and the textile manufacturers, leaving merchants and academic professions in the minority.41 During the first fifty years of the university’s existence, the city grew dramatically in size, its population almost quintupled from 10000 in 1575 to 47000 in 1625.42 The population increase was largely due to the influx of protestant refugees from the Spanish Netherlands. The town continued 37 38 39 40 41 42

For a broader discussion of the university in its early history see Hendrike L. Clotz, Hochschule für Holland: Die Universität Leiden im Spannungsfeld zwischen Provinz, Stadt und Kirche, 1575–1619. Stuttgart: Steiner, 1998. Ibid., 33. Ibid., 18–21. Maarten Prak (ed.), Craft Guilds in the Early Modern Low Countries: Work, Power, and Representation. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006. Sterling A. Lamet, “The Vroedschap of Leiden 1550–1600: The Impact of Tradition and Change on the Governing Elite of a Dutch City,” The Sixteenth Century Journal 12 (1981), pp. 15–42. Dirk Noordam, “Demografische ontwikkelingen”, in: Rudi van Maanen and Simon Groenveld (eds.): Leiden: de geschiedenis van een Hollandse stadt. II. 1574–1675. Leiden: Stichting Geschiedsschrijving Leiden, 2003, pp. 42–53.

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to grow, partly with refugees from the Thirty Years’ War, until the second half of the seventeenth century. While most of those coming entered the existing trades, particularly the textielnijverheid, there were also new social groups and a distinct intellectual elite coming in from the Flemish cities. Additionally, the growth of the city included not only social dynamics, the re-formation of city elites, but also a vast expansion of the town, which had to redraw city fortifications three times in the seventeenth century. The university was thus embedded in an environment in which social capital was frequently renegotiated and in which the mechanical arts had a strong reputation. Leiden university was intended to be a Praesidium libertatis (‘Bastion of Liberty’) to defend the Calvinist faith and give the emerging Republic an intellectual centre. Consequently, it had been set up with both a strong role in Dutch society and a perspective to the broader European academic culture. It aspired to attract scholars of international fame and to become an example of Dutch culture to the rest of the continent. At the same time it had a distinct local setting. The appointments at the university reflected that. From its early history there were some internationally renowned scholars like Carolus Clusius, Justus Lipsius and Joseph Scaliger, but also a large number of local appointments. Throughout the seventeenth century the local traditions of scholarship played a more dominant role, while international appointments remained an important contributions to university life.43 Given the distinct reason for placing the university in Leiden, the city was given a strong role in the governance of the university. The official university statutes put two or three curators to be appointed by the States of Holland and West-Friesland and the four Burgomasters of the city in charge of the main supervision of the university. The Burgomasters were in turn elected annually from town council that consisted of forty life members. In terms of university governance, it can thus be assumed that the Burgomasters represented the interested of the city at large, i.e. the city as it was represented in the Vroedschap.44 While the functions of curators and burgomasters were originally thought of as slightly different, from the late sixteenth century onwards both groups were merged into one ‘Council of Curators and Burgomasters’ as the supreme decision-making body in the university.45 When in 1584 the Curators had appointed Thomas Sosius without consulting the Burgomaster’s, these protested and demanded proper representation in the decision making. Since then appointments were made in the joint council.46 Between 1672 and 1704 William III had been given the office of

43 44 45 46

J.J. Woltjer, Introduction, in: Theodoor H. Lunsingh Scheurleer and Guillaume H.M. Posthumus Meyjes (eds.), Leiden University in the Seventeenth Century: an Exchange of Learning. Leiden: Universitaire Pers, 1975, pp. 1–19. Sterling A. Lamet, ”The Vroedschap of Leiden 1550–1600: The Impact of Tradition and Change on the Governing Elite of a Dutch City,” The Sixteenth Century Journal (1981), pp. 15–42. Hendrike L. Clotz, Hochschule für Holland: Die Universität Leiden im Spannungsfeld zwischen Provinz, Stadt und Kirche, 1575–1619. Stuttgart: Steiner, 1998, 107. Ibid., 40.

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“supreme curator” of the university, which included the right to approve or reject appointments made by Curators and Burgomasters. It is not always clear how the candidates for appointments were found and what criteria for selection were given.47 In contrast to Edinburgh, no formal votes were held (or if they were held, they were not recorded). Given the incentive to hire internationally famous scholars, Curators and Burgomasters might have not been the best qualified people to find suitable candidates. In some cases, they asked the Academic Senate, which consisted of all ordinary professors of the university, to provide names, in other cases names have to appeared from some unknown sources, for example in the half-hearted attempt to appoint Robert Boyle to a professorship of chemistry.48 In yet other cases, the candidate had been promised the first appointment in the faculty, as was the case with Herman Boerhaave, who this way became a botanist.49 If there were formal criteria for selecting candidates at one point, they have not been recorded. One factor that might have contributed here is that professorial salaries could vary widely. Around 1600 there were professors employed for as little as 150 guilders a year, while others earned more than 1000 guilders, excluding student fees and other additional revenue. Academic superstars like Joseph Scaliger, Herman Boerhaave or Claudius Salmasius were given salaries of 2000 guilders or more.50 While the religious background of candidates did play a role, differences both with respect to period and to academic discipline can be found. Before the synod of Dordrecht in 1618 and the nadere reformatie (‘further reformation’) of the Calvinist church, the appointment of Catholics seems to have been less of an issue than afterwards. In the second half of the seventeenth century the appointment of the Mennonite Burchard de Volder to a professorship of philosophy was blocked until he converted, while the Mennonite Govert Bidloo was appointed as anatomist 20 years later. The probable reason for this was the role of philosophers in the education of theologians and the general ‘community of philosophy with theology’ that led the curators towards a stricter interpretation of selection criteria.51 Twice in the sixteenth century, professorships in the Law Faculty were filled by appointing two candidates for a year with the prospect of a full appointment to the man that had performed better during that year.52 After the second contest the 47 48 49 50 51 52

On the appointment policy in Leiden see Ronald Sluijter, “Tot ciraet, vermeerderinge ende heerlyckmaeckinge der universiteyt”: Bestuur, instellingen, personeel en financiën van de Leidse universiteit, 1575–1812. Hilversum: Verloren, 2004, 130–164. Philip, C. Molhuysen, Bronnen tot de geschiedenis der Leidsche Universiteit. The Hague: Nijhoff, 1913–1925, vol. 3, 213*–214*. Maarten Ultee, The Politics of a Professorial Appointment, 1709, History of Universities, 9 (1990), 167–194. Ronald Sluijter, “Tot ciraet, vermeerderinge ende heerlyckmaeckinge der universiteyt“: Bestuur, instellingen, personeel en financiën van de Leidse universiteit, 1575–1812. Hilversum: Verloren, 2004, 130–164. Gerhard Wiesenfeldt, Leerer Raum in Minervas Haus: Experimentelle Naturlehre an der Universität Leiden, 1675–1715. Amsterdam: KNAW, 2002, 57–58. Ronald Sluijter, “Tot ciraet, vermeerderinge ende heerlyckmaeckinge der universiteyt”:

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unsuccessful candidate, Cornelis Swanenburg, supplied a letter of support from students that gave him an appointment after all.53 It is not clear whether this appointment was in some way related to the fact that Swanenburg hailed from one of the most influential families in Leiden. Finally, there was a substantial number of professorial offspring that succeeded their fathers in their positions. In some cases, this extended to sons of professors at other universities. SIMILARITIES AND DIFFERENCES As mentioned before, both Edinburgh and Leiden were early modern city universities that were founded within the proximity of influential political agents. In consequence, in both cases the city was a strong political player in university governance, while the Edinburgh town council had the more dominant role compared to Leiden. Yet, the early years of Leiden University showed how the city managed to increase its political role beyond what the original statutes had envisaged. On the other hand, the Edinburgh town council occasionally had to negotiate with other bodies when it came to appointments. Secondly, the nature of appointments in Edinburgh and Leiden was very different. For the larger part of the period under study, the majority of appointments at Edinburgh were for regents that would be expected to teach all liberal arts and philosophy. The outlook was distinctly confined, giving local candidates a very good chance to appointments provided they seemed to be generally qualified to the academic profession. Being known to the town councillors seems to have been part of those general qualifications. Leiden, on the other hand, had started out with the professorial system and expressly wanted to bring scholars of international fame to the Dutch Republic. With the professorial system the university required more specialised candidates for a specific discipline. This might be beneficial for aspirants from a craft background for certain positions, e.g. in mathematics and chemistry, but working against them in other, more prestigious fields. Comparing both universities it seems that the structure of Edinburgh with a stronger role for the city and the regency system would favour the influx of artisans, craftsmen and other practitioners into academia rather than the structure of Leiden. On the other hand the two cities were of different character. As royal borough, Edinburgh was a political and administrative centre with a strong merchant base, while Leiden was first and foremost an industrious city with a strong influx of migrants during the first century of the university’s existence. Both cities were large enough for the universities to be only a small, if significant part of the town; their economies did not rely on the university and students, although especially Leiden’s

53

Bestuur, instellingen, personeel en financiën van de Leidse universiteit, 1575–1812. Hilversum: Verloren, 2004, 162. Hendrike L. Clotz, Hochschule für Holland: Die Universität Leiden im Spannungsfeld zwischen Provinz, Stadt und Kirche, 1575–1619. Stuttgart: Steiner, 1998, 111.

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international reputation was closely linked to the fame of its academy. Then again, the connection between town and gown in both places was remarkably close.54 THE SOCIAL BACKGROUND OF ACADEMICS In order to gain a better picture on chances of artisans and craftsmen for an academic career, we have conducted prosopographic research on men that were hired for paid academic position at Edinburgh and Leiden from the foundations of the academies until the first half of the eighteenth century.55 The key question of this study was to find common social patterns among those academics that would either favour or impede the access of practitioners for academic careers. As the focus of the study had been on the social background of academics, the details which have been collected are geared towards elucidating the occupations of the academic’s fathers. The academic’s fathers have been chosen as they are likely to represent the social strata of the family from which the academic hailed. We have aimed for consistency in categorising the fathers’ occupations. In case of Edinburgh this was aided by strict regulations with respect to memberships in craft or merchant guilds, which required any merchant to be a guild member and similarly restricted crafts that were organised in one of the fourteen craft guilds.56 In light of the largely local background of the academics these regulations form a roster that can be applied quite well for the study. Unfortunately, the situation is not quite as easy for Leiden. This is partly due to the complexities of the different craft guilds, the neringen and the less stringent regulations within the guild system. Moreover, the broader regional scope of academics hired in Leiden make a distinct categorisation more difficult. As such, all fathers that were denoted as having a practiced a craft have been categorised as craftsmen unless there was a clear reference to them being merchants as well, irrespective of their guild membership. Additionally, there was a group of academics whose fathers came from various backgrounds that were not a craft, but related to other forms of manual labour, e.g. farmers or boatmen. This group was given a separate group as ‘non-traditional background’, in which a few academics were included that were denoted as having descended from very poor families. A different problem arose from those academics whose father was reported to be an ‘eminent citizen’ or ‘burgomaster’ of a town 54

55

56

Paul B Wood, “Science, the Universities, and the Public Sphere in Eighteenth-Century Scotland,” in: History of Universities 13 (1994), pp. 99–135; Hendrike L. Clotz, Hochschule für Holland: Die Universität Leiden im Spannungsfeld zwischen Provinz, Stadt und Kirche, 1575– 1619. Stuttgart: Steiner, 1998, 166–169. On the prosopographical method see, Lewis Pyenson, ‘Who the Guys Were: Prosopography in the History of Science,’ History of Science, 15, (1977), pp. 155–188, George Beech, “Prosopography”, in: James M. Powell (ed.) Medieval Studies: An Introduction. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1992, pp.185–226; David E. Allen “Arcana Ex Multitudine: Prosopography as a Research Technique,” Archives of natural history, 17(1990), pp. 349–359; Katherine S. B. Keats-Rohan, and Christian Settipani (eds.), Prosopography: Approaches and Applications. Oxford: Linacre College Unit for Prosopographical Research, 2007. Houston, Social Change, 5.

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or it is stated that these men descended from a ‘respected family’. Given that these connotations give information about social strata, but not about profession they are listed in the category ‘Other burgher’ here. It is possible that this group contains well-to-do craftsmen and artisans. The groups of surgeons, apothecaries, surveyors and other mathematical practitioners were given a separate category. While these were often organised in guilds, these guilds tended to work towards acceptance as professional organisations and were partly successful in this endeavour. Occasionally, the professional activities could include, possibly informal, teaching at universities, which singles these groups out. For purposes of simplicity the category noted for these is ‘practitioners’. The material basis for the research is largely found in scholarly biographical dictionaries, individual biographies, church and municipal records, with occasional addition of information found in primary sources such as funeral orations. Despite the many sources which were incorporated in this study, there were still many academics for which the necessary details could not be determined. This included half of the regents and professors at Edinburgh and roughly a quarter of professors at Leiden. This might lead to the methodological problem that a relatively poor or even ‘inappropriate’ family background of an academic tends to be omitted from biographies more easily than is the case with academics who had a famous father. This problem will be addressed further in the discussion of the results. We have also included results for a third university: Franeker was the second Dutch university founded in 1585. Franeker was (and is) a small town in the province Friesland with very little political power. Hence, the town council had no role in the governance of the university, which was entirely in the hands of the provincial States of Friesland and curators appointed by the states.57 The rationale for the inclusion of Franeker here is to gain insights in appointment patterns that exist without the presence of city politics in the decision making. Given that Franeker in many ways followed the model of Leiden, the expectation is to find a good case for comparison here as well.

57

Goffe T. Jensma, “Inleiding,” in: Goffe T. Jensma et al. (eds.), Universiteit te Franeker, 1585– 1811. Leeuwarden: Fryske Akademy, 1985, pp.11–39.

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Edinburgh

1583–1650

1651–1700

1701–1750

1583–1750

Ministers

3

10

7

20

Law

3

1

8

12

Noblemen

1

1

6

8

University teachers

0

3

4

7

Merchants

3

1

1

5

Physician

0

2

1

3

Practitioners

0

0

2

2

Craftsmen

1

0

2

3

11

18

31

60

Total known Unknown Regents Total

60 120

Table 1, Father’s occupations of regents and professors in Edinburgh, 1583–1750. The list of regents and professors is taken from A catalogue of the graduates in the faculties of arts, divinity and law of the University of Edinburgh, since its foundation.58

Of those whose father’s professions could be obtained the clear majority were churchmen. This is hardly surprising considering the close connection that existed between education and the church; one of the key functions of the early college was to train clergy for the newly established church.59 Some positions at the college could only be filled by members of the clergy, such as being a professor of divinity. As previously noted, the church ministers were also one of the groups which had a certain amount of voting control over who would be elected to the college;60 a power which they felt was important enough to justify their paying a considerable sum of money to obtain it. A considerable selection of regents came from aristocratic families, having parents who are lairds, barons or baronets. There is evidence that, although they had no direct voting power over the college, they still seemed to possess a strong level of influence with the town council on such matters and used there position in the patronage system to exert their power in appointment matters.61 It also testifies that offspring of aristocratic families had an interest in pursuing academic careers. 58 59 60 61

A catalogue of the graduates in the faculties of arts, divinity and law of the University of Edinburgh, since its foundation. (Edinburgh: Neil & Company, 1858). Margo Todd, The Culture of Protestantism in Early Modern Scotland. London: Yale University Press, 2002. 56. Robert D. Anderson, Michael Lynch and Nicholas Phillipson, The University of Edinburgh – An Illustrated History. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2003, 40. Karen Grudzien Baston, “The Library of Charles Areskine (1680–1763): Book collecting and lawyers in Scotland, 1700–1760”, (Thesis, The University of Edinburgh, 2012).

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Additionally, a large number of the regents and professors parents were themselves other professors, regents or university staff, suggesting that family connections were even more common in Edinburgh than has been assumed. In a similar manner to the aristocracy, the effect also seems to be even larger than this study would suggest. The prosopography shows that there were seven regents, out of those listed, whose fathers had also worked as academic staff at a university. It seems as though all of these men had worked at Edinburgh and often had assisted their fathers before taking over their duties formally. Another group which was quite well-represented among the parents of the academic staff were advocates and judges. While they had a formal say in some appointments, sons of jurists also filled other positions, especially in the eighteenth century, when the advocates of Edinburgh had become wealthier than the city’s merchants and craftsmen combined. and acquired a strong position in the city even without formal representation in the town council.62 Given the exclusive representation of merchants and craftsmen in the town council, is is remarkable how few of their offspring entered academic careers. There were some regents and professors working at the college of Edinburgh whose parents had worked as merchants. There were some men such as Andrew Stevenson, James Fairley or David Dickson whose parents were merchants and who may have been hired to the college as a result of their parents connections. Other regents or professors had parents who were merchants, but were also involved in those other dominant professions which seem to have been securing appointments around this time. Examples of this include Archibald Pitcairne, whose father was both a merchant and a magistrate and Andrew Plummer, whose father, Gavin, had a flourishing career as a merchant before becoming treasurer to the town council. The merchants seem to be able to have found a niche among those gaps left among those more powerful groups, particularly in the early decades of the college. The number of regents and professors whose parents had been involved with the crafts appears to have been even lower. Of all the details which could be collected, there were only four men whose parents could be deemed to have participated in some form of craft. Although they were a very small fraction of those who were hired, the details of the lives of these men’s fathers are telling. They suggest that being a craftsman is not sufficient to secure your child a position at the college, even despite their connections within the council. These three individuals and their parents all had strong connections among those other more powerful groups, as well as the crafts, which seem to have influenced the regent’s selection. One of the most successful of these men, whose parents were involved with the crafts, was the Reverend Henry Charteris (c.1565–1628), who was even employed as a principal of the college. He was the son of a book printer, who was a wellknown figure in Scottish book printing.63 This monopoly resulted Charteris Snr was often employed by the council and the college to make books. He also was a 62 63

Michael Lynch, Scotland: A New History. London: Century, 1991, 254. Alastair Mann, The Scottish Book Trade, 1500–1720: Print Commerce and Print Control in Early Modern Scotland. East Linton: Tuckwell Press, 2000, 36.

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member of a merchant’s guild, even if it may have been mainly due to the absence of a suitable craft guild. Another Edinburgh college regent who came from a craft background was William Cleghorn, whose father, Hugh Cleghorn, worked as a brewer.64 Yet, he is also recognised as having been a merchant burgess,65 again indicating that he was recognised as a merchant and, as such, that his business was successful enough that he could abstain from any physical involvement with the brewing itself, leaving the work to his employees. Similar things also hold for George Meldrum (ca. 1634–1709) whose father, Andrew Meldrum, worked in the town as a dyer. This pattern suggests that for craftsmen to be able to assist their children in accessing the college, they needed to be successful enough that they could stop physical craft work and access roles among the merchants and the council There was one other individual who was selected to be a professor at the University of Edinburgh and who had a very clear connection to the crafts; he became the Professor of Laws at the University of Edinburgh and his name was Adam Newton. His father, who was also named Adam Newton, was a burgess, a craftsman, and a member of a craft guild. The Professor’s father was working as a baker. He probably was also a deacon of the crafts also and involved with the early history of the college. Newton was employed as a Professor of Laws in the unusual procedure of appointments giving the town council only a third of the votes giving the Advocates and Writers to the Signet a strong role. Within four years the town council had removed Adam Newton from the university as, although he had been teaching the subject well during this time, he had been selected for the job without their approval; they dismissed him regardless of his success in that position, which could imply two potential conclusions. One was that the town council was very jealous of its position relative to the college and was keen to ensure that they had sole control over who was to be appointed to the university. Secondly, it could be interpreted to mean that they were also not particularly happy with the advocate’s choice of professor. Whatever the motive, it remains that one of the few sons of a burgess craftsman who was hired to the college was done so during one of the only times that the town council was denied any input into the matter. This individual was then removed from the college by the town council, without having committed any misdemeanour himself, as soon as it could be conveniently arranged.

64 65

Alexander Du Toit, ‘Cleghorn, William (1718–1754)’, in: Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004. Dalzel, History, p. 413.

179

Craftsmen, merchants and scholars

Leiden

1575–99 1600–24 1625–49 1650–74 1675–99 1700–25

1575– 1725

Ministers

2

4

6

9

5

4

30

Law

6

1

3

1

0

0

11

Noblemen

7

2

1

0

1

0

11

12

4

1

5

2

3

27

University teachers

3

5

4

7

5

4

28

Merchants

4

3

0

5

2

1

15

Physicians

0

0

0

0

1

1

2

Practitioners

0

2

0

0

1

2

5

Craftsmen

2

2

1

0

0

1

6

Other non-traditional

3

3

1

2

0

0

9

Total known

39

26

17

29

17

17

144

Unknown

15

5

8

6

5

1

40

Total

64

31

25

35

22

18

184

Other burgher

Table 2, Fathers occupations of professors and lecturers in Leiden, 1575–1725. The list of professors is taken from Album studiosorum academiae Lugduno Batavae.66

As is the case for Edinburgh sons of church ministers are strongly represented among the Leiden academics. They have the biggest representation among professors in the Arts Faculty, but also among the theologians. The former might reflect that theology was in many cases a degree for students from relatively modest backgrounds that might lead to an academic career in the second generation. The particular strong representation of ministers’ sons towards the middle of the seventeenth century might reflect the impact of the nadere reformatie and the debate about Cartesianism, when church authorities frequently extended pressure towards the university. Descending from a proper Calvinist family may well have been a strong argument for appointing someone during that period. Sons of other university academics are almost equally strong represented among Leiden professors. This reflects on the one hand the tendency in Leiden to build professorial dynasties. This would be the case for Franciscus (father and son) and Petrus van Schooten, Rudolph and Willebrord Snellius, Frederick Spanheim (father and son), Johan and Otto van Heurne, Lucas Trelcatius (father and son), and a few others. Yet, there were also a number of appointments of sons of professors from other universities, such as Bernardus Schotanus, Wolferd Senguerd or Carel de Maets. While there have been genealogical successions from father to son, apart from 66

Willem N. du Rieu, Album studiosorum academiae Lugduno Batavae: MDLXXV – MDCCCLXXV. Den Haag: Nijhoff, 1875.

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the van Schooten monopoly on the professorship for Dutch mathematics from 1615 till 1679 no position remained in a family for more than two generations. Compared to clergymen and professors the other two academic professions – jurists and physicians – had remarkably little presence among the fathers of Leiden professors. This is particularly true for physicians, but apart from the early decades also for the legal profession. While there is a potential distortion in physicians or lawyers who might have practiced while also holding an academic position, a possible cause for their absence could be in the richness of the Dutch Republic, which would make it rather less attractive for members of this social group to aspire for a university profession. What is remarkable, however, is the presence of social groups that were almost entirely absent in Edinburgh. These are partly sons of merchants, but especially sons of practitioners, craftsmen and other groups from lower social strata. Put together they add up 20 out of 144 professors, whose father’s profession was known, almost one in seven. They were particularly strong in the first 50 years of the university (as were merchant’s sons), where almost 20% of appointments came from one of these non-traditional groups. It should be noted that they did not form a coherent social group. First, there are cases of local craftsmen and practitioners who may well have used their connections with in the city to get appointed to university positions. The most obvious example is Simon van der Merwen who in 1600 was appointed to a lectureship in practical, ‘Dutch’ mathematics. Van der Merwen was the son of an organ player and had worked as a surveyor, but he also had been a member of the vroedschap since 1576 and had served as a burgomaster before his appointment at the university. Van der Merwe’s successor, Frans van Schooten was the son of a local baker and also worked as a surveyor. His appointment in 1615 is remarkable as it happened against the explicit wishes of the Stadholder who wanted another candidate to be appointed, but with the support of important families within the city and the university.67 Finally, there was Cornelis Swanenburg, who was appointed as professor of law in 1597. He came from a family with a strong position in the textielnijverheid that also had members working as painters and engravers. They also were represented in the vroedschap by Isaac Claesz. van Swanenburg.68 These three cases happened in the early decades of the university. The only other case of a local craftsman’s son being appointed to a professorship was Herman Oosterdijk Schacht appointed in 1719 who was the son of the dyer Johannes Oosterdijk. However, since his father had died shortly after his death and his mother had remarried Lucas Schacht, a professor of medicine, this might be

67

68

For more details on van Schooten’s appointment this see: Gerhard Wiesenfeldt, “The ‘Duytsche Mathematicque’: The Culture of Mathematics and the Family Network of Leiden University, ” in Charles van de Heuvel, Eric Jorink, Ilja Nieuwland & Huib Zuidervaart. (eds.), Locations of Knowledge. Leiden: Brill (in press). On the Swanenburg family see Rudi Ekkart. Isaac Claesz. van Swanenburg 1537–1614. Leids schilder en burgemeester, Zwolle: Waanders, 1998, on Cornelius see his funeral oration: Cornelis van Swanenburg, De Iure Adcrescendi, Libellus posthumus, accedit Petri Cvnæi Laudatio Funebris. Leiden: Cloecquius, 1631.

Craftsmen, merchants and scholars

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more noteworthy for fact that a university professor would marry the widow of a dyer rather than for Herman’s subsequent appointment. However, these were not the only cases of members of practitioner’s families being appointed. These include the apothecary’s son Jacob le Mort who was appointed to a professorship in chemistry in 1704 and the theologian Taco Hajo van den Honert whose father had been a military engineer. Somewhat more unusual are the appointments of three professors whose fathers were working as boatmen – Gerard Tuningius (Law, 1590), Theodor Craanen (Philosophy, 1673), and Wilhelm Wilhelmius (Philosophy, 1675) – and the appointments of two professors from “very poor” background: Simon Episcopius (Theology, 1612) was an orphan from Amsterdam who grew up under municipal care, while Philippus Ferdinandus (Arabic, 1599) was a converted Polish Jew. There also were three farmer’s sons, Willem van der Codde (Hebrew, 1601), Franco Burgersdijk (philosophy, 1620), and Jacobus Maestertius (Law, 1635). However, the case of Burgersdijk shows some ambiguity as his father was also known as a poet and a member of the rederijkerskamer of Schiedam. Indeed, there are several cases where the classification as craftsman or practitioner might be possible, but would give rather misleading results. The father of Nicolaas Dedel (Law, 1624) was a beer brewer in Delft, but he was also one of the first bewindhebbers (‘shareholders’) of the Dutch East-India Company. Jacob Trigland (Theology, 1634) was also the son of a brewer, this time in Vianen. However, his father had earlier been rector of the Latin school in Gouda, which he had to leave because he wanted to remain Catholic. Finally, there is the intriguing case of Salomon van Til (Theology, 1702) whose father worked both as calvinist minister and as distiller. Overall, there seems to have been a few limited opportunities for aspiring scholars to enter academic careers at Leiden, even if there family background would not be favoured according to the customs of early modern academia. These opportunities were particularly strong in the early decades of the university and then subsided towards a more traditional picture. Sometimes family connections to the Leiden town council have played a major role, as is visible in the case of Frans van Schooten, but these connections were not always necessary. The appointments of professors with a non-traditional background were not confined to the Arts Faculty, but were found throughout the university: 4 in Law, 2 in Medicine, 5 in Theology and 9 in Arts. Given that the Arts Faculty was by far the biggest faculty and had 43% of all appointments during the period under study, it is almost an equal representation of faculties. Yet, there are differences over time. In the Medical faculty nobody with a non-traditional family background was appointed before Jacob le Mort in 1702. Given the faculty did protest in vain against le Mort’s appointment it might well be that there were strong tendencies to keep practitioners out of the Medical faculty, something that might relate to the uneasy relationship between academic medicine and practitioners such as surgeons and pharmacists. On the other hand, the last of such appointments in the Law Faculty was made in 1635, indicating that afterwards the legal community in Holland became more exclusive, also in the selection of their professors. Only in Arts and Theology the appointments were made throughout the whole period.

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A related case: Franeker

1585–99 1600–24 1625–49

1650–74 1675–99 1700–25

1575– 1725

Ministers

0

3

7

2

2

1

15

Law

1

1

1

2

2

1

8

Noblemen

2

1

0

1

4

0

8

Other burgher

2

7

2

2

2

1

16

University teachers

1

4

5

3

4

6

23

Merchants

0

0

0

0

2

1

3

Physicians

0

0

0

0

0

5

5

Practitioners

1

1

0

0

2

1

5

Craftsmen

0

0

1

0

0

1

2

Other nontraditional

3

0

0

1

0

1

5

10

17

16

11

18

18

91

6

3

6

7

0

0

39

16

20

22

18

18

18

113

Total known Unknown Total

Table 3, Father’s occupations of professors and lecturers in Franeker, 1585–1725. The list of professors is taken from Ekkart, Franekerer professoren portretten.69

In many ways, the social background of academics at Franeker resembles that in Leiden. There is a strong representation of sons of church ministers and other professors.70 Again the appointments of minister’s sons were particularly strong in the middle of the seventeenth century during the height of the nadere reformatie. The slightly higher representation of children of academics compared to Leiden is mainly due to a bigger role of family dynasties. The most influential was the family Schotanus a Sterringa that had supplied 5 professors in law, theology, Greek and philosophy between 1585 and 1699 and thus left its impact on the university for more than a century. Like Leiden, Franeker also appointed a number of sons of professors from other universities. In contrast to Leiden, however, the focus here was on other Dutch universities. In general, the professorate in Franeker was much less international in extraction than in Leiden. As to academics with a non-traditional family background, there are slightly less than in Leiden, but more importantly, they tended to differ in status. Many of them 69 70

Rudi Ekkart, Franeker professoren portretten. Iconografie van de professoren aan de Academie en het Rijksathenaeum te Franeker, 1585–1843. Franeker:Wever, 1977. See also F.R.H. Smit, Over honderdzevenenzeventig Franeker Professoren, in: Goffe T. Jensma et al. (eds.), Universiteit te Franeker, 1585–1811. Leeuwarden: Fryske Akademy, 1985, pp.102–118, esp. 114.

Craftsmen, merchants and scholars

183

had father’s with a practice that already had epistemological connections to academic disciplines: The fathers of Adriaan Metius (Mathematics, 1598) and Sixtinus Adama (Oriental languages, 1616) were military engineers and architects, Tobias Andreae’s (Philosophy, 1680) father was a pharmacist, Abraham Cyprianus’ (Medicine, 1693) a surgeon, while Willem Lore’s (Mathematics, 1707) father had practised and taught mathematical arts. Only two sons of craftsmen were appointed, Johannes Greidanus (Philosophy, 1660) was the son of a groat-maker in Franeker, while Herman Venema’s (Theology, 1723) father had been a Frisian dyer. Four out of five fathers listed here as ‘other non-traditional’ were farmers: Henricus Schotanus a Sterringa (Law, 1585), the first in the long professorial dynasty, Johannes Arcerius (Greek, 1589), Johannes Sibranda (Greek, 1693), and Ruard Andala (Philosophy, 1701). It seems plausible to assume that the strong representation of farmer’s sons is related to the strong representation farmers had in the States of Friesland, where 6 of 9 members of the States came from the rural grietenijnen and only 3 from the Frisian towns. Especially in the early years of the university it seems that the members of the States managed to use their influence to have local candidates appointed. 8 out of 12 of the appointments of professors with a non-traditional family background were made in the Arts Faculty, a much higher rate than would be expected from the relative size of the faculty. Of the four appointments in the other faculties, two were made very early and one very late. Between 1589 and 1723 there was thus only one appointment made in one of the ‘higher’ faculties – that of Abraham Cyprianus in Medicine in 1693. Unlike in Leiden, those faculties seemed to have been well and truly closed off to practitioners throughout the seventeenth century. Also, two thirds of these appointments were made to men who were born in Friesland compared to 42% of Frisians among all appointments.

DISCUSSION OF RESULTS It might have been expected that Leiden, the university with a professorial system and an international perspective aiming at hiring internationally renowned scholars, would have been the place, at which it would have been the most difficult for sons of craftsmen and other practitioners to enter an academic career. As it turned out, of the three universities investigated here, Leiden was the most accessible. The direct comparison with Edinburgh delivers a puzzling result in that not only was Leiden more accessible for craftsmen, but Edinburgh was not accessible at all, even though craftsmen had representation in the town council as the main hiring body of the university. One difference between Edinburgh and the two Dutch universities undoubtedly was that Edinburgh was founded in a country with an existing university culture. St. Andrews, Glasgow and Aberdeen had universities long before, so there were existing academics and a pool of students within the country from which new staff could be recruited. This was markedly absent in the Dutch Republic, where ties with the only existing university in the Netherlands at Leuven were severely cut

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off at an early point. This might have well have aided some of the more unusual appointments in the early years of Leiden and Freneker, not only with respect to practitioners. Still, this difference does not fully explain the complete absence of craftsmen and other practitioner’s children at Edinburgh. After all, the university hired mostly local applicants and was not primarily focussed on graduates from other universities. In order to understand what was happening in Leiden, but not in Edinburgh, we need to look closer at bother cities. In both places, there were potentially qualified craftsmen and other practitioners. There had been craft families who acquired the formal status in the city that would provide them with formal recognition – either as burgess or as poorter. While the Edinburgh status as burgess was far more restrictive than the Leiden poorterrecht,71 in both cases it implied that these craftsmen belonged to a ‘literate profession,’72 which required writing and record-keeping, and they possessed high literacy levels compared to many other occupations of the time.73 In Edinburgh this probably included some Latin as well, as King James IV had brought in an act in 1496 encouraging the higher classes of Scotland, including the burgess, to “put their eldest sonnis and airis to the sculis”. 74 They were to be enrolled at eight or nine years of age and continue these studies until “thai be competentlie foundit and have perfite Latyne”.75 While this stipulation might never have been enforced and standards of Latin might have been rather low, we cannot assume that children of craftsmen in Edinburgh or Leiden would simply have lacked the necessary skills to pursue an academic career. Yet, formal status, recognition and ability might not be sufficient. In case of Edinburgh the town council turned out to be an gate keeper against practitioners, even though the crafts were represented in it. Representation does not necessarily mean power. In Edinburgh town politics had been a long struggle between the merchants and the craftsmen within the burgess. While craft guilds had long demanded access to the town council and other privileged positions within the city, the merchants were adamant not to retain a dominant position in the town, even if they grudgingly allowed some craft guild representation.76 The distinction between merchants and craftsmen among the burgess was a formative one for Edinburgh and the merchants made sure that it was upheld as clearly and distinctly as possible. They

71

72 73 74 75 76

Boudien de Vries and Jan Lucassen and Piet Lourens and Harm Nijboer, “Het economisch leven: Spectaculair succes en diep verval”, in: Rudi van Maanen and Simon Groenveld (eds.): Leiden: de geschiedenis van een Hollandse stadt. II. 1574–1675. Leiden: Stichting Geschiedsschrijving Leiden, 2003, pp. 84–107. Robert A. Houston, “The Literacy Myth? Illiteracy in Scotland 1630–1760,” Past & Present. 96 (1982), 81–102, here 87. Ibid. [put their eldest sons and heirs to the schools] “King James IV legislation 1496“, Records of the Parliaments of Scotland to 1707, Accessed 17 December 2013, http://www.rps.ac.uk/ [they be competently instructed and have perfect Latin] Ibid. For a more detailed account see Aaron Mitchell, Hiring Practices and Craftsmen at the University of Edinburgh, 1583 – 1750. M.A. thesis, University of Melbourne, Melbourne, 2014, ch. 6.

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did occasionally accept craftsmen to join a merchant’s guild, but only if the craftsmen agreed to forevermore abstain from physically undertaking any craft work.77 Historians of science have frequently pointed to the disdain the mechanical arts suffered in late medieval and early modern academia. Yet, it would be a mistake to overlook that this disdain was far more widespread.78 When Edinburgh merchants disassociated themselves from craftsmen they did so because they did not want to be associated with manual labour. While craftsmen were not necessarily unfreemen, ‘those from which all of these privileges were withheld’,79 they were not quite the free men worthy of the liberal arts. In Edinburgh, it was not that academia imposed its standards of freedom from manual labour on anyone wanting to join the university, it was the city imposing its standards on the university. Leiden was different, the city that is, not necessarily the university.80 While divisions between those who had privileges and those who did not were not necessarily less severe than in Edinburgh they were not played out in terms of manual labour. This might partly be due to the role of the textile industry with its peculiar roles that worked against guild structures. It is possible that even more important was the role of artisan trades in Leiden: painting, engraving, and book printing.81 These not only had a close affinity to the university, but they also had a prominent position within the city that would make it hard to distinguish prominent positions on the basis of the absence of manual labour. The Swanenburg family gives an instructive example here: As owners of a textile manufactory they probably would not have done any physical work themselves. However as painters and engravers Isaac, Jacob and Willem van Swanenburg did produce work with their own hands, two of them as contractors of the university. In a similar line, Frans van Ravelingen, professor of Arabic, had taken over the Leiden print workshop of his father-in-law, Christoffel Plantijn, and thus taken over the office of university printer, membership in the Leiden printer’s guild included.82 This does of course not imply that van Ravelingen – or Plantijn – would have considered themselves craftsmen. Yet, it does mean that the economic culture in Leiden blurred the line between scholars, artisans and craftsmen, the boundary between liberal and mechanical arts was not as distinct as it had been in Edinburgh. To be sure, Leiden University was not an open shop that openly welcomed qualified practitioners among its ranks. They was strong resistance against any one who was not able to master the thresholds put up by academia in terms of lan77 78 79 80 81 82

Cf. article 94 of the ‘Leges Quatuor Burgorum’, reprinted in: Ancient Laws and Customs of the Burghs of Scotland: A.D. 1124–1424.Edinburgh: Scottish Burgh Records Society, 1868, 46. See for example Alexander Cowan, “‘Not Carrying out the Vile and Mechanical Arts’: Touch as a Measure of Social Distinction in Early Modern Venice,” in: Alexander Cowan and Jill Stewart, The City and the Senses: Urban Culture since 1500. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007, 39–59. Neil Davidson, Discovering the Scottish Revolution. London: Pluto Press, 2003, 35. Dirk Noordam, Geringde buffels en heren van stand: het patriciaat van Leiden, 1574–1700. Hilversum: Verloren, 1994. On the economic conditions of book printing in Leiden see: Laura Cruz, The Paradox of Prosperity: The Leiden Booksellers’ Guild and the Distribution of Books in Early Modern Europe. New Castle, DE: Oak Knoll Press, 2009. Ibid., 79–91.

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guage and appearance. Still, there were occasionally opportunities to slip past these thresholds, if the circumstances allowed it. Family networks occasionally played an important part in these circumstances. Yet, there were cases, in which these networks would not be active, at least not openly. It might better to understand these networks as the expression of a civic culture that would allow some permeability between social strata that remained distinct in Edinburgh. The comparison with Franeker, where such networks apparently aided children from the local farming community to pursue academic careers, highlights the broader approach. Precisely, because Leiden university was not focussed locally in its hiring practice, it gave broader opportunities to aspiring scholars than other universities. The analysis of all three universities shows something else – the persistency of the academic habitus against whoever governs a university. In each case, a powerful group in the governing body – merchants in Edinburgh, craftsmen in Leiden and farmers in Franeker – managed to place some of their own in academic positions in the first decades of the academy’s existence. Yet, in each case this influence was temporary and subsided throughout the seventeenth century. Once the academic establishment had settled in, it was strong enough not to let any more outsiders in than absolutely necessary. In each case this seclusion somewhat eased in the beginning eighteenth century. Yet, that might be more the result of the early enlightenment with increased opportunities for education and for establishing oneself as an homme des lettres than a renewed strength of corporate politics acting from the outside on the university. One question remains: what did it matter? After all, the rationale for this study had been to follow the Zilsel thesis and look for the role of practitioners at early modern universities. So, when academics with a practical background entered the university as professors or lecturers, did that change the character of the university? A proper answer to this question is beyond the scope of this paper, but we want to try to give some indications on how such an answer might be. Around 1600, Leiden was first and foremost a humanist institution that was not corresponding too well to a practitioner’s ideal of science. Furthermore, most of the professors mentioned in their majority did not concern themselves with practical science, but followed traditional academic lines. However, there were those, both in Leiden and Franeker, who combined practical science with established academia. Until 1650, this mostly concerned mathematical science, in particular the teaching of practical mathematics in the vernacular known as Duytsche Mathematicque.83 With its official target audience – craftsmen aspiring to become surveyors or military engineers – the discipline transgressed the social boundaries of early modern 83

Pieter J. van Winter, Hoger beroepsonderwijs avant-la-lettre. Bemoeiingen met de vorming van landmeters en ingenieurs bij de Nederlandse universiteiten van de 17e en 18e eeuw. Amsterdam: Noord-Hollandsche Uitgevers, 1988; Jantien Dopper. A Life of Learning in Leiden: the Mathematician Frans van Schooten (1615–1660). PhD thesis, Universiteit Utrecht, Utrecht, 2014; Gerhard Wiesenfeldt, “The ‘Duytsche Mathematicque’: The Culture of Mathematics and the Family Network of Leiden University, ” in Charles van de Heuvel, Eric Jorink, Ilja Nieuwland & Huib Zuidervaart. (eds.), Locations of Knowledge. Leiden: Brill (in press).

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academia. It may thus be no coincidence that two of the first three teachers – Simon van der Merwe and Frans van Schooten, sr. – had a practitioner’s background. The two successors of van Schooten were two of his sons. In Franeker, Adriaan Metius taught the subject alongside his professorship of ordinary – Latin – mathematics.84 Later on, Jacob le Mort became the second professor of chemistry at Leiden and Abraham Cyprianus gave the first lectures in experimental natural philosophy at Franeker.85 This indicates that practitioner’s sons had some impact in the establishment of experimental science at both universities. More importantly, though, might be that the presence of professors from a craft and artisan background could lead to an academic culture in which resistance to epistemological claims derived from manual labour was less strong there than it had been elsewhere in Europe.

84 85

Arjen Dijkstra, Between Academics and Idiots: A Cultural History of Mathematics in the Dutch Province of Friesland (1600–1700). Ph.D. thesis, Twente University, 2012. Gerhard Wiesenfeldt, Leerer Raum in Minervas Haus: Experimentelle Naturlehre an der Universität Leiden, 1675–1715. Amsterdam: KNAW, 2002, esp. 292.

Uwe Hoßfeld

Geschichte der biologischen Anthropologie in Deutschland Von den Anfängen bis in die Nachkriegszeit

2., überarbeItete unD aktualIsIerte auflage Der autor Uwe Hoßfeld ist Leiter des Bereichs Biologie-Didaktik an der Universität Jena

Uwe Hoßfeld schreibt erstmals die Geschichte der biologischen Anthropologie in Deutschland: vom ersten Treffen deutscher Anthropologen 1861 in Göttingen bis in die Nachkriegszeit. Hoßfeld entwirft eine Gesamtperspektive, zeigt aber ebenso auf, in welcher speziellen Weise die Universität Jena über den Zoologen Ernst Haeckel hinaus für die Etablierung des Fachs im deutschen Sprachraum unter verschiedenen gesellschaftlichen Rahmenbedingungen bedeutsam war – und inwieweit sich in der Konturierung der biologischen Anthropologie nach 1900 bereits die weitere Entwicklung des Fachs im „Dritten Reich“ abzeichnete. Ein abschließendes Kapitel führt über den Nationalsozialismus hinaus bis hin zur Darstellung der Rezeption der so genannten „zweiten darwinschen Revolution“ (Synthetischer Darwinismus). aus Dem Inhalt Wesen und Methoden der (biologischen) Anthropologie |Die Situation vor Darwin | Der Beginn einer biologischen Anthropologie im 19. Jahrhundert | Die Internationale der biologischen Anthropologen | Ernst Haeckel als Anthropologe | Zur Institutionalisierung der (biologischen) Anthropologie | Aufstieg und Fall bis zur zweiten darwinschen Revolution | Von der Weimarer Republik zum Nationalsozialismus – Fallbeispiel Jena |Biologische Anthropologie und Evolutionsbiologie im Dritten Reich | Tendenzen und Strömungen der biologischen Anthropologie nach 1945

2016 573 Seiten mit 56 Abbildungen und 6 Übersichten 978-3-515-11238-3 kart. 978-3-515-11239-0 e-book

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Academic collections – spanning the arts, sciences, and medicine – are a prominent feature of many major universities. But the history of these collections, and the cultures that have cultivated them, have been strangely neglected. This interdisciplinary volume explores aspects of the history of academic collections as a university of things – represented by research, representation, application, and commodification. A group of international authors examines the nature of objects as a resource for the history of science and culture, in ways that have helped shape the research university of today.

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