1997

19.3

Amy K. Levin
The Family Camping Hall of Fame and Other Wonders: Local Museums and Local Histories

Travelers on America's highways are greeted by a series of signs and billboards inviting them to visit an array of museums, each one distinctive to and distinguishing of its hometown. Drivers equipped with the American Automobile Association Tourbook on Kansas may learn of myriad attractions along I-70--the Fick Fossil Museum in Oakley, the Greyhound Hall of Fame in Abilene, the Safari Museum in Chanute, the Oil Museum in El Dorado, or the Barbed Wire Museum in La Crosse. Along this stretch of highway, there are almost as many museums as there are McDonalds. In a more populous area, the city of Philadelphia boasts a number of smaller museums in addition to its world famous historical sites. The Let's Go guide to the city, edited by Michelle Sullivan, suggests that visitors stop in at a "freaky and free" tattoo museum, a shoe museum, and a museum dedicated to Polish culture (199). And in a roundup article for The Midwest Motorist, Randy Cosby describes a particularly diverse array of museums in St. Louis, where exhibits are devoted to video games, dental health, bowling, cosmetology, dogs, contemporary religious art, and the living Elvis (the latter two may be interchangeable).

Little museums on odd topics, often in out-of-the-way places, create a kind of subversive poetry, their own patchwork of culture. They remind us of the pluralism and quirkiness of Americans. Popping up all over the map, they decenter us, proving that there is life beyond our major cultural attractions and lending authority to a culture that is not gazed at in awe in temple-like mausoleums of high art. Indeed, when these small institutions adopt the name of "shrines" or "halls of fame" there is almost always an irony implicit in their names.

To reveal how such different institutions represent American culture, I will create a kind of taxonomy, delineating their purposes and audiences. Although there is overlap in categories, the act of defining and distinguishing will reveal the complex and interrelated functions such institutions serve in contemporary America, as well as their role in an increasingly heated debate about the nature and "ownership" of culture in this country. Once claimed as its domain by the elite, high culture is mocked (in every sense of the word) by the burgeoning of small museums dedicated to increasingly specialized pursuits. Yet, at the same time as local museums challenge the authority of the handful of institutions Kenneth Hudson characterizes as "museums of influence" (vii), their proliferation has left virtually intact structures that exclude marginalized groups from adequate representation in public cultural sites. As Gaynor Kavanaugh notes:

The themes and narratives of any society's history are the ones that are consistent with its current ways of believing in itself. Moreover, the loss of evidence and the inability to cope with discordant images of the past rob histories of proximity to past episodes. Inevitably, the past becomes a contemporary construction built out of present-day interests with the materials that immediately come to hand. This holds risks. History can become many things: a political tool, an escape route from present realities or the key to liberation. (4)

Indeed, smaller American museums testify only to a certain kind of pluralism, and, as Kavanaugh argues, they deserve "analysis as visual ideologies, as manifestations of the schematic order in which we find ourselves" (162). These institutions celebrate the offbeat, the famous, the infamous even, but the museum dedicated to the holocaust is a national museum, and Ellis Island is administered by the National Park Service. And for the most part, even federal sites neglect women and minorities. In a 1994 article, Edith Mayo reports that only six of several hundred National Park sites celebrate women's accomplishments. As for the National Historic and National Landmark Programs, "less than 5 percent of the approximately two thousand historic sites focus on women" (58). Similarly, the varied and often amusing local museums fail to reveal America's underclasses or to celebrate the rich cultures of minorities. This circumstance is embedded in a host of political, social, and economic factors that have contributed to the marginalization of women and minorities in all aspects of American culture. Specific historical circumstances that led to the proliferation of small museums, especially along America's highways, are significant contributing factors as well.

As Daniel Sherman has shown in his study of nineteenth-century French museums, practically from their inception, regional museums purported to attract an audience from elsewhere (126-132); the same is true of their cohorts in the United States. This circumstance alone has had a significant effect on exhibition practices in local museums, as tourists have historically come from classes with access to time and money for leisure activities.

In addition to appealing to travellers, these museums serve their localities in one or more ways--politically, economically, culturally, or socially. Although regional museums in a number of other nations, including France, Great Britain, and Canada, are state supported, similar institutions in the United States are less likely to receive significant government support. Certain sites managed by the National Park Service, outposts of the Smithsonian, and major urban museums that receive substantial funding from the National Endowment for the Humanities might be considered exceptions. Yet such institutions in the United States do not receive official federal designations as regional or state museums. For instance, although the Colorado Historical Society maintains a museum devoted to state history, this institution holds no official designation from the federal government as a regional museum.

The absence of centralized government involvement in and subsidies for local museums has contributed to their proliferation in our country, because communities need not wait for official approval. Moreover, the range of small institutions calling themselves museums puts into question the term museum itself, which has come to include institutions whose primary purpose is promote an industry or corporation (such as exhibits dedicated to wine-making at California vineyards) and the increasingly ubiquitous halls of fame, ranging from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland to the National Shuffleboard Hall of Fame in St. Petersburg, Florida (Greene). Finally, these institutions also throw into question our definition of history, offering alternatives to traditional exhibits focusing on major figures or events.

Nevertheless, for many Americans, local museums remain restricted to historic homes in towns and cities across the country. These homes, formerly the abodes of wealthy and influential white citizens, are also among the more well maintained examples of period architecture in their vicinity. Although such homes may receive some government funding, their primary source of income derives from local membership and charitable giving, often from private foundations or corporations. Such museums frequently benefit from unpaid staff as well; as Malcolm Arth has indicated, museums have traditionally used female volunteers as unpaid educators (97-98), and, increasingly, docents may be senior citizens. Staffed by these volunteers, historic home museums offer tours in which the building's accoutrements and history are described. Local history is included insofar as docents discuss the role of the home's owners in town events. If one of the owners was an industrial magnate, the home might incorporate an exhibit devoted to that industry. For instance, Ellwood House, in DeKalb, Illinois, belonged to a barbed wire magnate, and it contains a room displaying varieties of barbed wire and related artifacts.

Such houses produce and sustain an idealized picture of American life. Embodiments of the myth of self-sufficiency and success, these homes create a history of America that tends to propagate the importance of prosperous white males. Moreover, the historic house succeeds because it provides a focus for a particular upper middle class constituency in the community; supporting the home provides a social outlet, a sense of contributing to philanthropy, and an impression of being culturally or spiritually rich.

Homes tours, which resemble temporary museums, fulfill a similar function; in Denver, Bromwell elementary school in a well-to-do white area sponsors an annual house tour as its major fund-raiser. Through all the years of Denver busing, the tour never took place in the poorer neighborhoods from which African-American children were transported. In Kansas City, the decorator house, an annual benefit for the symphony, is usually selected in the Ward Parkway neighborhood, distinguished by homes built for such prominent figures as the founder of the art museum. House tours thus support and represent the lives of a dominant elite, while they marginalize the less advantaged. In excluding them from their narrative of community, the sponsors of house tours mark outsiders as failures in the pursuit of the American dream.

For visitors, the home museum or house tour promises not only a view of history that foregrounds the contributions of celebrated citizens but also caters to their desires to hear accounts of the "lifestyles of the rich and famous." The visit may therefore provide more of an escape than a trip through history. For example, in the first act of his play Lettice and Lovage, Peter Shaffer satirizes tourists' eagerness to hear tales of drama set in historic sites. Lettice Douffet, a guide at Fustian House, maintained by the Preservation Trust (a thinly disguised version of Britain's National Trust), embellishes her accounts for visitors, only to find herself increasingly popular. Later, in a confrontation with her supervisor, it becomes evident that the varied goals of such tours--presenting historical truth, offering entertainment, and educating visitors--do not necessarily coincide.

While the official version must prevail in Shaffer's play, in reality, tours often contain popular lore about historical characters. Gaynor Kavanaugh discusses the problematic nature of such practices: "as with all other forms of history, exhibition is a construction, a representation and interpretation of a past moment, based on ideas derived from consideration of available sources. It is a version of the past and not the past itself" (127). An example of this "construction" of the past is apparent when one follows children touring the Ellwood House in DeKalb, Illinois. The youngsters identify particular rooms with children of the Ellwood family. They are told stories and encouraged to talk about toys in the rooms in relation to Ellwood children, even though many of the toys were acquired later and did not belong to the Ellwoods. Thus, contemporary youngsters believe that they are receiving an "authentic" experience, when in fact they are viewing a recreation or "interpretation" of the past.

A second type of local museum--the institution devoted to local industry--may be contained within the first. Like the historic home museum, such institutions tend to recognize the achievements of a white middle (or upper middle) class and to celebrate the American dream of success through business. Some industry museums are highly specialized--for instance, Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, a mecca for mushroom growers and aficionados, houses the Phillips Mushroom Museum. According to Judith Gaines, the Shovel Museum in Easton, Massachusetts, has a focus of such limited interest that in 1995 only 200 persons visited the exhibit.

Other museums exist primarily to generate sales for local businesses. Road travelers through Wisconsin may stop in Ashippun to visit a "Honey of a Museum" in Honey Acres, which is owned by honey manufacturers. The exhibit and gift shop in Honey Acres are clearly intended to sell a product. The Dairy Shrine in the Hoard Historical Museum in Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin, states its mission is to:

1. Recognize today's dairy leaders

2. Honor great dairymen of the past

3. Inspire dairymen of the future

4. Record the history of dairying [in a diorama of a farmer hand-milking a cow, visitors can hear the "ping" of milk against a real pail]. ("Dairy Shrine")

The shrine encourages visitors virtually to worship a way of life as well as a local industry, without promoting a particular manufacturer. And in Seymour, Wisconsin, the Hamburger Hall of Fame pays homage to the creator of the first hamburger, and its exhibits feature related "memorabilia" ("'Ketchup'"). Visitors receive a coupon for a free hamburger and are encouraged to stop elsewhere in the town, particularly at the Community Museum and Railroad Museum. The brochure for the hamburger gallery indicates that these other attractions are conveniently located within "walking distance," to encourage tourists to pass local shops en route. The Hamburger Hall of Fame differs slightly from the specialized museums already described in that it publicizes a little-known aspect of local life primarily for the purpose of attracting visitors. It offers a reason for the town to be famous, so that it may compete with communities in the vicinity that have other claims to fame. The museum thus establishes a history or distinguishing feature for the locality.

Local history and identity are similarly on display in county--and sometimes state--museums. These institutions may be located in historic homes, or they may focus on a regional industry; thus, they may overlap with the two kinds of museums described above. Moreover, working for these institutions may provide the same social outlet for members of the community as volunteering in the home of a former first citizen. The Sheboygan County Historical Museum in Wisconsin, as described in the AAA TourBook, illustrates the overlap, occupying an old log homestead. Visitors may also tour a restored barn and an 1867 cheese factory (136). This example suggests that the structures that house or adjoin county museums are often more modest than the historic homes of prominent individuals.

In fact, county museums frequently claim for their mission the collection of artifacts and buildings pertaining to all segments of local society. They strive to represent a greater range of social classes than the homes of the rich and famous. This goal lends them their charm even as it may contribute to controversy. County historical museums tend to become the regional attic, storing accretions of farm equipment, clothing, second-rate paintings, Native American relics, and even toys. According to the Michigan-Wisconsin AAA TourBook, the Waukesha County Historical Museum in Wisconsin boasts "exhibits relating to pioneers, Indians, military history, dolls and toys. There also is a Victorian parlor featuring a furniture display" (141). Similar conglomerations may be found in county museums nationwide.

Frequently, such museums are unable to display, catalogue, or conserve everything in their collections, and valuable objects deteriorate unnoticed. And despite their democratic goals, their collections remain limited. Many county museums were founded with items donated or bequeathed by prominent white persons or with seized Native American artifacts. As a result, some of these institutions have become enmeshed in disputes and legal proceedings arising from the passage of the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act. Others are struggling to widen the scope of their collections and are finding that the kinds of objects they would like to own are scattered, lost, in poor condition, or prohibitively expensive. Ironically, some of these museums exist as repositories for objects no one particularly wants, rather than as testaments to what a culture values. A saddening example outside the country in Guanajuato, Mexico, is a mummy museum displaying the remains of individuals whose families were unable or unwilling to pay grave maintenance (McMahon).

Another kind of museum is more likely to have the funds for preservation and conservation, because it is devoted to a collection amassed by an individual or small group of individuals and frequently endowed by them. Such collections may also exist within important homes or promote local industry. Because, historically, American society has made it easier for white men to succeed than for others, these museums tend to display their collections instead of representing the interests and values of women and minorities. The Girard Collection at the Museum of International Folk Art in Santa Fe constitutes one of the largest of such museums; its claim to internationalism is reflected in the diversity of its contents. The Business Card Museum, a smaller entity, is "the brainchild of [Ken] Erdman, 69, chairman of a promotional products and direct mail marketing company and Rotary International's alternate delegate to the United Nations" (Brotman 1). The Mustard Museum in Mount Horeb, Wisconsin, is an institution whose mission is somewhat tongue-in-cheek, but which, as its publicity says, "cuts the you-know-what" (Uplands 9). These institutions based on individuals' collections often draw tourists and stimulate local economies; it is no coincidence that the description of the Mustard Museum informs readers that the museum is across the street from a restaurant. Similarly, the Houdini Historical Center in Appleton, Wisconsin, promotes a walking tour, and its brochure urges readers, "While in the Fox Cities don't miss the award-winning regional history exhibits at Appleton's Outagamie Museum and the elegant 1837 Charles A. Grignon Mansion in Kaukana" ("Houdini"). One museum leads to another, creating a narrative and generating tourist dollars.

In a time when the Monet exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago yields a five million dollar profit (Anderson 1) and the closing of the Vermeer display at the National Gallery is considered by some to be the greatest public inconvenience caused by the 1995 federal shutdowns, museums devoted to noncanonical art forms or to bizarre and out-of-the way topics implicitly put into question national values. A plastic dog toy shaped like a hot dog encased in the Girard Collection in Santa Fe creates an amusing visual pun; more importantly, however, it challenges rarefied definitions of folk art and elitist quests for authenticity or originality. The Barbie Hall of Fame And Doll Studio speaks to many adults' nostalgia, while the Family Camping Hall of Fame and the Bull Hall of Fame appeal to more specialized interests (Greene), even as they construct histories of particular aspects of American popular culture.

While such specialized museums proliferate, institutions focusing on marginalized groups fare less well. Although some communities are beginning to restore homesteads of important women and minorities, such museums remain few in number, like the sites that receive National Landmarks designation. They often struggle for funds, because their public is less well endowed financially than the public that supports traditional historic house museums. During the summer of 1995 the Denver Art Museum jointly hosted an exhibit with the Museo De Las Americas, a small institution dedicated to Hispanic arts. This collaborative venture did not greatly serve the smaller institution. The Museo De Las Americas received fewer visitors to its part of the exhibit than the Denver Art Museum did. Tourists did not care to leave the center of the city, and community members felt that their art was coopted when it was moved to the city's major institution, a building which rendered some of them uncomfortable. Furthermore, the smaller institution was only open periodically and to this day continues to suffer from financial exigencies.

Like restored historic homesteads honoring women and members of minorities, such institutions are caught in a bind: the populations on which they might draw for support or audiences cannot afford to make large endowments or often even to travel to the site. The museums themselves cannot afford much publicity, and with rare exceptions such as the National Civil Rights Museum, dramatic presentations are beyond their means. As Paul Goldberger has indicated, "In a society saturated by entertainment, museums are increasingly fearful of presenting objects by themselves, worried that they have insufficient allure. Multimedia are believed necessary to keep younger audiences engaged" (26). Without multimedia or glossy publicity, museums focusing on marginalized groups may appear unappealing and reach small audiences.

In fact, the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis, on the site of the Lorraine Motel where Martin Luther King was shot, exemplifies the problems that may arise even when museums focusing on minorities or women have substantial sponsorship. Despite the claim to national prominence in its name, the museum has a strong local emphasis; the first chairman of the board, D'Army Bailey, was a Tennessee judge, and, as Time's Walter Shapiro notes, the "genesis" of the museum is "entwined" in "civic boosterism." Practically from its inception, the institution was mired in controversy. Shapiro indicates that King's family originally "disassociated" themselves from the endeavor; even though they later "relented," the family refused to have King's name on the museum. The dispute over rights to King's name and legacy draws attention to the increasingly contested nature of the history of minorities, a debate which is also evident in the struggles over the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act. At stake are minorities' rights to present their own histories, as opposed to versions that have been appropriated by what they view as hostile interests, either within or beyond their populations.

In the case of the Civil Rights Museum, the issue of representation is particularly evident in the final "product," as described in Shapiro's article. Designed by Benjamin Lawless, perhaps best known for his previous work at Graceland, the exhibit features laser beams and an "aggressive multimedia style" for a "jaded theme-park generation." And yet, what is in some ways most ironic is the kind of criticism the museum received in popular publications. In Time, which itself so often uses dramatic anecdotes to recreate a context for current events, Shapiro castigated the museum for "push[ing] the barriers of good taste in its quest to create a sense of historical immediacy and emotional context." Such commentary suggests that different standards are applied when judging mainstream and marginalized histories.

Indeed, for the most part, museums advertised in brochures and travel guides continue to offer pictures of a white middle class endlessly absorbed in its own cultural products. Even when these museums attempt to be inclusive, they tend to reflect mainstream cultural prejudices and reinforce popular stereotypes, creating another set of problems. For instance, the "Just for Laughs Museum" in Montreal is described in a city publication as "The only international museum devoted to humour" (Office des Congrès 29). Yet in the winter of 1996 it housed an exhibit entitled "Dialogue in the Dark," which was described by Chicago Tribune reporter David Andrews as "designed to give sighted people a glimpse into the world of the blind" (12). According to Andrews, the exhibit was "profoundly moving" (12). Yet the location of the exhibit in an institution focusing on humor reified stereotypes of the handicapped as objects of ridicule.

Thus, while they may offer a critique of a once dominant "high" art, many successful small exhibits reinforce the marginalization of certain sectors of our society whose members fail to see their interests or skills on display. A recent example was the Bonnie Blue Ball at the Museum of the Confederacy in Richmond, Virginia, in February 1996. Celebrating the museum's centenary, the gala was steeped in a kind of nostalgia for the antebellum South: "Rebel yells echoed through a restored Civil War cannon foundry this weekend as revelers rattled their sabers and tossed gray cavalry caps high with Southern pride during a Confederate ball that black leaders called a symbol of white defiance" ("Dissent fails"). Held during Black History Month, the ball was patronized only by whites: "The only black people among Saturday night's crowd of 500 were at the catering stations, pouring bourbon and dishing up black-eyed pea salsa and sweet potato biscuits" ("Dissent fails"). Many were critical of the event, and former Governor Wilder of Virginia spoke out harshly against the ball on NBC's "Today" show. While the museum's executive director described the event as "naive," a member of the planning committee felt the event did not exclude African-Americans, since they were invited and chose not to come. His statement to the press did not address the question of whether African-Americans would feel comfortable at the gathering. The institution's marketing director viewed objections with outright "annoyance" ("Dissent fails").

As the Bonnie Blue Ball suggests, museums contribute to our political landscape as well, and they are increasingly perceived as players in the political arena. Even the location of such institutions or exhibits may be revealing; the federal proposal to build a jail across from the Afro-American Historical and Cultural Museum in Philadelphia was perceived by many as a significant--and negative--juxtaposition. In "Historical Shows on Trial: Who Judges," Paul Goldberger explains how an exhibition of photographs of slaves on Southern plantations, entitled "Back of the Big House," was mounted in a staff area at the Library of Congress. The display was removed after employees found it a reflection of tense race relations in an institution which itself had been dubbed "the big house" by those who worked there (26). Yet other values are apparent in the fact that the Imperial War Museum in London has survived for decades with such diverse sponsors as the Sultan of Brunei and Raytheon, but the Peace Museum in Chicago has experienced difficulties finding a home (Pridmore).

To the extent that governments and their leaders support museums devoted to African-American or other minority art, they often do so because it is convenient. While the Peace Museum struggles, Mayor Daley supported the Vietnam Veterans Art Museum, which opened in time for the Democratic Convention in the summer of 1996. Anne Keegan described his contributions: "He gave them the old abandoned warehouse across the street [from their previous site]. He got them $1 million to start off with, he named influential people to head a committee to help the process out, he got the city departments to kick in and cooperate, and he announced that this new museum would be the highlight of this summer's Democratic National Convention" ("Chicago's Newest Art Museum" 8). His gesture at once recognized the Vietnam War, referred to the conflict that marred the 1968 Chicago convention in his father's time, and by recognizing veterans only, elided the protests of anti-war demonstrators and draft dodgers. Sondra Varco, a champion of the museum, called the mayor's involvement a fitting "tribute" (Keegan, "Collection" 2), but to others, Daley's support might appear to be an example of calculated political pandering.

The controversy surrounding the Vietnam Veterans Museum appears to contradict Paul Goldberger's assertion in a February 1996 New York Times article on the changing nature of historical exhibits: "[F]ear of offending someone--anyone--now seems to govern the cultural climate of Washington far more than the presentation of ideas." He contends that "there is little or no debate on just how the nation's history should be presented to the public. . . . [and asks] Whose version of history should prevail when views differ" (1). As I have shown, museums dedicated to everything from motorcycles to Martin Luther King do establish such a debate, even when they fail to present the full scope of American diversity. Goldberger also suggests that museum exhibits have only been controversial when they have "questioned certain pieties" (26), but small museums offer a more complicated picture. Increasingly, small museums are beginning to offer alternative views of our history, politics, and cultural values. A growing number of museums are dedicating themselves to presenting the histories of minorities and women; in addition, more museums focusing on mainstream interests are attempting to be inclusive. Both transitions raise aesthetic and ethical dilemmas. Moreover, museums may be as worthy of study when they neglect to challenge assumptions dear to dominant groups as when they confront those assumptions.

Most local museums remain small, dusty institutions along the highways and byways of our nation or buried on the back streets of our cities. They do not attract the millions of people or dollars generated by blockbuster exhibitions. But they deserve study because they occupy a particular niche in our evolving social grammar, one that reflects not only cultural change, but also reactionary forces and attempts at subversion. As trivial and humorous as a Bad Art Museum in Massachusetts may seem, as specialized as the Jimmy Stewart Museum may appear (Wade), these institutions present our history even as they inflict history upon us. They are forces in our economy; they bring us together; and they exclude others from our communities. Only when we approach these institutions in the context of their mutiple purposes and effects can we fully assess their roles in our culture.

Amy Levin
Women's Studies
Northern Illinois University
DeKalb, IL 60115

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