I'm trying, with limited success, to research the origins of the Natural History museum--the wunsterkammers and similar of the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. This book looked fairly promising, and started fairly promisingly, but unfortunately veered somewhat aside after the first chapters. As I should probably have suspected of a book written by a philosophy professor, it spent a lot of time exploring the "philosophy" and theory behind modern museum displays--which might have been a lot more entertaining if that was what I was actually looking for. As it was, I found the historical discussions tantalizing but insufficient, and the modern bulk of the book unappealingly theoretical.

SAaPH has been on my to-read list for quite a while (because there's only so many books available to a popular audience about preserving dead things in an academic setting), so when I saw it at a used bookstore had to jump on it. Until I started it, I didn't realize Asma was a philosophy professor which means a different perspective than other books on museology (such as Richard Fortey's [b:Dry Store Room No. 1: The Secret Life Of The Natural History Museum|2553092|Dry Store Room No. 1 The Secret Life Of The Natural History Museum|Richard Fortey|http://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/books/1329723153s/2553092.jpg|2561339], by a trilobite specialist at the NHM in London).

A good survey on the history of natural history museums and how collections are shaped by the perspective of their curator (anyone who's taken evolutionary biology will recognize Cuvier's strict orderliness and Richard Owens' attempt to rein in the beautiful chaos of John Hunter's massive wet prep collection), Asma muddles a bit when he muses over how and what museums should be narrating to patrons, especially in America where evolution is still a controversial subject (even ten years after he initially published it, the statistics haven't changed much). Considering natural history museums are one of the oldest, widely accessible means of science communication his philosophical thoughts apply to those interested in bridging the understanding gap in other mediums.

This was published in 2001, so I'm wondering if Asma's written anything on more recent events like the Field reducing its research projects or Ken Ham's glorious monstrosity of the Creation Museum down in Kentucky.

3.5 stars

I really wanted to like this book, and the very first chapter and the final chapter were great! I especially loved getting insight from museum staff who curate exhibits, and the various examples of natural history museums circa 2001 lightening up and trying to engage visitors via humor and comment boards.

However, in-between those chapters, I got a bit bogged down in all the evolution (heh) of evolutionary theory. I enjoyed learning about the scientists of the 19th century who tried to pin down the whys and hows of evolution, but I had a bit of trouble following along with who was who and what their exact beliefs were.

I did, however, learn a lot of great things in this book. For example, he points out how London's Natural History Museum focuses a great deal on Darwin, while Parisian museums downplay him and focus on biologists who worked closer to home. There's also a lot about evolutionary theory and early experiments that I hadn't thought about before as a person who grew up taking it (mostly) for granted that Darwin's theory of evolution was pretty on the nose. So, a bit dry, but the topics this book covers make it a worthy read.

I wanted to read this book after reading about it in Still Life, a book about taxidermy. I thought it was going to be more about the museums and how they operate, their history and the people who made them happen. While to a certain extent some of this is true, I found myself crazy bored by descriptions of Darwinian evolution, taxonomy, classificatory systems, and complicated histories of scientists and theorists. Ugh. The parts describing Asma's research, fun side facts, and much of the strange and wonderful juicy bits that one expects when reading about natural history museums were great, and Asma is a great writer. But his book was not really what I was hoping for.

The title really grabbed me on this one. I am an avid museum-goer and was interested in the author's premise- how did Natural History museums get to be the instituations they are today? Asma writes this conversational book extremely well. He is often as surprised as you as he finds new people to interview and unveils the next phase of history. There were many times I would be thinking "wow that is crazy" and literally the next sentence would be "I know sounds crazy doesn't it". A background in evolutionary theory, comparative biology, or natural history would be good but not necessary as Asma does a great job explaining the players and their theories/methods/contributions. This book was a favorite car-ride read-aloud that we were sad to finish. It will be in my regular rotation of books for a long time.

The title really grabbed me on this one. I am an avid museum-goer and was interested in the author's premise- how did Natural History museums get to be the instituations they are today? Asma writes this conversational book extremely well. He is often as surprised as you as he finds new people to interview and unveils the next phase of history. There were many times I would be thinking "wow that is crazy" and literally the next sentence would be "I know sounds crazy doesn't it". A background in evolutionary theory, comparative biology, or natural history would be good but not necessary as Asma does a great job explaining the players and their theories/methods/contributions. This book was a favorite car-ride read-aloud that we were sad to finish. It will be in my regular rotation of books for a long time.

Ok, so I didn't actually finish this one, but it wasn't for lack of trying! I had to return it to a library that I no longer have access to, and I don't have as much time to read as I used to (hooray for starting a doctoral program!). But I was really enjoying this book while I had it!

If I have ever read a book that struck such an elegant balance between philosophical inquiry and sordid fascination with the grotesque as Stephen Asma's Stuffed Animals and Pickled Heads, I certainly don't remember it. Asma's exploration of the evolution of modern-day natural history museums, from their primitive ancestors the medieval bestiaries, through Renaissance curiosity cabinets and the private, Enlightenment-era collections of proto-scientists, is perceptive and thought-provoking at every turn. It points out the moral and philosophical implications of curatorial decisions: things that are normally invisible to museum visitors, but which subtly (and sometimes not so subtly) communicate the agendas of their designers. It examines a selection of 18th-, 19th- and 20th-century curated collections, analyzing their presentation and, in the process, taking the reader on a fascinating journey through the history of collecting, classifying, and presenting widely differing versions of Nature in the West. But Asma's book also admits and even honors the darker instincts behind peoples' love of museums: our attraction to the unusual, bizarre, and just plain gross. And I think that's only right. There's no denying the pivotal role played by a prurient fascination with monstrosities, mutations, and myths on the road to science as we know it today. As Asma points out, "Oddities force us to attend. ... Museums figured this out a long time ago."

The jar that first drew my attention was about the size of an industrial stew pot and contained a curdled mass of flesh. This menacing basketball-sized blob was a tumor that John Hunter surgically removed from a man's neck in 1785 (fig. 2.8). Next to the jar was a small card quoting Hunter's notes: "The operation was performed on Monday, October the 24th, 1785; it lasted twenty-five minutes, and the man did not cry out during the whole of the operation." This poor patient had a tumor, roughly the size of his own head, sprouting out of his neck, and Hunter cut it out of him sixty-odd years before anesthesia was discovered - with nothing to numb the pain except some swigs of whiskey. As I pondered many of the pathology jars, I wanted to get on my knees and thank the gods of experimental medicine for letting me be born in the twentieth century.



In the first half of the nineteenth century England's intelligentsia was dominated by the "argument from design." Natural theologians were arguing that the natural world was perfectly adapted - each animal organ and appendage perfectly suited the peculiarities of different habitats and activities. Such perfect design, the argument concluded, proves the existence of a benevolent designer God. One of the overriding impressions that Hunter's pathology collection leaves on the observer, however, is that nature is sloppy. The notion of the perfect adaptation or fit of each animal to its environment and the elegantly coordinated physiological adaptation of each individual to itself (organs arranged and functioning in harmony) is dramatically challenged by Hunter's pathology jars.

As this passage illustrates, Asma moves from grotesque example to illuminating analytical observation, and the whole is delivered in a lively, readable prose. His book is structured, not in strict chronological order, but as a series of related investigative essays covering subjects from the development of taxidermy and embalming, to the history of taxonomy, to the national differences among modern presentations of evolutionary biology. His approach reminded me of an updated take on the 18th-century conversational essay - a form I very much enjoy, and one uniquely suited to Asma's subject matter, given the space he devotes to the Enlightenment-era collections of John Hunter and Georges Cuvier. His approachable prose is a real plus, since the reader is trying to wrap her head around radically different world-views throughout the book. At one point, while discussing a half-digested human stomach, Asma points out that in order to appreciate the specimen from an 18th-century point of view, we must imaginatively think ourselves back to an era when a purely mechanical mode of digestion was a possibility. This is actually quite difficult, since the role of stomach acid is so firmly entrenched in our minds. Similar thought experiments are necessary to grasp many of the pre-Darwinian stops along the track of natural philosophy, but Asma proves a capable conductor, endearingly enthusiastic about the human and scientific oddities he discovers along the way.

In his opening chapter, he observes that

Educational and entertainment institutions meet in the common-ground territory of the spectacular. But some spectacles lead to something cognitive or reflective, and the hope of the educator is to facilitate that trajectory. There is a place in that trajectory for the odd, the wonderful, and the grotesque. But some spectacles, using the same spectacular launching pads of human curiosity, only lead back to themselves. The thrill-ride spectacle can be "managed" in such a way that it leads to more of the same, not contemplation and reflection. The spectacle itself becomes the commodity.

In addition to being an accurate description of his own book, this strikes me as a sane and reasonable take on the "edutainment" debate vis-a-vis museums, which Asma tackles at greater length in his final chapter. While justly concerned about the effect on museums of alliances with corporate sponsors (i.e., how can a museum maintain objectivity in an exhibit about petroleum, if the primary source of funding is an oil company?), he lauds curatorial attempts to lighten the mood of exhibits, to teach with humor and not take themselves and their subject matter in deadly earnest. I think there is a tendency among people who stand up against "edutainment" (understood as entertainment without content), to look down on any exhibit that encourages people to laugh, or connect a scientific concept with some element of popular culture. But, as Asma rightly points out, studies show that laughter improves peoples' willingness and ability to remember information. It therefore seems backward to get sniffy about humorous exhibits, since there's a high likelihood they're doing a better job of teaching than their unfunny analogs, while simultaneously showing museum patrons a good time. Of course entertainment shouldn't be the only experience one finds in a museum, but Asma makes a strong point for it being one effective curatorial tool, and one that, perhaps, ought to be used more often, especially given the modern distrust of authority figures. When a museum can laugh at itself for a moment, he points out, it lets down its guard and becomes more relatable and sympathetic to patrons, and they in turn become more receptive to new ideas.

If used thoughtfully, spectacle and laughter can lead to contemplation; when used exploitatively, they only lead back to themselves. The spectacle in Stuffed Animals and Pickled Heads was uniformly linked to fascinating ideas and information, and I'll be contemplating much of it for a long time to come.