During the past decade I have photographed thousands of museum objects at several different collections, both in the United States and the UK. To an outsider, this type of work might appear monotonous or uninspiring—the photography simply a method of automated capture in which the photographer documents the appearance of an object and then disappears from view. In addition, museum objects are almost never easy to work with. hey are often fragile, reflective, or difficult to light in one way or another. hey may possess any number of physical or historical qualities that complicate handling and photographing. A boring, complicated job then. So why, after capturing all those images, am I still excited to photograph objects?
My answer has two distinct parts. he irst lies in the often incredible stories (some obvious, many hidden) embodied and inspired by every object that makes its way onto my backdrop. he second is the joy found in the challenge of capturing and revealing the visual elements (often details) that help enrich every object’s narrative.
While working in history-of-science museums, I have spent a great deal of time documenting the material culture of scientiic discoveries, photographing everything from ifteenth-century astrolabes to World War Il-era vacuum tubes. While some objects are obviously magniicent and historically important, there are many others that may appear relatively commonplace or trivial. he recurring surprise is that almost every single one of these things, including the uninspiring ones, have stories to tell; each thing sparks thoughts of the designer, the maker, the user—the story of the object’s life.
In addition, history-of-science collections, perhaps due to the interdisciplinary nature of the field, often house unexpected and delightful surprises. At the Museum of the History of Science in Oxford I was asked to shoot a few of its lovely collection of Japanese netsuke. When I was working at the Collection of Historical Scientific Instruments at Harvard several years later, I chanced upon a glass bottle filled with an unidentified liquid. he bottle had an older label consisting of a solitary question mark in blue ink, a tag that said so much with so little. (I suppose the fact that it was written in ballpoint pen at least helped to roughly date the time in which the tag was written.) hough it appeared to pass along very little information, I was careful to shoot the label. At least the eventual cataloger of this object would get to share in the whimsical encouragement of an earlier person’s befuddlement.
Tangible hings attempted to address the challenges inherent in categorizing museum objects. he show therefore contained many unusual and surprising items that elicited the same inquisitive reaction that I had often experienced when working with the unexpected. he more involved I became with the exhibit, the more excited I felt to photograph many of the objects as part of the de-installation process.
When shooting objects such as these, I follow one basic rule of photographic composition: fill the frame. his means that for every shot, I strive to ill the viewfinder of the camera (either by standing more closely to the object or by using a long focal-length lens) in order maximize the amount of information landing on the CCD sensor (in the old days this would have been film). In other words, the greater the percentage of pixels exposed to image data, the finer and more delicate the details that can be resolved. It is often these very details that provide rich new stores of information about the subject.
His particular series of images demonstrates this quest to both document and uncover new information. It also shows the way in which this search for detail can create an overall sense of movement toward and even into the object being photographed—in this case a summer gown once worn by David Greene Haskins at Harvard in 1834-35.
Photographs 146 and 147 are typical of those found in both exhibition catalogs and museum databases: front and back views of the object on a neutral background. Such images are useful in that they provide a sense of the object as a whole. In this case, the subject is evenly lit,
146-147. Front and back of a gown worn by a Harvard College student during the summer of his sophomore year, 1834-35. Harvard University Archives.
Without special lighting effects or glare, which allows the viewer to get a sense of the overall nature of the object: an item of clothing made out of delicate fabric.
As the camera draws more closely, images 148 and 149 each capture an element of the gown that references the broader elements of its construction. Here one can get a sense of the layered nature of the cape across the shoulders and the hand-stitched shirring that gives the garment its shape.
As we move in more closely still, the sequence 150-153 reveals much about what was important to both the maker and the wearer and continues to be important to the preservation of this gown. At this range of magnification, the camera often captures details that can otherwise elude the observer’s eye. For instance, though I had looked directly at these elements through the viewfinder of my camera, it was not until I viewed them at a larger scale on my computer screen that I became aware of the great extent of the repair shown in 150 and the area of discoloration around the sleeve hook in 151 (which may merit attention from a conservator).
148-149. Cape with tasseled fringe and shirring at back of summer gown. Harvard University Archives.
150-153. Close-up images (left to right from top) showing repair, sleeve hook, cuff button, and detail of fabric weave. Harvard University Archives.
Hese detailed photographs were taken with a specialized lens designed for macrophotography. Traditionally, the macro - prefix stipulates that the image projected onto the film plane will be larger than the size of the subject. hough this definition is used more loosely in the digital era, it means that images taken with such a lens (when used correctly) can
154. Title page ofJohn Cocks, Algarum Fasciculi; or A Collection of British Sea-weeds, Carefully Dried and Preserved, and correctly named after Dr. Harvey’s "Phycologia Britannica” (Dublin, 1855). Farlow Herbarium of Cryptogamic Botany, Harvard University Herbaria.
Capture a great amount a detail. It is a common tool in forensic work and is incredibly useful in capturing a level of detail that the human eye may not normally be capable of resolving. hrough these images we can focus on the uneven shape of the button that reveals its handmade origin, the slight irregularities in the gingham check, and the uneven thickness of the individual strands of the homespun thread. hese are details that help us uncover this gown’s story.
Another object that responds well to close visual scrutiny is John Cocks’s Algarum Fasciculi: or, a Collection of British Sea-Weeds, carefully dried and preserved, and correctly named after Dr. Harvey’s "Phycologia Britannica” (1855). Among its many wonderful surprises are lovely marbled endpapers, actual pressed specimens instead of illustrations, and the many ghost impressions left by the specimens on their identifying pages.
As I photographed some of the most representative seaweed samples in the book, I became increasingly aware of the amount of painstaking effort that must have gone into the construction of every single copy of this comprehensive work. In addition, I was struck by the fact that
155-157. A page opening showing a pressed specimen of Chondrus crispus (Irish moss) followed by a close-up of the specimen. his particular species of seaweed is an industrial source of carrageenan. Farlow Herbarium of Cryptogamic Botany, Harvard University Herbaria.
Many of the specimens appeared to be in remarkable shape for their age. hough I am neither a librarian nor a curator, I wondered and hoped that my images might be able to help these specialists uncover more of the history of this particular volume. Furthermore, I was awed by the unexpected beauty of the specimens. My close-up images were meant to capture their three-dimensional nature, but I found that they began to approach a certain level of abstractness that began to hint at art more
158. A pressed specimen of Cladostephus verticillatus in Cocks’s book has delicate intact hair-like structures. Farlow Herbarium of Cryptogamic Botany, Harvard University Herbaria.
159-160. A specimen of Delesseria sinuosa, a seaweed that grows on the stems of the common large algae known as Oarweed. Farlow Herbarium of Cryptogamic Botany, Harvard University Herbaria.
161. he shadow of the desiccated body of a house mouse (Mus musculus) as seen through the glass of a patent medicine bottle, ca. 1865, labeled Macamoose, he Great Indian Tonic. By its very nature glass often creates problems for photographers because of its reflectivity. his patent medicine bottle was fairly standard in this respect, though the many imperfections in the glass helped minimize the most glaring reflections.
He challenge here was to document the mummified mouse stuck in the bottom of the bottle. I wanted to be able to explain why this bottle was so incongruously displayed with the Mus family specimens at Harvard’s Museum of Natural History.
After a failed attempt to photograph the mouse directly down the neck of the bottle,
I decided to silhouette it, which was quite successful. I particularly enjoy the way in which the bubbles and waviness of the glass seem to suggest that it is swimming about in the liquid tonic, and not just lying in an empty bottle. General Artemas Ward House Museum.
162. Iridescent and pockmarked surface of a four-handled glass jar, Roman, fourth to fifth century. I always exercise extra caution when handling and photographing glass.
It is almost impossible to know how many shocks a glass object may have survived during its life (bumps that may have weakened it but not in obvious way), so it’s always important for the handler to take extra care.
His vase was quite obviously delicate. he surface shows an incredible iridescence; a quality that I found out from talking to a friend at the Harvard Semitic Museum is caused by a chemical deterioration of the surface of the glass. his process makes the surface very friable, which made me more than usually nervous about touching it. With this in mind, I kept handling and lighting to a minimum, setting up the shot so that the vase was lit from the top, which makes it glow in a way that is particularly lovely. I was also pleased by the way in which this macro image captures the delicate multi-hued tones of the surface and its myriad pits and scratches. Semitic Museum.
163. Clawed foot partially retracted into the shell of Blanding’s turtle specimen (Emydoidea blandingi) caught and preserved by Henry David horeau in 1847. When I look at this turtle in its jar, I find myself irresistibly drawn to the thought of horeau catching it. In my mind, the writer and naturalist has been asked by Louis Agassiz to collect specimens from and around Walden Pond in Concord. While he may be uneasy about the inevitable end of the captured creatures, he would have been pleased to be asked by Agassiz himself, and this perhaps soothes him. It’s an early mid-summer morning. Having looked on-and-off' for several weeks, horeau has finally spotted a Blanding’s turtle (this very turtle!) sunning itself on a half-submerged log in the pond. He quietly wends his way toward the turtle (muddying his boots in the process), takes a breath, and then lunges from behind. Success - the beautiful turtle is his! He quickly wraps it in a damp canvas sack and begins the trip back to his cabin.
He vividness of this tableau in my head (however far from the truth), made me look for a way to evoke a sense of this creature’s former aliveness. Of all the images that I shot of this object, I think this one is perhaps the best in this regard. hough dead for over 150 years, the turtle has seemed to have just slipped into the water, evading horeau’s grasp one last time. Museum of Comparative Zoology
164. Looking deep into a large piece of Burmese amber, the fossilized resin of the pine tree (Pinaceae), Myanmar. his piece of burmite is a glorious thing—like preserved fire. he incredible orange-red of the crystallized resin, the satin-like feel of the polished surface, and its size (it’s the largest piece of amber I’ve ever handed) make it feel almost talismanic. Although almost any stone picked up on any ramble could easily be much older than this amber, the tiny flecks of the million year-old insects and insect parts (seen here as small dark flecks) highlight the magic of this object: It is a time capsule.
When I first looked at the specimen, I was concerned that I wouldn’t be able to capture all of the aspects of its radiance. However, like the image of the mouse caught in the Macamoose tonic bottle, I found that backlighting really helped. By silhouetting the insect remains caught inside and refracting light through the object, the burmite glowed beautifully, making it and the ancient insects within seem to come alive within their time capsule. Archives of the Economic Botany Herbarium of Oakes Ames, Harvard University Herbaria.
165. Walrus ivory carving of a dog-sled team made by an Netsilik Inuit artist in Kugaaruk, Nunavut, Canada, in the twentieth century. his carving of a dog sled team is one of my favorite Tangible hings objects. here is a lovely sense of motion in this sculpture; the rockered shape of the base and the straining aspect of the dogs convey the great amount of effort needed to haul a cargo of seals, which the Netsilik traditionally used for food, lighting, and heat.
From some angles, such as directly ahead or above, the dynamic nature of the carving is not expressed. It was important to me to photograph it from angles that helped it to come alive as much as possible. I believe that this image of the sled exiting the frame is the most successful in this regard. Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University.
Than science. his can be read as a commentary on the practice of science in the mid-nineteenth century, where the worlds of art and science were perhaps less opposed than they are in our Postmodern world—another potential story to be told.
Hese two series demonstrate that careful photography can be a very useful tool for anyone who works with objects—from curator to conservator. his form of image capture, though perhaps rivaled by drawing in its ability to force the viewer to deeply engage with a subject, is unequalled in its capacity to quickly compress a wealth of three-dimensional information into an easily disseminated two-dimensional reference. In addition, the camera extends the resolution of the human eye, making the normally invisible visible, and so enabling us to learn more. What is this thing? What was it used for? What kind of life has it had? How did it get here? hese questions can all be addressed (and sometimes even answered) by careful, considerate, close-up photographic work.
In an exhibition such as Tangible hings—which brings together many different types of things—there is no standard setup for photographing the objects. Some items are quite large (the statues of Norma and Normann, the Galapagos tortoise carapace), while others are quite small (a tiny Babylonian cylinder seal, the knuckle bone dice). Some reflect light (the Myer Myers’ silver cann), and others are so matte as to almost disappear into a neutral background (Loulie's Hand). Some objects visually “pop” the moment they are placed on the table (an always welcome occurrence), while others take ages to set up and light. Despite these differences, the goal is to always try to capture as much information about the objects as possible, so that the photographs can help tell the objects’ own stories.
World History
