Cultures in Motion: The Huichol Film Project 1973-1975 Part II

For Part I of this blog post please click here.

 

Image from copy at University of California Libraries.
Accessed via Internet Archive

Kalman Müller was not to the first outsider to experience the Hikuri Neixa (a ceremony which marks the end of the Huichol year and the time prepare the soil for planting and to call upon the rain), but he was likely the first to film it. Other foreign researchers, mostly ethnographers, had visited San Andres Cohamiata during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The eminent Norwegian explorer and ethnographer Carl Lumholtz (1851 – 1922) had been the most prolific researcher to visit the place to date. On a grant from the American Museum of Natural History, Lumholtz visited most of the indigenous communities in Sierra Madre from 1895 to 1898. Following this experience, in 1900 and in 1902, Lumholtz would author Symbolism of the Huichol Indians and Unknown Mexico, which remain important works on the Huichol. 

Like Lumholtz, Müller also extensively documented Huichol lifeways, but he stuck to the camera. After filming the Hikuri Neixa ceremony in 1973, Müller produced and helped produce four more film projects totaling 43,590 feet of film (approximately 20 hours).[i] The Huichol ceremonies of Las Pachitas, the Peyote Pilgrimage, and the

Cambio de Varas are among other important ceremonies that Müller documented. Aspects of daily life of Huichols, with a particular emphasis on child rearing and development also figure prominently in the films.

Notes for camera roll 28, 

helping to identify film after processing and printing.

HSFA 1989.3.3 (ephemera)

This interest did not come from Müller himself, but came from of a group of researchers at the National Institute of Health, the patrons who had financed Müller’s expedition into the Sierra Madre.[ii]

Indeed, one key difference between the film project Müller led in Mexico and the film projects he had led in Europe or the South Pacific, was that the former was conceived and produced as a scientific project. The project was itself part of a broader research agenda to use film as a research method.



According to E. Richard Sorenson, Müller’s supervisor for this project and one of the proponents of the film research agenda:

because the light sensitive emulsion of film produces an objective chemical facsimile of the pattern of light falling on it, it preserves a phenomenological record of the pattern of light received. The data does not have to be screened by the cognitive organization of a human observer before it can be preserved. Because of this, film preserves information not just of what has been “seen” and “selected” by the culturally programmed mind of the filmer but also what he has not.[iii]

Film, in other words, would be inevitably more objective a method of describing reality than the pen of even the most experienced researcher. Unlike humans, the argument went, cameras could capture a fuller representation of the present, which would enable future researchers to see aspects which would have otherwise escaped the eye of the field researcher. Sorenson’s perspective was heavily influenced by his mentor Margaret Mead, who also believed in the objectivity and emancipatory nature of film. It was this faith in film that motivated Mead to help found the National Anthropological Film Center in 1975, the predecessor to today’s Human Studies Film Archives.

Huichol social interaction at the Fiesta de las Pachitas, Summer 1974 [iv]
Frame grab from HSFA 1989.3.1-3A

Applied to the Huichol people of San Andres, the research film method would generate increased understanding on questions such as: How do children in isolated societies become “enculturated”? How do psychedelic plants influence indigenous social organization? And, perhaps more importantly, what can the U.S. learn from people like the Huichol to address their own sociocultural ailments?[v]  

In practice, however, the research film method as Müller applied translated into long and mostly static takes without an explicit narrative arc or angle, and indeed most of the 46 film rolls that make up this collection were made this way. The other, and perhaps more important component of the Huichol project as a scientific enterprise, was the annotations to the films themselves. Dozens of synchronized and non-synchronized, Spanish and English annotations accompany the films Müller made. These annotations, drafted in collaboration with Eliseo Castro Villa (Müller’s main indigenous informant/collaborator in San Andres) and Rocio Echaverría (a government nurse who had worked in San Andres for many years prior to Müller’s arrival and who would marry him in 1973), added a rich layer of detail on the specific names and processes for the people, ceremonies, plants and other things filmed. 

Kalman Müller narrating the first time a child in San Andres Cohamiata consumes peyote during the Hikuri Neixa ceremony, Winter 1975. HSFA 1989.3.3-9A 16mm workprint (Workprint is a temporary copy of film footage used for editing. It can have unstable color dyes causing the film to fade to a reddish hue.)

This added layer greatly amplifies the amount of contextual information about the moving images that appear on the films. But it would be after longs hours of conversation—while annotating these films behind a flat bed editing table—when Müller, Castro, and Echaverría would reveal even more telling pieces of information regarding Huichol culture and behavior. For it was at these times, when the commentators would reveal in jest, irritation, or silence, how their visions and concerns about the Huichol people differed. 

It is through Echaverría’s silence, punctuated with occasional outbursts of detailed information during one of these sessions, that one learns about the ways the Huichol people were coping with the debt and poverty the U.S.-backed Green Revolution was bringing to Huichol communities in the early ‘70s. [vi] It is through Müller’s repetitive dismissal of her comments that we may infer why she keeps mostly silent through the annotation process. It is also through Castro’s mocking of Müller as a friend of the Huichols who does not know their names that we learn about his possible irritation with the project.[vii]  A frustration which other Huichols may or may not have shared with Castro but that nonetheless makes one wonder: what was the story on the other side of the lens?

Photo by Kalman Müller, 1975

As master storytellers who were historically weary of the power of narratives in shaping their cultures, landscapes, and societies, who knows how the Huichol of San Andres Cohamiata may have bent their own reality for Müller’s camera?  We may never know, but what is certain is that to understand how cultures negotiate power in film, we must look at what lay behind the camera as well as in front of it.  

Enabling viewers to do so—to see through both sides of the lens—is indeed what makes the Huichol Film Project most remarkable. Influenced by the scientific film method, the extensive annotations and structured approach to filmmaking of this collection offer not only a more nuanced image of the Huichol people as film subjects, but also a more detailed glimpse into the culture and perspective of its filmmakers. As a clear and multifaceted window into the past, this collection represents a valuable resource for scholars interested in the history of film and of the Huichol people. For its incredible detail on the social and cultural practices of their ancestors, the Huichol Film Project should be of most interest and value to the Huichol people of San Andres Cohamiata. 

José Carlos Pons Ballesteros

Graduate Fellow

NMNH-Department of Anthropology

Original film footage of the Huichol Film Project, along with sound recordings and associated documentation, form part of the collections of the Human Studies Film Archives.  You can find more information about this film collection here.

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[i] According to catalogue records the Huichol Film Project is made of 50 camera rolls, according to the Processing Proposal for the collection, the Huichol Film Project is made of 46 rolls.  Muller’s footage was used to produce the edited film Huichols: People of the Peyote around 1976. Thomas Perry produced this film in collaboration with Steven Dreben, who edited and directed it.

[ii] There is dark back story to the main proponents of this research film method, visual anthropologist E. Richard Sorenson (1939 – 2015) and his mentor medical researcher Carleton Gajdusek (1923 – 2008), interest in childhood development, which I will not address here as it is complex and not the focus of this essay.  Suffice it to say that Gajdusek was charged with child molestation in April 1996. For more information about this watch the excellent documentary The Genius and the Boys by Bosse Lindquist (2009) or read: Spark, Ceridwen. 2009. “Carleton’s Kids: The Papua New Guinean Children of D. Carleton Gajdusek.” The Journal of Pacific History 44 (1): 1–19. 

[iii] Quote drawn from The Huichol Film Project, Unfinished Draft of the Huichol Enculturation: a Preliminary Report. Human Studies Film Archives, Smithsonian NMNH.

 [iv] The Huichols celebrate the Fiesta de las Pachitas around the time of Ash Wednesday. This ceremony mixes Mesoamerican, Mexican, and Catholic symbolism and rituals to commemorate the early attempts by Catholic missionaries to convert the Huichol people into Christianity. For this festival the Huichol participants are divided into two main bands, the Jews and the Toros, while the rest of the community watches, as the film roll 89.3.1-3A suggests, often in jest. The Jews represent the Huichol ancestors. The Huichol represent the Jews by painting their faces black, some men dressing as women, all of whom try to escape the Toros. Huichols representing the Toros carry red flags and bull horns with which they run after the Jews. One interesting historical relationship this festival, and in particular the depiction of Christian missionaries as Toros, may speak to is the connection between the arrival of Christianity and the development of cattle agriculture in northwest Mexico. For more information on this complex ceremony read:  Jáuregui, Jesús. "Las Pachitas en la Mesa del Nayar (Yaujque’e)." Dimensión antropológica 34 (2009). 

[v] The Huichol Film Project, Grant Application. Human Studies Film Archives, Smithsonian NMNH. The question as to what Western society can learn from indigenous peoples is not unique to the Huichol film project, in fact it has served as the inspiration for much of the ethnographical research that has been conducted for the last half-century. For a short but interesting comment on this matter see the Introduction by Kathleen Berrin in her edited book Art of the Huichol Indians, 1979.

[vi] Huichol FIlm Project, 1975, sound roll 1989.3.3-1, annotation track in Spanish. This tape describes the First Use of  a Corn Thresher

[vii] Huichol FIlm Project, 1975, round roll 1989.3.1-14, annotation track in Spanish. This tape describes the yearly Huichol Tree Planting Ceremony

What Would Frank Espada Do?

As I walk through the streets of the nation’s capital, there is never any shortage of interesting sights. But it is not the monuments nor the plethora of restaurant chains that catch my attention. Instead, I am fascinated by the social ills of society that are so often deemed invisible by our very own conscious effort to look the other way. The homelessness, protests, and social inequality I have witnessed are nothing new, but the way in which I now view these things is.

Man participating in a school boycott in New York, 1964. Frank Espada Photographs, ca. 1970-2000, 
Archives Center, National Museum of American History. AC1395-0000004. 

For over a month now, I have made the trip from downtown Silver Spring to Washington D.C. My destination: the National Museum of American History. As an intern in the Archives Center, my main task has been to process the Frank Espada Photographs Collection. The collection consists of several thousand black-and-white photographs and what seems to me an endless amount of negatives. Apart from processing the collection, it is also my responsibility to understand who Frank Espada was. At first, the answer was simple: a Puerto Rican photographer who documented the Puerto Rican diaspora and later published a book with some of his most famous photographs. But as archival work would soon teach me, the answer is never that easy.

School children in Puerto Rico. Undated. Frank Espada Photographs, ca. 1970-2000,
Archives Center, National Museum of American History. AC1395-0000002.

Walter, a migrant worker and union organizer, in his home located in Glassboro, New Jersey. 1981. Frank Espada Photographs, ca. 1970-2000, Archives Center, National Museum of American History. AC1395-0000003.

As I sift through the countless photographs, I am mesmerized by the stories that each one tells. Espada traveled to various cities in the United States and Puerto Rico and had a talent for capturing scenes and activities. One minute I could find myself in the bustling streets of East Harlem and the next in the San Juan Festival at Cabrillo Beach, California. More importantly, Espada specialized in capturing the raw emotions that are displayed by our countless facial expressions. In the collection, I have encountered photographs of individuals filled with extreme joy and happiness, and by complete contrast, photographs of individuals filled with grief and emotional pain. It’s these photographs that capture the eye of an observer. As I dug deeper into the collection, I realized that Frank Espada was more than just a talented photographer.

Included in the collection are black-and-white photographs taken by Frank Espada during the Civil Rights Era. It’s here that it became clear to me how much his life revolved around community activism. He was driven by a sense of social justice and worked to improve his community and counter the racism and discrimination of the 60s and early 70s. In two photographs, he appears standing next to a sign that reads, “East New York Action”. Espada founded East New York Action, a community organization created for the sole purpose of addressing issues in the community. East New York Action organized rent strikes, educated people on welfare rights, and registered voters. There are photographs of the Puerto Rican Community Development Project, an organization that Espada worked for as a community organizer. Additionally, he had strong ties with the United Bronx Parents and the Young Lords, among others. Frank Espada was a determined leader with an ability to connect with others and a dedication to his community that was hard to match.

I think of Frank Espada and his work, both as a photographer and as a community leader, and comprehend his vision of the world. He saw beauty in every photograph, but understood that the most important thing he could do was help others through their struggles and listen to their stories when the world surrounding them chose to turn a blind eye. It is this part of the collection that impacts me the most. As I continue my walk through D.C., I ask myself, “What would Frank Espada do if he witnessed everything I see on my walks to work?”

I think back to the 30 cassettes in the collection that I spent two weeks digitizing. Each cassette had full-length interviews conducted by Frank Espada of community leaders such as Jack Agüeros, Willy Vasquez, and Juan Gonzalez, among others. Personally, it was my favorite part of the collection, as I was able to place a voice on several of the faces I saw in photographs. It was here that I realized what Espada was doing: he was giving a voice to the community. While his photographs did the work of establishing a national presence of Puerto Rican culture and identity, these interviews showcase the collective work that was being done across the country to improve the lives of Puerto Ricans and other Latinos living in the United States. They were a clear reminder that we must give a voice to the communities that are often silenced by the social barriers of inequality.

Self-portrait of Frank Espada standing in front of East New York Action. Undated.
AC1395-0000001.

So what would Frank Espada do? He would remind us that we must take the time to listen to each other’s stories and to speak up for ourselves and for others. He would remind us that if we do not take the time to do these things, we are incapable of seeing the world through more than one lens, oblivious of the things happening around us. And of course, he would do all of this with a camera in hand, ready to capture us in our most intimate moments. This is what Frank Espada would do.

Edwin Rodriguez, Intern
Archives Center, National Museum of American History

Three German Ships, Puerto Rico, and the Great War: the First Shots Fired by the U.S. in WWI

Theodoor de Booy in the Dominican Republic in 1916 (N04834).

In 1915, Theodoor de Booy, an archaeologist of the Museum of the American Indian, predecessor of the National Museum of the American Indian (NMAI), took photos of Old San Juan in Puerto Rico, which are now part of the Theodoor de Booy negatives and photographs collection. Included among this collection are photographs of three ships named S.S. Odenwald, S.S. KD-III, and S.S. Präsident. Considering this an oddity, I investigated further and what I discovered was a story that involved World War I, the Fortress of el Morro in San Juan harbor, a German scheme, and what many consider to be the first shots fired by the U.S. in the Great War.

The Fortress of El Morro guarding in the entrance of San Juan Harbor, 1915.
Photo by Theodoor de Booy (N04073).

Three Ships and a War

The story takes place in the harbor of San Juan between August 1914 and March 1915 when the U.S. was still a Neutral Power and Puerto Rico was already an American colony. The three ships were:

The S.S. Odenwald in San Juan Harbor, 1915.
 Photo by Theodoor de Booy (N04078).

The Odenwald, a German merchant freighter (a coal collier) that began to service the German Navy days after the beginning of the war. Her duty was to serve as support freighter for the cruiser SMS Karlsruhe whose mission was to patrol the eastern Atlantic in search of, raid, and sink enemy merchant vessels. She sailed into San Juan harbor around August 6 or 7, 1914, possibly seeking refuge against a British squadron of warships. Since the U.S. was a neutral state, it is possible that her crew claimed to be a merchant ship. But, the U.S. authorities seem to have been suspicious of these claims.

The S.S. Präsident in San Juan Harbor, 1915.
Photo by Theodoor de Booy (N04077).

The S.S. Präsident was a German vessel that served as a combination of passenger and cargo ship before the war. When the war broke out, she, too, began to serve in the German Navy as a support vessel to the cruiser Karlsruhe by providing radio communication and supplies. She arrived in Puerto Rico on December 1914 to take refuge from British and French cruisers that were hunting her and eventually was interned (to impound or confine until the end of the war) by the U.S. government.



The S.S. K.D.-III (Farn) in San Juan Harbor, 1915. P
hoto by Theodoor de Booy (N04079).

S.S. K.D.-III, a German tender ship that was actually the captured British coal collier Farn. While not at the service of the British Navy, she was carrying 3,000 tons of coal when captured by the Karlsruhe on October 1914 off the coast of South America. It was renamed K.D.-III (K.D. standing for Kohlendampfer or coal carrier). She sailed into San Juan on the 11th or 12th of January, 1915 to obtain supplies. Declared a tender boat of the German Navy on January 15, it was interned by the U.S. authorities.

Days Before the Incident

The story begins on March 18, 1915 when the captain of the S.S. Odenwald, C. S. Segebarth, requested (1) clearance to sail back to Hamburg the next day and (2) 5000 tons of coal for such trip. Suspicious of the request the local authorities decided to consult with Washington, D.C. and, afraid that the vessel may leave without clearance, alerted the commanding officer of the Porto Rico Regiment of Infantry (PRPI) at the fortress of El Morro. Washington approved the use of force if necessary and the German captain of the Odenwald was warned several times. Despite the Germans assurances that they did not intend to leave without clearance, the local authorities made preparations in case a situation developed. A machine gun platoon was placed on the Bastión de San Agustín, 500 feet from the Morro Castle (see plan of the Bay) commanded by Captain Wood and the heavy guns of El Morro were readied under the command of Lt. Teófilo Marxuach.



The Incident
On the afternoon of March 21, the customs inspector returned to the Odenwald, but his visit was cut short when the Odenwald started her engines around 3:00 pm and began moving on the main channel towards the mouth of the harbor without clearance. The custom collector was asked to leave in a small boat. As the Odenwald passed the Bastión de San Agustín, Captain Wood, standing on the parapet of the sea wall, hailed the vessel several times without success; the Odenwald stayed on course. Captain Woods ordered Puerto Rican Sgt. Encarnación Correa, to fire warning-shots with his machine-gun without any success. Failing to stop the vessel, Lt. Marxuach was ordered to fire a warning shot 300 yards across the bow of the Odenwald from El Morro’s 4.7 inch gun. This was the convincing shot and the Odenwald stopped and dropped anchor at the mouth of the harbor under the fortress. She was eventually moved that same day to the upper harbor with a local pilot.



Map of San Juan Harbor with annotations and calculations by Lt. Teófilo Marxuach for his report of the incident (National Archives).

Despite the fact that the U.S would not declare war to Germany for two more years, these shots have been considered by some American and Puerto Rican historians as the first ones fired by the U.S. in World War I. Perhaps, the main reason for this conclusion is that the whole incident took place within the context of the war. While not involved in the fighting, even the status of neutrality of the U.S. and other countries was the result of and defined by the conflict. Interestingly, these shots were fired by Puerto Ricans who did not become American citizens until Congress passed the Jones-Shafroth Act two years later in March of 1917.

L. Antonio Curet, Curator

National Museum of the American Indian

"Every Minute Counts"--The Legacy of Katherine Joseph

Garment Workers on the Home Front. Photograph by Katherine Joseph, ca. 1942. © Richard Hertzberg and Suzanne Hertzberg. Katherine Joseph Papers, Archives Center, National Museum of American History

Photography was a vibrant and exciting part of her life. Though she ended her career for marriage and motherhood, her work demonstrates an assertive and enterprising personality. She was a determined professional in a field that few women entered. She stood near such luminaries as President Franklin Roosevelt, First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt, and Frank Sinatra, but also spent considerable time in factories where members of the International Ladies Garment Workers Union (ILGWU) worked. She practiced her craft with simple equipment, yet produced results that convey strength, dignity, and respect. Until a few years ago nobody knew anything about her achievements, particularly those closest to her, her children.

Who was she? This was forgotten photojournalist Katherine Joseph. You haven’t heard of her career as an intrepid, enterprising female photographer during the 1930s and 1940s, based mainly in New York City--certainly not after World War II, when she was already married to electrical engineer Arthur Hertzberg and had put her venerable Rolleiflex camera into a closet and taken on the role of spouse and mother. From that point on she never picked up a camera again and did not discuss her premarital photographic adventures with anyone.

Katherine Joseph near her darkroom. © Richard Hertzberg and Suzanne Hertzberg. Katherine Joseph Papers, 1938-1944, Archives Center, National Museum of American History. 

So it is both fitting and ironic that her children, Richard and Suzanne Hertzberg, are responsible for discovering and disclosing Katherine Joseph’s photographic legacy. Several years after her death in 1990 hundreds of negatives, photographs, notes, diaries, and journal entries were found in the family home’s attic by her daughter. Those dusty boxes contained the remnants of Katherine Joseph’s secret life.

Recognizing the value of this archive, Richard and Suzanne Hertzberg donated it to the National Museum of American History in 2007. Richard found an intriguing family connection with his own passion for photography. It had remained a mystery, since there was no explicit communication about photography between mother and son--although in the mid–1960s Ms. Joseph handed over to Richard an old Rolleiflex square-format camera, with no background about its history. When he visited the Smithsonian in 2014 to see the complete Katherine Joseph collection, he found many 2 ¼" by 2 ¼" negatives that were clearly taken with the same Rolleiflex his mother had passed on to him, and which he had used to take his first photographs.

Richard also became convinced that a fitting tribute to his mother’s photography would be an exhibition, and he submitted a proposal to the Oregon Jewish Museum / Center for Holocaust Education (OJM / CHE) in Portland, Oregon (he lives in one of the city’s suburbs). OJM / CHE’s Executive Director, Judy Margles, along with the institution’s staff and Exhibition Committee, were enthusiastically supportive. Judy accompanied Richard on his second visit to view the Joseph collection in 2015 and, upon seeing firsthand the material, was even more committed to an exhibit. The two met with National Museum of American History staff, Rosemary Phillips, Cathy Keen, and David Haberstich, to discuss cooperating in making the exhibit, Every Minute Counts - Photographs by Katherine Joseph, happen. Kay Peterson was very helpful from the outset, and Joe Hursey created high–quality TIFF digital images that were used to make new prints for the exhibit. It opened on June 29 and runs to September 25.

Katherine Joseph was born in Odessa, Ukraine in the early 20th century, the youngest of five children. The family immigrated to the United States when she was a baby, and her early years were spent in El Paso and Chicago. Katherine had an independent character; free from “Old World” cultural constraints, she moved to New York City to practice photography. She secured a position with the International Ladies Garment Workers Union (ILGWU) that enabled her to document the garment industry labor force before and during World War II. The relationship between worker, machine, and urban/industrial environment was a prominent theme in many of her Union photographs.

The ILGWU was a strong advocate of improving working conditions and promoting employment for all Americans regardless of gender or ethnicity. As such it attracted political attention. Ms. Joseph’s photographic portfolio includes candid views of President Franklin Roosevelt, First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt, Harry Truman, a very young Frank Sinatra, and the colorful New York City Mayor Fiorello La Guardia. One memorable photo of President Roosevelt showed him surrounded by members of the cast from the Union production of “Pins and Needles” when the show was staged for the President at the White House on March 3, 1938.

Girls sewing, Mexico, 1941. Photograph by Katherine Joseph.  © Richard Hertzberg and Suzanne Hertzberg. Katherine Joseph Papers, 1938-1944, Archives Center, National Museum of American History. 

Katherine Joseph’s photographic career also took her far from the garment factories of New York City. In January 1941 she and two friends from Chicago embarked on an expedition to Mexico in an “Americar” manufactured by the Willys–Overland Motor Company. The firm wanted to demonstrate the rugged nature of the car as part of a public relations and advertising campaign. Ms. Joseph was to provide visual proof of the car’s durability through her photographs as it was driven over Mexican roads, paved and unpaved. Her photographs also displayed the dignity of poor farmers, the vibrancy of street markets, and the country’s varied geography.

Market Day: A Family Affair, Tamazunchale, Mexico, 1941. Photograph by Katherine Joseph.  © Richard Hertzberg and Suzanne Hertzberg. Katherine Joseph Papers, 1938-1944,  Archives Center, National Museum of American History. 

The journey took the adventuresome trio through much of northern, central, and coastal Mexico. Representing themselves as members of “la prensa” (the press), Ms. Joseph and her companions gained access to people, places, and experiences well beyond a conventional tourist itinerary. This included Germans who had established business and financial operations in Mexico and were either outright Nazis or Nazi sympathizers; William Randolph Hearst dining with Marion Davies; gold and silver mines in the Sierra Madre Mountains; the earthquake and volcanic eruption in Colima, April 15, 1941; travel by horse and burro to remote areas; accommodations ranging from the utterly primitive to luxurious. When Hollywood celebrities visited the American Embassy for a “good will” social event with Mexican government officials on April 12, 1941, Ms. Joseph was there. Her camera captured Wallace Beery, Joe E. Brown, Mickey Rooney, Norma Shearer, and Johnny Weissmuller.

Goodwill Fiesta Farewell Gala: Norma Shearer and Mickey Rooney, Mexico City, 1941. Photograph by Katherine Joseph.
© Richard Hertzberg and Suzanne Hertzberg. Katherine Joseph Papers, 1938-1944, 
Archives Center, National Museum of American History. 

The date and circumstances of Katherine Joseph’s departure from Mexico are obscure. However, by August 1941 at the age of 27 she was back in New York City, again working for the ILGWU. Her photographs reveal the ILGWU labor force on the home front serving the war effort. As World War II ended, Ms. Joseph married and started a family. This became her priority and the camera was set aside.

Whether she was in a Manhattan garment workshop or a Mexican town, Katherine Joseph’s photographs display a profound respect for the fundamental dignity of the people she brought into focus, regardless of their circumstances or position in life. At the same time she was very aware of those circumstances and they became part of the subject matter, serving literally as a compositional frame or stage for the individual lives she presented in her photographs.

Earthquake damage to buildings and street, Colima, Mexico, April 16, 1941. Photograph by Katherine Joseph.  © Richard Hertzberg and Suzanne Hertzberg. Katherine Joseph Papers, 1938-1944. Archives Center, National Museum of American History. 

In reviewing the Katherine Joseph exhibit at the OJM / CHE--the first public display of her work-- Bob Hicks of Oregon Arts Watch wrote the following:

"Her photography in the 1930s and 1940s slides her neatly into a category of humanistic documentarists that also includes the likes of Dorothea Lange…and Margaret Bourke-White…The images range from the factory floor to the White House…and capture the lives of hourly workers and giants of the entertainment and political worlds. The images in the exhibit are all shot in black and white, lending the work a sense of historical veracity, and are compellingly framed, with the vital trait that excellent news and documentary photographers share of freezing telling moments in intimate and lively circumstances…"

For more information about Katherine Joseph and her exhibit at the Oregon Jewish Museum, visit their website: http://www.ojmche.org/.

Richard Hertzberg and David Haberstich
Archives Center, National Museum of American History

Flashback Friday: Dia de los Muertos

Blogs across the Smithsonian will give an inside look at the Institution’s archival collections and practices during a month long blog-a-thon in celebration of October’s American Archives Month. See additional posts from our other participating blogs, as well as related events and resources, on the Smithsonian’s Archives Month website.

Day of the Dead Sugar Skulls, Puebla, Mexico, 1973. Photograph by Flora Kaplan (S12638). Flora Kaplan collection.  National Museum of the American Indian, Archive Center

While some of us are gearing up for Halloween, making costumes and purchasing candy, many folks in Mexico are preparing to celebrate el Dia de los Muertos, also known as the Day of the Dead. Prior to Spanish colonization in Mexico, pre-Columbian cultures, such as the Aztec, celebrated and honored the dead in a month long festival beginning in August. In an attempt to Christianize the indigenous rituals associated with honoring the dead, the Spaniards moved the festival to November 1st and November 2nd to coincide with All Saint’s Day and All Soul’s day. Today, the Day of the Dead is a national holiday in Mexico and is celebrated throughout the country with a variety of practices that merge both indigenous traditions and Catholic theologies. 

During the 1970’s Flora Kaplan witnessed and photographed many of the Day of the Dead traditions in the state of Puebla in East-Central Mexico. Though Kaplan was primarily in Mexico researching the techniques and lifestyles of Mexican potters, she took thousands of photographs documenting daily life in Puebla as well as in Chiapas, Oaxaca, Guerrero and Veracruz. These photographs, along with a small amount of manuscript material, are now held in the NMAI Archive Center as part of the Flora S. Kaplan collection. Kaplan’s photographs highlight many of the traditional ways the Day of the Dead is celebrated. For instance, flowers, particularly the Mexican cempasúchitl (marigolds), are placed on graves to honor the dead along with other favorite items of the deceased.  

Women buying marigolds in the market for the Festival of the Dead, Puebla, Mexico, 1973. Photograph by Flora Kaplan (S13628). Flora Kaplan collection. National Museum of the American Indian, Archive Center

Graves covered with flowers for the Day of the Dead celebrations, Puebla, Mexico, 1973. Photograph by Flora Kaplan (S13629). Flora Kaplan collection. National Museum of the American Indian, Archive Center

Ofrendas, or altars, in the home will often include food offerings such as pan de muerto (bread of the dead) and sugar skulls. Other items are often added to the ofrenda, like a toy for a deceased child, or a bottle of Tequila for an adult, These items are meant to create a welcoming environment for the spirit of the deceased. 

Ofrenda for Day of the Dead celebrations, Puebla, Mexico, 1973. Photograph by Flora Kaplan (S15377). 
Flora Kaplan collection. National Museum of the American Indian, Archive Center

Although the holiday originated in Mexico its traditions have spread to many other countries including the United States. The National Museum of the American Indian celebrates the Day of the Dead with a family festival where children and adults can share food, music and even make their own sugar skulls. 

Rachel Menyuk, Archives Technician
National Museum of the American Indian, Archive Center

Using Smithsonian Photographs to Document 50 Years of Continuity and Change at NMAH

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my current exhibition in the National Museum of American History before the New Year begins!  It so happens that 2014 was the fiftieth anniversary of the Museum, and the exhibition which I curated, “Continuity and Change: Fifty Years of Museum History,” was one of four special exhibitions dedicated to the celebration of that anniversary. Although “Continuity and Change” is intended as a “permanent” or perhaps semi-permanent display, researching the history of NMAH reminded me just how ephemeral assertions of permanence can be in the museum world!  The best example of this is the current name of the Museum, the result of an official change in 1980, whereas the building had opened to the public in 1964 as the Museum of History and Technology.  One of the other anniversary exhibitions, “Making a Modern Museum,” curated by Dr. Arthur Molella, emphasizes how the original name and emphasis of the Museum were partly rooted in the competitive spirit and mentality of the Cold War, and that a thinly veiled agenda was to glorify the history of American technological might in contrast with that of Communist nations.

On the other hand, the name reflected the curatorial organization of the Museum and its component collections.  We did have world-class collections of technological artifacts, and some of these collections and related exhibitions were international in scope.  When I worked in the Photographic History Collection, we tried to document the entire history of photography, including technology and art, regardless of the national origin of the artifacts and photographs.  In displays of photographic equipment (such as cameras) or photographs, we acknowledged nationalities in a neutral manner without emphasis or conclusions.  Of course, the Museum tended to accumulate more American items than non-American, for a variety of reasons—not the least of which was sheer convenience. Before I moved from Photographic History to the Archives Center I was devoting special attention to the acquisition of European and Japanese photographs.

Image of the Center Hall of the National Museum of American History, prior to its 2008 renovation. Inside the Center Hall, a group of visitors pause for a look at two favorite attractions of the museum, the Foucault pendulum and the awe-inspiring Star-Spangled Banner.  Photograph by Jeff Tinsley, November 1993.  From SI Archives, History of the Smithsonian Catalog.

The name “History and Technology” indicated what I call the “bifurcated” nature of the Museum.  It was like two museums in one.  If you entered the building from Constitution Avenue, you soon saw the central object, a Foucault pendulum in motion.  This was a powerful motif for the entire first floor, symbolizing science and technology—not only an overview of the history of physics and chemistry, but also specific technologies, including “heavy industry” and engineering, such as petroleum production, nuclear energy, bridges and tunnels, and transportation, such as railroads, plus lots of “old cars.” And would you believe there was also a “permanent” exhibition on the history of Arab pharmacy?

If you entered the second floor from the Mall entrance, you were immediately confronted by the enormous Star-Spangled Banner, hanging vertically on the far wall.  This iconic patriotic artifact symbolized American history, and the first floor was indeed devoted to American political history and cultural history (including the popular First Ladies’ gowns exhibition in its various iterations, which arguably combined political and cultural history).  The third floor sometimes seemed like a hodge-podge, with space allocated to American military history, plus exhibit halls on numismatics and postal history, textiles, ceramics and glass, graphic arts, photography, etc.  These displays were related because they represented technologies used to produce objects embodying visual communication, aesthetic design, or art.

One momentous event in the history of the building was a major fire on the third floor in 1970 (caused by a malfunctioning computer on display), but I couldn't work that story into my script, nor could I locate appropriate documentary photographs.  The Museum was very lucky: no collection artifacts were destroyed or seriously damaged in the fire, and a special infusion of Congressional funds for repairs was sufficient to complete the Hall of Photography, the Hall of Graphic Arts, and a Hall of News Reporting between them.  The postal history display was cleverly linked to Graphic Arts via a Benjamin Franklin period setting, since Franklin was both a printer and postmaster.  These adjacent "permanent" exhibitions formed a series on the theme of communication--although this may not have been obvious to the casual visitor.

"1876: A Centennial Exhibition," a re-creation of the Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition in 1876, in the Arts and Industries Building,, opened May 10, 1976. This section displays industrial wares by such companies as Reed & Barton, Doulton & Co., and Meriden Britannia Co.  Photographer unidentified.  SI Archives, Historic Images of the Smithsonian.

Although a variety of factors led to the Museum’s change of name and direction, one of the strongest was the influence of the Bicentennial of the United States in 1976.  A number of special exhibitions sponsored by the Museum both celebrated and explored the history of this country.  They required new directions, or at least new emphases, new collecting initiatives, and new programs.  As I recall, virtually the entire staff of the Museum was actively engaged in some aspect of planning one or more of these exhibitions for many months.  One of these exhibitions was not even located within the museum building proper, but occupied essentially all the display space in the Arts and Industries Building across the Mall.  In my exhibition I included photographs of that exhibition, "1876," which celebrated the Bicentennial through re-creating the look and feel of the Centennial of the United States one hundred years earlier.  I wanted to emphasize that our Museum is more than the building itself.  It is an organization which is not confined or defined by its physical boundaries--it could sponsor activities beyond the building itself, and still does.  The Museum's Bicentennial activities represented an exciting period, and the impact lingered, leading to new collecting and exhibition activities devoted to U.S. immigration and ethnic history, plus the history of American popular culture, sports, and entertainment.  The times were definitely changing for the Museum.

Combine those new initiatives and directions with various long-standing problems of infrastructure and varying approaches to the Museum's philosophy or agenda, and the stage was set for other far-reaching changes.  The most fundamental issue, in my estimation, was that the Museum opened to the public in 1964 without its full complement of “permanent” exhibitions.   Before construction, spaces had been allocated for exhibit “halls” that would correspond directly to the curatorial units, which had both the responsibility and privilege of making most of the decisions about what would be displayed, with considerable independence.  The Division of Ceramics and Glass had its “Hall of Ceramics and Glass” and the Division of Civil Engineering had its “Hall of Civil Engineering,” for example.  However, many of these exhibit spaces were undeveloped due to insufficient funds—and many remained empty, year after year.  From time to time these spaces were employed for other purposes, and their future grew murky: some of the planned exhibit halls never materialized.  That reality, combined with the occasional criticism of the Museum as being confusing to visitors—who didn’t always comprehend the “two museums in one” concept; plus far-reaching philosophical changes in the entire museum world which tended to privilege (as academics like to say) thematic displays over the discipline-specific; plus the already aging infrastructure of the building needing repairs, etc.; plus a sense that the Museum needed changes to revitalize it, eventually led to major architectural modifications as well.  These assertions are over-simplifications which omit other significant factors, but they constitute more than I had room to say in my exhibit labels!

One of the consequences of the major re-design of the Museum’s center core was the final removal of what many regarded as the Museum’s signature object, the Foucault pendulum, which was perhaps as symbolically important as the Star-Spangled Banner.  Certainly it suggested that the Museum would no longer emphasize science and technology.  One might say that the pendulum disappeared incrementally, having been pulled out of the way temporarily for various special programs, then having its cable shortened so it swung on the second floor through a much shorter arc than on the first floor--and eventually vanished, to the dismay of some repeat visitors. Adding a skylight to the center of the building meant that the very popular pendulum was being retired from service, almost certainly forever.  The pendulum bob now rests immobile in a glass case in Arthur Molella’s exhibition, “Making a Modern Museum.”  See also a related blog by Robert C. Post, "Fifty Years a Museum." Ironically, there still remains a symbol of science and technology on the Mall side of the Museum—sculptor Jose de Rivera’s gleaming “Infinity.” Documentation indicates that he was selected precisely to create a work to convey this melding of science, technology, modernity, and art to characterize the Museum.

Developing “my” exhibition was a challenge.  Although I was the curator of record, and Russell Cashdollar was the appointed designer, we had lots of help.  We had a project manager, Ann Burrola, to keep us on track and on time, but we also had weekly meetings that included other staff, most of whom were stakeholders in the exhibition in some sense.  I didn’t always get my way!  It was certainly a collaborative effort, and the exhibition would have looked quite different if I had always prevailed.  In the first place, I showed far fewer photographs than I had intended because the director of NMAH, John Gray, wanted the images to be large.  I have to admit that this constraint did keep the exhibit from being too verbose or text-heavy.  If I could have shown the sixty or seventy photographs that I had envisioned, there would have been sixty or seventy explanatory captions that might have overwhelmed the viewer.  As I have already indicated, the history of the Museum is complex and multi-faceted, and it really needs a book-length treatment.

Colombian dancers demonstrating traditional dance in Museum, ca. 2013.  Photographer unidentified.

I lost one argument on aesthetic grounds, which can be irritating to an art historian, and I have jokingly suggested that I might develop another exhibition, a sort of “Salon des Refuses” containing the photographs that “they wouldn’t let me show."  Other photographs raised debate, but my big surprise was a photograph of a couple performing a traditional Colombian dance in a Museum exhibition space, and I thought it was quite lovely, colorful and exciting.  I had wanted to use this image to make two points: the increasing use of public programming in the Museum, including performances, as well as to represent the new emphasis on collecting Latino materials.  In meeting after weekly meeting, someone would ask if I couldn’t replace the dance picture with something else, and I demurred, puzzled.  Finally I asked point-blank why people objected to this favorite, and someone almost shouted, “Because it’s ugly!”  It seemed that people found the male dancer’s position ungainly.  I was amazed, but since everyone else agreed, I deleted the photograph, hoping to find a suitable substitute.  I never did, so I had to make the two verbal points the picture had represented by squeezing them into other captions where they didn't work as well.  (I welcome comments from readers about this photograph!)

Actor Joel Grey (left) at the ceremony for his donation of costumes from the musical “Cabaret,” 2013.  Photographer unidentified.

I did succeed, however, in persuading NMAH Director John Gray to allow me to use a picture which he wanted to cut.  He objected because he was in the photograph!  I told him that I thought it was the most aesthetically satisfying photograph in the show, striking and surrealistic in its juxtaposition of him with actor Joel Grey and strange costume elements between them (the occasion was Joel Grey’s presentation of gifts to the Museum in a public ceremony).  At first fearing that I had made a faux pas by suggesting that our director be shown in a humorous, surrealistic composition, I was relieved to find that it was  more a question of professional modesty (my over-simplified interpretation).  I begged to include it, and his staff helped me convince him.  That success balanced my failure to keep the dance photograph in the show.  You win some, you lose some!

Another consequence of the work on this exhibition was to make a few corrections in Smithsonian records.  I owe Nigel Briggs my gratitude for observing that an SI Archives photograph was mislabeled in the SIRIS catalog entry as depicting the opening reception for the Museum in 1964. The picture had appealed to me not only as a record of the opening, but because it showed a subject which would no longer be deemed appropriate for a museum of “American” history—images and artifacts obviously related to India.  Nigel knew that the photograph depicted a traveling exhibition devoted  to Jawaharlal Nehru’s India, photographed, organized and designed by the famous husband-wife team of Charles and Ray Eames, and wanted that added to the caption.  Closely inspecting the image proved that Nigel was correct, and by conducting simple research, I found that the exhibition opened in the Museum months later, in 1965.  It wasn’t a photograph of the opening reception for the Museum—I found nothing suitable—but it still showed the kind of exhibition which could occur in our Museum in the 1960s, but would not in the 2010s, a point which was still useful to make.  Pam Henson at SI Archives happily corrected the SIRIS record for this image.

Traveling exhibition designed by Charles and Ray Eames, titled "Jawaharlal Nehru: His Life and His India," on display at the new Museum of History and Technology, now known as National Museum of American History, from October 26, 1965, to January 2, 1966.  Photographer unidentified.  Historic Images of the Smithsonian catalog.

I hope to produce an expanded discussion of the exhibition elsewhere.  I’ll admit to having a long history with this Museum myself—no, I wasn’t here for the grand opening, but I arrived not too long afterward.  I took on this exhibition project not out of personal nostalgia, but because I thought I had the advantage of useful memories and perspective.  As I expected, I also found new information in the process.  I was lucky to have SIRIS catalog records and our digital asset management system for image searches, as having to locate all the original negatives or transparencies would have been far more challenging and time-consuming.  It was maddening to find enticing pictures in Flickr, however, minus metadata or adequate captioning.  Please, always remember the importance of metadata!

David Haberstich
Curator of Photography, NMAH Archives Center

Water, Water, Everywhere. And Latino studies too!

As a curator of Latino Studies at the Anacostia Community Museum, I am often asked where my work fits within the museum’s initiatives.  The answer is: EVERYWHERE. 

Here is one example.

One of the Smithsonian’s signature initiatives, Waterways, has its roots right here in the Urban Waterways project at the Anacostia Community Museum. Urban Waterways has made profound and multifarious connections (geographic, fresh/salt water, culture/science, nature/built environment, and many more).


Rowers compete during the Stonewall Regatta held Sunday June 3, 2012 at the Anacostia Community Boathouse and sponsored by DC Strokes Rowing Club. here they row under the Pennsylvania Avenue/John Phillips Bridge on the Anacostia River.  Reclaming the Edge Exhibition Records, Anacostia Community Museum, Smithsonian Institution.  Photograph by Susana Raab

When I started at ACM, I was immediately tasked with planning a small exhibition. Reclaiming the Edge was in the main gallery and it sparked an idea: Bridging the Americas. My exhibition is not about the Panama Canal per se, but the history and culture of Panama, the migration patterns of Panamanians to the U.S., and the unique urban identity called “Zonians” have everything to do with the Canal. I am building an archival collection through photo documentation in D.C. and Panama and by conducting oral history interviews with Panamanian and Zonian D.C.area residents.  Bridging the Americas connects the Washington D.C. area to Panama, a country famous for its urban waterway. In the exhibition there will be a breakout section about the Panama Canal, a powerful geographic/cultural/commercial/political urban waterway. Moreover, it connects me to the current museum work.

Bridge of the Americas, Pacific side of the Panama Canal, August 2014.  Bridging the Americas Research Project, Anacostia Community Museum. Photograph by Susana Raab.

Various Smithsonian units have holdings that relate to the Panama Canal, such as photos of celebrity Canal visitors, political buttons, and of course, the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute, which is located in Panama.
 
However, the framework of Urban Waterways is a new perspective on Panama and one with with global implications.

I had the opportunity to travel to Panama last month for the 100th anniversary of the Panama Canal and to see the current Panama Canal expansion project.

100th anniversary of the Panama Canal sign, Gatun Observation Center, Panama. Atlantic side of the Panama Canal, August 2014. Bridging the Americas Research Project, Anacostia Community Museum. Photograph by Susana Raab.

Panama Canal expansion in progress, August 2014. Gatun Observation Center, Panama, Atlantic side of the Panama Canal. Bridging the Americas Research Project, Anacostia Community Museum. Photograph by Susana Raab.

As water covers 75% of the earth, the waterways initiative has been a fluid connector (pun intended). I want to capitalize on my expertise and also build meaningful links to the existing work of the Museum.
  
So where does Latino Studies fit at Anacostia? EVERYWHERE!

Ariana A. Curtis, Ph.D.
Curator (Latino Studies)
Anacostia Community Museum