I’ve Had My Say…

Over the past few months, this blog has covered some recent acquisitions, a little collections care advice, and a bit about how and why museums do some of the things they do. The problem is that it’s all been stuff that I’ve wanted to say—and not necessarily stuff you want to know.

So, here’s me asking—what would you like to see covered in this blog?

I’m happy enough to keep going with a mix of artefact profiles and museum practices, but if there’s anything you’ve ever wanted to ask about museum work in general, or about Medicine Hat’s history in particular, I’d be happy to address that too!

Collections Care 101 - Environment

A lot of people collect something. Coins and stamps have been popular for over a century, souvenir plates and spoons for decades, and I’ll bet there are still big collections of Beanie Babies to be found out there. Collections can be as diverse as collectors, but they all have one thing pretty much in common—most collections suffer damage from same environmental sources. Today I’m discussing three common factors that will damage most collections, whether they’re in the British Museum, or in your living room—and what you can do to minimize them.

Light
Thanks to sunscreen and sunglasses commercials, a lot of people know that Ultraviolet (U/V) light is bad. And it is—it’s the most damaging component of the light we normally encounter. U/V waves can cause fading and weakening of molecular bonds, leading to cracking—even total disintegration in some cases. Natural sunlight and fluorescent bulbs emit a lot of U/V—best not to let either of these shine directly on your collectables. If that can’t be avoided, you might want to look into U/V filters for your windows and light fixtures.

Remember U/V isn't the only harmful component of light. Visible light will also contribute to fading/yellowing and embrittlement, and all light damage is cumulative and irreversible. For maximum preservation, keep the room dark as possible whenever you're not there to enjoy your collection.

Relative Humidity
With Relative Humidity (RH), too dry can be just as bad as too humid. Below 35% RH, organic materials (such as fur, leather, pulp paper, etc.) become increasingly brittle. As RH increases, fibres in wood, fabric, paper, etc. swell as they absorb moisture from the air. As RH decreases, the fibres shrink as they dry out. If this swelling or shrinking happens too quickly, the fibres will break and weaken the object. So, the key to managing Relative Humidity is to keep it stable (ideally, less than 5% fluctuation per day), and in a range between 35% (below which things start to get brittle) and 65% (above which mould growth can occur).

Temperature
Temperature itself isn’t as crucial as RH. However, there is a direct inverse relationship between temperature and RH (that is, as temperature drops, RH increases), so temperature should be kept stable as well. Lower temperature is better than higher, since chemical reactions and biological activity (like mould, or insects—both of which can eat most organic materials) both slow down in cooler temperatures. Just as long as it's not so cool that you need to turn the thermostat up whenever you're in to view your collection! In the Museum, we keep our storage temperatures at 20ºC, because that’s most comfortable for the people who work with the collections.

Generally, basements (as long as they’re dry and not susceptible to flooding) are good places in the home for collectibles—the temperatures tend to be cooler and more stable, and they’re usually naturally darker. If you’re really concerned about environmental damage, you might consider collecting glassware, glazed ceramics, or rocks—all of which are pretty much resistant to the effects of household light, humidity and temperature.

New Acquistion--Ross Rifle

Today we feature a true legend of Canadian military history—the Ross rifle.

The Ross is an excellent example of how legends are not always built on positive associations.

The rifle was invented by Sir Charles Ross in the 1890s. Ross, an army officer, sharpshooter and big game hunter, designed the rifle with automatically-rotating bolt locking lugs, similar to the mechanism found on many artillery pieces. This allowed the bolt to be operated with a simple pull/push action—two movements, instead of the four required to manually rotate the bolt of a Lee-Enfield or Mauser rifle (respectively, the standard rifle of the British and German armies of the time). In addition to the higher rate of fire this feature delivered, the Ross scored high points for accuracy, and was a full pound lighter than the Lee-Enfield.

The attributes of the Ross rifle looked good on paper, but field-testing the weapon revealed some serious drawbacks. One is that the rifle was susceptible to jamming under rapid-fire conditions, or when using dirty ammunition. Another problem was that the complicated bolt could easily be assembled incorrectly, and upon firing could blow back into the face of the shooter. Redesigns of the rifle in 1905 and 1910 intended to correct these deficiencies. The Ross, championed by Minister of Militia Sam Hughes, was officially adopted, and equipped the first waves of the Canadian Expeditionary Force in the First World War.

Upon arrival in Belgium and France, it was clear the Ross was still plagued with problems. In addition to jamming easily in the mud and dirt of the trenches, it was found the rifle’s bayonet had a tendency to fall off during firing. Many Canadian soldiers at the Second Battle of Ypres (April, 1915) threw aside their Ross’ at the first opportunity to acquire a Lee-Enfield from British casualties. In July 1916, Sir Douglas Haig ordered the replacement of all Ross rifles with Lee-Enfields.

That wasn’t quite the end for the Ross, though. It remained popular through World War One with snipers for its long range accuracy, providing it could be kept clean. In World War Two, the Ross was issued to home guard units, training depots, the Royal Canadian Navy, and to Veteran’s Guard units. Following the Second World War, large numbers of Ross rifles were sold as military surplus—which was the fate of the rifle pictured above. It was acquired by a farmer near Hilda, Alberta, and used to hunt deer which supplemented the farm’s income. Many such rifles had their wooden stocks cut down to lighten them as hunting rifles—this one is almost in complete military configuration. The one concession made to adapt it to hunting was to cut off the foresight hood, as it was found too confining when trying to target game. Like so many other Ross rifles, it remained in use on the farm…until it was replaced by a Lee-Enfield.

Researching Museum Objects #1 – General Dating

At the Museum, we try to collect as much information as possible on artefacts from the source. Sometimes, though, that’s just not an option—either the source doesn’t know, or an item may have been in the collection for 40 years, and the source just isn’t around anymore to ask. This is always a shame, because once the specific history of an item is lost, it’s almost impossible to reconstruct it. But, there’s usually some basic information we can research—and the first thing we generally try to do is establish a time frame for the item.

The material a thing is made of sometimes provides useful information, although this can be deceiving—plastics have been around since the 1850s! Generally, though, most 19th Century goods were made of wood or steel; aluminum was commercially available starting around 1910; bakelite (a certain type of hard plastic) was most extensively used between 1920 and 1940.

The decorations on an item can prove useful as well. Black cast iron painted with gold details was common on 1890s sewing machines, typewriters, etc.; the bold lines and sweeping curves of the Art Deco style date mostly to the 1920s and ‘30s; plastic items with gold flecks were popular in the 1950s and ‘60s; the colours avocado green and harvest gold almost certainly point to the 1970s.

The Industrial Revolution was old news by the time Medicine Hat was established in the 1880s, so most objects we see have been mass produced. The maker’s names, and sometimes the city they were located in, are often painted, or sometimes cast, right into the item. Then, as now, this was an important means of advertising. With a little e-digging, finding out when a company was in business will at least provide a date range of when the item was made. If no record of the company can be found, knowing where they were located might point to a museum or historical society in that area that may have further information.

A lot of products have their patent numbers on them somewhere; these can be looked up on websites such as the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office (http://patft.uspto.gov/). This not only often yields information on when the item was made, but can also tell us what it’s supposed to do, and how to use it.

From "Thing" to "Artefact"

Have you or a relative ever donated an item to a museum, and wondered what the museum did with it? Or, ever just wondered what the difference is between something in a museum and something in an antique shop? Ever notice a little number painted or glued onto an artefact in an exhibit? Today, I hope to give you some answers about those.

First, we in the museum always want to speak directly to the donors. This is sometimes at odds with the donors, who’d rather just drop the item(s) off and be on their way. We want to speak with them in order to get a full history of the items, as well as to get legal title to the items signed over to the museum (so 40 years down the road, a relative can’t come in and say, “Hey, that was my grandmothers—give it to me!”). Once we have the signed Gift Agreement, the objects usually go into a quarantine room. Here, we check them over, give them a light vacuuming if they need it, and make sure there aren’t any bugs in them that might infest the rest of our collections.

After quarantine, the pieces are “accessioned”—formally brought into the museum collection. This is when the objects get their own identification numbers, something like 2011.2.1, where “2011” is the year the item came in, “2” means the second collection brought in that year, and “1” is the individual item within that collection. The number is painted on the object using permanent ink over top an archivally-stable strip of plastic—the number can be taken off again with a few swipes of acetone, if necessary. From this point on, that number (the “Accession Number”) becomes the item’s identity—all documentation regarding source, history, inventory, etc. is tied to the object through that number. Once an object has an Accession Number, we consider it an “artefact.”

The numbers are usually applied to part of the artefact that won’t show when it’s on exhibit. When I visit museums, I try to spot the numbers on artefacts in the display—try it yourself next time you’re in a museum!

The artefact is then described (“catalogued”) in our artefact database—we have about 60 data fields to record information in (dimensions, materials, colours, maker, age, etc.). We snap a photo of it, and link that in to its database record. All the source information is recorded in another database and linked to the artefact’s record in the artefact database. The artefact is then placed in storage, and its location is added to its artefact record. Both the source information and the artefact catalogue information gets printed out, and stored in paper folders—this is intentional redundancy, in case our computer systems get fried.

The artefacts and their information are then accessible to anyone looking to research that type of artefact, or building an exhibit, etc. The whole process takes about an hour per artefact—one of the reasons why we don’t take everything that might be offered to us. With almost 25,000 artefacts in the Esplanade Museum’s collection, just registering items into the collection has taken about 13 years of effort!

Care of Silver

Many heirloom pieces such as flatware, candlesticks and trophies may be made of silver, or silver-plated base metal. With a few precautions, silver objects can be enjoyed for generations.

The best way to preserve silver is to avoid over-polishing it. Even the gentlest polishing processes remove metal—over time, this will obliterate fine detail and etchings on solid silver, and can wear through the silver layer on plated items. In the museum, we usually allow silver to tarnish, and leave it that way. The tarnish layer, mostly black silver sulphide, is created by the reaction of bright silver to sulphur-containing compounds in the air. Once the bright silver is covered, the tarnish layer acts as an inhibitor to further tarnishing. But, as blackened silver is not necessarily the most attractive, the key to avoiding excessive polishing lies in how the silver is used and stored.

Some foods contain sulphur, particularly eggs and mayonnaise—these will tarnish silver in the same way airborne sulphur compounds will, and should be avoided. Citrus and other acidic foods will not affect pure silver, but can affect the copper used in making sterling silver and silver plate. Harsh detergents will cause pitting on silver, and humidity will accelerate tarnishing, so silver should be hand-washed, and not put into a dishwasher.

If silver must be displayed, it should be kept free of dust—ideally, in a closed cabinet or display case. Silica beads or gel (like the packets that say “Do Not Eat” that you get with a new pair of shoes) may be used to absorb humidity, and slow down the tarnishing process. Otherwise, silver is best stored wrapped in acid-free tissue, then sealed inside polyethylene bags. Even better, the silver can be wrapped in a tarnish-inhibiting cloth, such as Pacific Silvercloth, before being placed in the bags. These cloths contain silver particles that will attract and hold sulphur, leaving your treasures untarnished.

When your silver does have to be polished, use a product specifically formulated for silver—general metal cleaners are too abrasive, and will remove too much silver. Chemical dips should be avoided, as they can pit the metal, and the chemical can become trapped in components such as hollow stems or handles. Electrochemical reduction (using a warm soda bath and an aluminum plate to chemically convert silver sulphate back into silver) should also be avoided, as the soda solution will also pool in hollow components, and the reaction is difficult to control (and can cause plating to be stripped right off an object!). Various waddings, pastes and foams available are generally the safest to use. If any residue is left on the object after polishing, this should be removed by buffing with a soft cloth or brush.

Lacquering or waxing polished silver is not recommended, as it is difficult to apply evenly. Thin streaks or small holes in wax or lacquer can tarnish worse than if no coating had been applied at all.

The Ivan Rand Desk

Museums are about more than just collecting things—what we really collect are stories. That’s why we recently acquired the rather plain looking desk pictured here.

The desk is a bit small by today’s standards--five feet, or 1.5 meters long. It might remind you of the kind of teacher’s desk that stood at the front of every grade school classroom (at least in the 1970s and early ‘80s, when I was in grade school myself). It’s solid wood, likely oak, from around the turn of the 20th Century—and otherwise looks rather unremarkable.

But, this was a lawyer’s desk. Specifically, it’s the desk of Ivan C. Rand, of the firm Laidlaw, Blanchard & Rand, Medicine Hat. Rand himself was from New Brunswick, and graduated from Harvard Law School in 1912. That same year, he, like a good number of other people, headed to Medicine Hat, “the smokeless Pittsburgh of the west,” to make his fortune in the city that was a booming manufacturing centre due to its huge reserves of cheap natural gas. Unfortunately, his timing wasn’t great; Medicine Hat’s boom went bust by 1914; world war, drought and depression followed.

Rand stuck it out in Medicine Hat longer than a lot of other people, though. He continued to practice law here, at this very desk, until 1920, when he returned to New Brunswick (leaving the desk behind). He did well for himself—named Attorney General of New Brunswick in 1924, and served as a member of New Brunswick’s Legislative Assembly. In 1943, he was appointed to the Supreme Court of Canada, and developed the “Rand Formula,” a cornerstone of Canadian labour law, in 1945. Following World War Two, he was on the United Nations Special Committee on Palestine, chaired a Royal Commission on improper stock trading, and was the first dean of the law school of the University of Western Ontario. He was made a Companion of the Order of Canada shortly before his death in 1969.

So, Rand wasn’t a native Hatter, didn’t stick around town all that long, and all of his major accomplishments were made elsewhere. But, Medicine Hat is where he first practiced law, which laid the foundation for his illustrious career. More importantly, though, this piece represents all those who brought their hopes and dreams to Medicine Hat during the boom years of 1908 through 1913, only to leave again when the ‘Hat fell on hard times.

So much more than just a plain, old, small desk….

What Museums DON'T Collect

Last week I went on a bit about how museums are interested in collecting more than just “old stuff,” so this week I thought I’d look a little at what museums don’t collect.

I should note first off that museums, being human institutions, can be as quirky as people are. So, here’s where I insert the usual disclaimer that what follows are my own opinions, limited to my own experience,and should not be taken to represent Universal Truth for all museums.

The Esplanade is a local social history museum; we collect artefacts to represent the human experience of Medicine Hat and the surrounding area. That mandate restricts us in what we’ll collect; we’re not collecting natural history specimens, or ancient Egyptian artefacts, or coin and/or stamp collections. For the most part, we collect pieces that have a known (ideally, documented) history and association (called “provenance” in museum-speak) with the local area. That generally excludes things that don’t have a known history; many times were offered items that people have acquired from other family members, or friends, or have just been in a barn for the past 70 years—and they can’t tell us much about the piece except, “it’s old.” If we don’t have the history of use for an item, it makes it hard for us to use the item to explain the history of the area. So, there’s Reason #1 why a museum might not collect a certain thing—no specific history on the item.

Reason #2 might be that an item is damaged, broken, or incomplete. If, for example, a particular game set isn’t a good representation of that game because it’s missing key pieces, it’s tougher for that particular game set to be a good representation of the larger social picture. There’s some room for exception here, if the provenance is particularly good.

Reason #3 might be if the piece physically represents a danger to people or our existing collections. This, thankfully, doesn’t come up often—but we have been offered live artillery shells, acid-soaked wooden boxes, and poisonous chemicals. We try not to take many of these…

Reason #4: we might already have 16 of them in the collection. Storage space is a precious commodity for most museums, so we try to avoid collecting more than 2 or 3 examples of any one thing. If we end up with 16 desks, for example, we might not be able to acquire a more unique piece of furniture, for lack of space to put it.

Reason #5: inability to care for an item. This generally applies to larger pieces, like vehicles. Everything we take into the collection comes with an obligation for us to preserve it for the future; if we don’t have the resources to preserve something, we can’t in good faith accept it in the collection. If we have to store a large piece, like a vehicle, out in the elements (which we have done in the past, before acquiring some warehouse space), it will deteriorate, and we’ve failed to preserve it. So, if we know at the outset we can’t preserve something, we won’t accept it in the first place.

So, if you’re ever in a position to offer something to a museum, please understand why a museum might not accept your gift. It’s not for lack of appreciation for the offer—many museums will be flattered that you consider them a suitable home for what you’re offering. It’s just that we have to be selective to ensure we can do our jobs of preserving the items that truly reflect the history of our community.

It's Not All "Old Stuff"

There’s a fairly common perception about museums that we’re only interested in “old stuff.” This is often reinforced by visits to museum galleries, where mostly “old stuff” is on display. This perception, while understandable, is false.

Let me ‘splain.

Museums are about preserving history. “History” to a lot of people conjures up thoughts of famous dead people and long-ago dates. The origin of the word in ancient Greek means “inquiry;” up through the Middle Ages it meant much the same as “story.” It wasn’t until the late 15th Century that “history” specifically referred to the past. So we’re probably better off to think of museums as preserving “stories” rather than “history.” After all, the only difference between a story from yesterday and one from 1910 is about a hundred years; it’s only a matter of time before yesterday’s story is that old, too.

There’s a couple of reasons why “museum” and “old stuff” seem to go hand-in-hand. One is that we often need a time buffer to be able to recognize significant events or social trends. It can often take the passage of several decades to provide enough context for someone to say, “Yes, that is important—we should preserve that.”

Museums also want to educate their audiences. As recent events are often already well known, exhibits tend to focus on older, less well known stories.

Another factor seems to be the reluctance of people to recognize that their own lives are witness to “history.” I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve heard people say, “I remember those; that can’t possibly be old enough to be in a museum.” My personal experience is that most people don’t consider something to be “historic” until its 40 or 50 years old. And, since most of our collections come from donations (museums being chronically under-funded and unable to buy many artefacts), we’re largely dependent on our donors pre-selecting what they think is historic.

This is not to suggest that museum people are above this kind of “history prejudice.” I’ve worked in museums that had self-imposed cut-off dates for what they collected. That might work for, say, a First World War museum that won’t collect anything more recent than 1918. But, for a community museum to decide not to collect anything post-1960 is just kinda silly, and necessarily restricts them to collection “old stuff.”

If we’re doing our jobs right, social history museums like the Esplanade ought to be collecting material that relates to significant developments and experiences of our communities, regardless of how old that material is. “Contemporary collecting,” as it’s called in the museum field, offers the opportunity to collect objects in prime condition, often with other materials that help tell the story.

Some of the pieces we’ve collected in recent years include a car window flag reading “Go Kalan Go” from Kalan Porter’s 2004 “Canadian Idol” campaign; a blazer from our local Centennial Ambassador from Alberta’s 100th anniversary in 2005, and a 2010 Canadian Monopoly set, featuring Medicine Hat on the property usually occupied by Illinois Avenue. It’s all about the story behind the artefact, not how old it is.

If you wanted to preserve something to represent Medicine Hat as it is in 2011, what would you choose?

Where's All the Stuff?

Over the past two weeks, I explained a bit of what was involved in moving the Museum collection into the Esplanade. Walking through our permanent gallery, you might well think, “There’s not so much stuff here; why’d it take so long to move?’

A lot of times people think that the entire museum collection is on exhibit. That’s not the case—we have about 1,000 objects on permanent display; about 4% of our collections. The main reason social history museums like the Esplanade collect things isn’t to build exhibits—it’s to preserve the objects that are witness to our history. We preserve these things so that present and future generations can learn from and enjoy them. But, it’s tough for a lot of people to learn from and enjoy a bunch of stuff on storage room shelves, so a portion of what we collect does go on exhibit, with explanatory text, and often with photos to help create a logical context for the artefacts. The exhibits themselves usually have a theme to them as well, also to help create context—otherwise, the stuff would just be a confusing jumble of unrelated things. Our permanent gallery’s theme is the history of Medicine Hat and surrounding district since about 1880 to present; temporary exhibits we’ve hosted have been on such themes as toys, ranching, prisoner of war camps, etc.

So, what about all this extra stuff, the stuff that’s not on exhibit? If the public can’t see it when they visit the galleries, why keep it? Well, we do draw upon that in developing our temporary exhibits—“Playful Revelations” in 2009 put 75 toys on exhibit that otherwise would have been in storage; our upcoming “Hand Made by Altaglass” exhibit will feature a couple of hundred Altaglass tools and products that otherwise aren’t normally on display. We also replace artefacts in our permanent gallery with one from storage—both to ensure there’s a regular infusion of new stuff to see, and also to make sure some items won’t be damaged by prolonged exposure to light.

We also collect items to document past ways of doing things. For example, we’ve got a Mountie uniform that, for some reason, was stuffed into the walls of the second Mountie barracks built in Medicine Hat around 1909. The uniform was only found when that building was torn down in the 1960s, to make way for the present Royal Canadian Legion building. You can probably imagine what clothing might look like after being stuck in a wall for 50 years—dirty, torn, and generally not in good shape for a display. But, we have it because it demonstrate what the Mountie uniform was like in 1909—the material it’s made from, how the fabric was cut, and sewn, etc.

We also occasionally have researchers come to us, to learn from our collections. In the past year, we’ve had someone from the University of Manitoba drop by to research Metis textiles in our collection; another museum researched what types of quilts and hand-woven textiles we have; and a collector came in to research our military medals. Something that we haven’t done a good job of advertising is that anyone can come to us as a “researcher” to gain access to our collections in storage—just call me (403-502-8587) to make an appointment, and I’ll be happy to show you what you’d like to see!

Looking Back, Looking Forward (The Move, Pt. 2)

Last week I discussed some of the measures that went into preparing our 25,000 artefacts to move from the old Medicine Hat Museum and Art Gallery into the new Esplanade. This week, I’ll finish the tale with the move phase, and the post-move work.

Prior to the move, I attended a workshop on preparing artefacts for shipping (I know—who knew there were workshops on stuff like that?). The instructor cautioned that the most vulnerable time for an artefact in transit, the time it’s most likely to be damaged, is when it’s handled by non-museum people. That was a pretty big factor in our decision to move most of the collection with museum staff, rather than use a moving company. We did use movers to handle about 70 of our biggest, heaviest, most awkward pieces (pianos, sofas, a Link trainer, shown in the above photo being loaded into the truck, etc.); the rest was carried out by museum staff and our wonderful volunteers.

Every box (almost 2500 of them) was numbered, and every artefact that went into each box was inventoried. Each box on every shipment out of the old building was recorded, whether that shipment was in a rented truck, the Museum’s van, or our Director’s private vehicle.

The first stuff to move was about 1,000 objects that needed to be installed in our Permanent Gallery. These moved mostly through the fall of 2005, and were all in place by the gallery’s opening on December 11, 2005. The rest moved in dribs and drabs through early 2006, then in a crazy two weeks in April (when we rented a 24 foot truck), the bulk of the collection moved downtown. A few more shipments were made in the Museum van through May and June, with the last shipment on June 26.

That was no where near the end of the move for us, though. Now we had about 24,000 pieces inside about 2300 boxes—that all had to be unpacked, checked against the box inventory, put on into a new storage location, and inventoried there. Several of our sainted volunteers from the packing/moving phase stayed with us through the unpacking, which took about two years. After that, one of our volunteers took on the job of entering all of our inventory data (which was recorded the old-fashioned way—with pencil on paper) into our collections database. That took about another two years, finishing up in early 2010. Meanwhile, our ever-faithful volunteers—we have four of them still, of the ones who originally signed up to help move—took on other projects; photographing the artefacts, data entry, conducting research, etc.

As in any move, though, there’s still the odd box or two that for some reason or another wasn’t unpacked. As of this writing, we have 90 boxes still outstanding. Some of these (at least 30) we know were in fact unpacked in the mad rush to complete the Permanent Gallery in December 2005; a few others look to have been counted twice, and several dozen packages, mostly containing one artefact apiece (a few floor lamps, a “Flood Relief” sign from the great flood of 1951, a stained-glass window, etc.) that are difficult to store, and that we haven’t unpacked just because we haven’t figured out just where to put them.

This brings me ‘round again to just why I’m explaining all this, at this time of year…

For 2011, the Esplanade Museum resolves to finally finish its 2005 move!