ALL THE THINGS: BBC'S THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD IN 100 OBJECTS

Object of the Week | Carly Hall

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If you had to select 100 objects to depict the history of the world, what would you choose?

BBC Radio 4 and the British Museum decided to tackle this question, producing a 100-part radio series written and hosted by the former Director of the Museum, Neil MacGregor. The 2010 series, titled A History of the World in 100 Objects, was a hit; MacGregor captured the imaginations of millions of listeners as he recounted 2 million years of human history. The project was so successful that the British Museum was awarded the Art Fund Prize in 2011 for hosting the series.

The History of the World in 100 Objects collection. Source.

I’ve listened to the series in the past, and I too was enthralled by MacGregor’s storytelling and by the history of the objects. I was caught up in the symbolisms and the deeper, greater meanings and implications of the objects. But I’ve always wondered about the selection process in choosing the objects. The list is divided into 20 groups, each group covering a few hundred years of human experience. These groups are then composed of 5 objects intended to demonstrate important themes of each group (i.e., the Mass Production, Mass Persuasion [1780-1914 CE] group is made up of a ship’s chronometer from HMS Beagle, an early Victorian tea set, Hokusai’s ‘The Great Wave,’ a Sudanese slit drum, and a suffragette defaced penny). All objects were chosen exclusively from the British Museum’s collection; however, the online collection allowed international institutions and individuals to submit objects they felt deserved a place in world history. Some examples include Sputnik 1, 1979 Honda Civic, the condom, and a JFK/Johnson election campaign badge.

Now if you’re anything like me, you’re probably thinking: how can someone possible condense 2 million years of human experience into 100 objects? We have created a limitless inventory of objects for countless reasons and purposes, and it seems like an impossibly daunting task to choose a handful of things to describe our collective experience. Moreover, analysing The History of the World in 100 Objects requires us to consider the person/organization creating the list. Admittedly, I do not know BBC Radio's and the British Museum's intentions in creating this broadcast series. However, it seems to me that selecting popular objects exclusively from the Museum's collection (such a Parthenon Sculpture, a Hoa Hakananai'a Easter Island Statue, the Sutton Hoo helmet, the Lewis Chessmen) is a way to remind audiences of the Museum's power and seniority as a globally renown institution. On the flip side, it is a way to present objects to the public on a grander scale; the radio series, book, and online collection is internationally available free of charge.

While the website has a space for audiences and museums to submit their own objects, it would have been beneficial for the British Museum to partner with other institutions and cultural leaders. Doing so would have allowed the list to better reflect human history, not only by being inclusive to other collections, but also by reflecting culturally diverse voices. I'm not saying that the list is not culturally diverse. There are objects from many other counties and regions outside of Europe, such as North and South American indigenous communities, Africa, China, India, Iran Japan, Oceania and Russia. However, I cannot say for certain whether or not BBC and the British Museum collaborated with living source communities for this project.

I suppose that's the problem with trying to narrate human history using only 100 objects from just one institution; you risk overlooking objects that hold great importance to specific individuals or cultures. However, in keeping with the scope of the original list, the following is a brief list of objects from the British Museum that I think could have made the list:

A wampum belt, possible produced by Delaware or Iroquois peoples of North America. Wampum belts are significant forms of communication. They are records of history, transcending and challenging Western perceptions of legal documentation, especially pertaining to treaties between indigenous communities and European settlers.

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Hans Burkhardt’s 1948 lithograph, “After the Bomb.” an apocalyptic scene expressing the horrors of war and the terrifying possibility of nuclear holocaust. The invention of nuclear energy and weapons has impacted humans socially and politically, with fatal, long-lasting repercussions as seen in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and Chernobyl.

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Paa Joe's eagle-shaped coffin, created in 2000. Humans have always placed importance on the funeral celebrations/arrangements for their deceased. The Ga-speaking people of Ghana began creating these artistic coffins in the 1950s, introducing a new tradition of figurative coffins inspired by the eagle-shaped palanquins historically used by community leaders. The creation of new machinery, carpentry workshops, and the emergence of middle classes propelled this style of coffin to national and international popularity.

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Ilka Gedo's self portrait. Ilka was a Holocaust survivor, and completed a series of self-portraits in 1944 while she was in the Budapest ghetto. Honestly, I was surprised when I saw that the original list excluded an object associated with World War II or the Holocaust. I don't know what draws me to this self-portrait, but I find something beautifully defiant and resilient in creating art amidst the horrors of war.

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I encourage you to take a look at the The History of the World in 100 Objects and the British Museum's online collection and decide for yourself if you think they've missed something. In the meantime, I will leave you with a question: what object do you think is fundamentally essential to The History of the World in 100 Objects?

LET'S TALK ABOUT "POWER AND POSSESSION: THE ETHICS OF COLLECTING"

Collections Corner | Carly Hall

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What do you do when you want to procrastinate productively during reading week? Go to a museum talk!

Entrance to the Gardiner Museum, Toronto, Ontario. Photo courtesy of Carly Hall.

On Wednesday November 7th, the Gardiner Museum hosted a brilliant panel titled "Power and Possession: The Ethics of Collecting." Moderated by Sean O’Neill, the panel was comprised of individuals with different experience in museums: Dr. Mark Engstrom (Deputy Director of Collections & Research at the ROM), Candice Hopkins (Senior Curator of the Toronto Biennial of Art and co-curator of the SITE Santa Fe biennial, member of Carcross/Tagish First Nation), and Adrian Stimson (interdisciplinary artist exhibited nationally and internationally, Siksika Blackfoot Nation). The panel coincided with the Gardiner’s special exhibition Obsession: Sir William Van Horne’s Japanese Ceramics; however, the discussion was geared toward how museums practice ethical collecting, using Sir William Van Horne’s collection featured in Obsession as the starting point for conversation. In this post, I will summarize the panelists' opinions on two themes: narratives and practice, and repatriation.

Before a real discussion on the exhibition and ethics of collecting could begin, moderator Sean O’Neill provided some context on Sir William Van Horne. Born in America, Van Horne moved to Winnipeg in 1881 to help with the building of the Canadian Pacific Railroad. The construction of the CP Railway was done primarily by Chinese labourers, who received less pay and lived in poorer conditions than White labourers working on the railway. In 1889, he move to Montreal, settling in a mansion located on the Golden Square Mile. During Van Horne’s residency, 70% of the Canadian economy was controlled by the small group of men living in this neighbourhood. O’Neill also highlighted that as the President of the Canadian Pacific Railroad (appointed in 1888) and overseer of its expansion into Western Canada, Van Horne was complicit in the displacement and cultural genocide of Indigenous and Metis communities.

Portrait of Sir William Van Horne. Source.

Narratives and Practice

When it came to identifying the primary issue of Obsession, all panelists agreed that the problem was Sir William Van Horne himself. The exhibition lacks an uncritical analysis and contextualizing of Van Horne as 19th century industrialist, which lead to O’Neill’s first question for the panel: “What is our obligation to contextualize exhibitions?”

Candice Hopkins began by stating that museum professionals are faced with a “deeply unethical field,” for which “there is no playbook.” Therefore, institutions must attempt to establish and negotiate authority and advocacy for artists and communities, and strive to provide transparency in their collection practices. An example of this would be providing greater availability of an object's provenance to the public.

Dr. Engstrom agreed that there is an obligation for contextualization and the consultation of communities being represented in exhibitions. The responsibility to reach out to the community lies with the curatorial team; it’s “not enough to have the singular authoritative voice of the curator.” Regarding the ROM’s Indigenous collection, the risk of dubiously acquired objects has led curators to attempt to clarify all gaps in the provenance of any given object, and make these records publicly available in the archives.

Repatriation

Adrian Stimson was the first to state the obvious: Canada does not have a working repatriation legislation. Instead, communities must rely on advocacy and activism if they want an object to be returned. Stimson recalled the efforts of his own community to repatriate Blackfoot materials; 4000 letters were sent to 4000 museums around the world, and only 400 museums responded that they were in possession of Blackfoot material culture. The act of repatriating materials is more complex than simply returning an object. As Stimson noted, materials need to be properly housed to prevent damage; unfortunately, not all Indigenous groups have the monetary power to build the storage complexes necessary to house repatriated objects.

The ROM is certainly no stranger to repatriation requests. According to Dr. Engstrom, there have been an increase in requests to have Indigenous objects repatriated. Dr. Engstrom gave a basic depiction of what repatriation looks like at the ROM: a letter of interest for an object is sent from a community, the request is sent to the Board of Directors, the Board approves, and the object is sent home. “Ultimately, the institution has the say for repatriation,” which means that the ROM decides an object’s cultural patrimony when faced with multiple claims of an object from different communities.

Hopkins suggested that it would be more productive and equitable for a repatriation request to go to an external committee. Dr. Engstrom agreed, and then in a moment of candour he stated perhaps the biggest worry of the Board (and arguably of all museums with deep colonial roots): “If we give one thing away, do we then give away all objects of all cultures?” Cue the awkward silence.

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The night concluded with drinks, amazing one-on-one conversations, and after-hours access to Obsession. Before I left I took one last stroll through the gallery, reflecting on the panel and viewing the exhibition more critically than I had during my first visit. I couldn’t get Dr. Engstrom’s last question out of my head. Institutions should certainly repatriate objects to communities with legitimate claims – but what does this mean for the future of museums and collections? At the moment I honestly can't say, but it's absolutely worth thinking about.

The Gardiner Museum will be hosting Obsession: Sir William Van Horne’s Japanese Ceramics until January 20, 2019.

GRAMPA'S HUNTING TRIPS AND PERSONAL COLLECTIONS

Collections Corner | Carly Hall

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Do you consider yourself to be a collector? When I’ve asked this to people who tend to accumulate a specific kind or genre of object, most of the time their answer is no.

As students of Museum Studies, we know the importance of collections: they safeguard our cultural heritage and human experiences for future generations. This is obvious in museums and galleries, but can this also be applied to the personal collections of seemingly everyday objects? From my own experience, I argue that it certainly can.

My first memories of collecting come from my grandfather, though during the early years of my childhood I had no concept of collecting. Every year in the spring, Grampa would pack up his truck and head up-north to hunt. When he returned in the fall, his truck had transformed into a trove of natural materials. Most memorable were the deer antlers and hooves, rocks, bark, and rabbit’s feet. He would go through each object with me, encouraging me to hold and touch everything he brought back. He’d tell me the story behind his favourite objects, explain the importance of hunting in certain communities, and sometimes show me photographs of his home-away-from-home. While he was away hunting, I would gather leaves, sticks, bits of egg-shells fallen from trees, and rocks so I could share my own stories when he came back.

Unwittingly, I was learning how to collect things and display them in such a way that articulates their importance. With each passing year, I accumulated more and more natural materials, and had to decide which things were worth keeping.

Recently found objects in Mississauga, Ontario. Courtesy of Carly Hall.

I credit my fascination and impulse to collect natural materials to my grandfather. To this day, I continue to add things to my childhood collection—everything carefully selected and organized to establish a connection to the man who returned every fall with stories and treasures.

Personal collections, no matter what they contain, are a way to educate ourselves and others on personal and shared histories. They facilitate story-telling and foster intergenerational relationships. The most obvious example of this function of collections are the volumes of photo-albums families keep and digitize so that their memories are better preserved. Personally, I love when people break out their old photographs and recount the history of their family through first-hand knowledge, or knowledge inherited from previous generations.

Family photographs taken between 1949 - 1956. Courtesy of Wanda Hart.

One of the wonderful aspects of the human species is that we do collect things, either consciously or unconsciously. We assemble objects that outwardly reflect our interests, we keep things that connect us to our ancestral past or certain memories, and we shape our world view via knowledges amassed over our life-time. In this sense, every person is a walking museum, and there’s something pretty fantastic about that.