I have to say, I’m pretty impressed by a new app called Patrum that combines Kickstarter-like fundraising with educational behind-the-scenes conservation and artifact stories. I read about it on the Art Newspaper but so far haven’t seen much more buzz about it. And this app is made by…none other than the Vatican. Maybe that’s part of why it’s so intriguing to me; it’s coming from an unexpected source, and it’s doing a lot of things well with this new digital foray. I think it’s great to see the Vatican experiment with a sort of hybrid product that could be really interesting to many other, more traditional museums. (Though the Vatican may have more funds to try this sort of thing.)

It’s a really neat idea to be able to donate to a specific work of art or conservation project happening at the Vatican. This is straight Kickstarter modeling: the ability to support a tangible thing and then witness its progression. Donors can feel like they were a part of something specific and worthwhile when they see a product or a campaign come to fruition.

Certain features in Patrum seem a little ambitious, like the promise that if you donate to a specific project, you can use the app’s chat feature to converse directly with someone in the “patrons office” (doesn’t that sound cooler than “development”…?) and request updates on that project. There’s also the goal of having curators send photos and updates directly to contributors. I think this is an awesome idea but could be logistically difficult to get curators to participate on an ongoing basis. For me personally, the chat feature seems expendable; if I donate to a project, I’d rather receive standardized update notifications and messages directly to the app, just like Kickstarter. I’d also enjoy receiving access to video / Periscope tours of the artifact or space throughout the conservation process.

The OG Patron, Lorenzo de’ Medici (image via Wikimedia Commons)

And I think the Vatican is doing something really smart—perhaps even tongue-in-cheek—with the name of the app and the ritual patronage system to which it harkens. The opening screen of the app “unlocks,” creating the sense of being part of a select society (I couldn’t help but think of The Da Vinci Code when I saw the design).

There’s plenty of content even if you don’t decide to officially become a Patron, by paying an annual membership fee or by donating to a standalone project. Set up like a newsfeed (this video put out by the Vatican says Instagram was a big inspiration), you scroll through content chunks that fall into one of three categories (at least, that I saw while browsing): Idea, Person, or Restoration. That last one on the list has a big red “donate” button associated with it, but it thoroughly describes the artifact or project and how your donation will support it. The Kickstarter-y metrics of “Raised” and “Goal” are prominently displayed.

I visited the Rodin museum in Paris about six years ago, and I almost felt transported back during my recent time in Philly. Though a much smaller collection of the French sculptor’s works, I actually appreciated the tiny scale--they’d probably call it a jewel box in France. The elaborate facade leading into the garden at Philadelphia’s Rodin Museum provides an instant buffer from the busy-ness of Franklin Parkway. 

Can’t talk about Rodin without talking about the hands. He was known to draw his models from people on the street, and the hands range from gnarled to completely disfigured. Stanford’s museum even put on a recent exhibition about the connection between Rodin’s sculpture and medicine.

Visiting Valley Forge in winter seemed appropriate given the reason for its place in history. Though no battle was fought there, it played an important role in the Revolutionary War. George Washington and his underdressed, underfed troops camped at Valley Forge through a harsh winter, keeping the Continental Army together in a strategic location and ultimately turning them into a cohesive force.

It was an interesting juxtaposition to see dozens of kids sledding on the snowy slopes at Valley Forge, alongside more stoic memorials to the men who spent several months suffering there. But, despite rampant illness (some soldiers died at nearby makeshift hospitals), poor housing, and lack of resources, the troops fiercely lasted through the winter. To further improve things and bolster spirits, a Prussian military officer, von Steuben, trained the amateur soldiers and helped turn the tides for Washington’s army.

The park occupies an expansive setting, and a lot of ground to cover in the snow. Though the walking trails looked perfect for a spring outing, we opted for the self-guided driving tour option--you can pick up a map with points of interest at the visitor center.

The National Memorial Arch, dedicated in 1917. It was donated by the Masonic Society--an organization that GW himself once belonged to.

There were just really awe-inspiring views in every direction. But it was also easy to see how stark and unforgiving the land might be. I couldn’t imagine dwelling here for an entire winter, in a cabin that I myself constructed. It was interesting to learn how disconnected the Continental Army was at the time; the quality of your housing and your general state of warmth and comfort depended on how many resources your home state could provide--meaning that quality of living visibly varied from state to state. Von Steuben’s new style of military instruction not only improved soldiers’ skills, but it also helped knit the troops closer together.

The name of this post came to mind after I saw two exhibits at the National Geographic Museum, which were very different from each other but both supported a concept that (I believe) Nat Geo seeks to convey: that people are reflections and disseminators of the world around us, whether we’re talking about reflecting cultures and societies or the natural world. I was glad I caught FOOD: Our Global Kitchen just before it closed at the end of February. It did a great job of including the fun aspects of the topic of food, like smell stations that let you get a whiff of cinnamon or ginger, as well as the more complex themes of where food comes from and how it fits into a larger, global ecosystem along with health and economic issues. 

One of several introductory panels demonstrating the interconnectedness of foods and its evolution over time and throughout different locations. The unconventional watermelons are from Japan, where they were purposefully grown in square containers. 

Highlights included the test kitchen (the aspect of the exhibition most visibly connected to Whole Foods, a supporter), which featured different food samples along with moderately educational themes surrounding them. I was there on a day focusing on spices; we sampled turmeric milk and a couple different spicy dips. The test kitchen was novel, and it was smart to station it about halfway through the exhibition--it served as both a section divider and a little pick-me-up.

The sniff machines were one of several interactives in the exhibit, including chocolate and fennel as well. But possibly my favorite activity was a table with video projected on it, making it look like a large kitchen prep table. You could move around the table to different stations and hit “play” to watch one of several different recipes being concocted right in front of you. They included step-by-step instructions and ingredients, and were made to look like you yourself could be the chef. My biggest wish for this visual demonstration was that there was a way to save recipes at the end--either with pamphlets nearby, or with the ability to email recipes to yourself.

The exhibition also explored different food histories and cultures, like how ice cream was eaten in the time of Jane Austen. I especially enjoyed the display pictured above because I was raised vegetarian--and also happen to love Indian food! Go figure.

While FOOD was more of a blockbuster exhibition, organized by the American Museum of Natural History in New York and, as I mentioned, backed by Whole Foods, there was also a more understated little exhibit area in the lobby of the National Geographic Society’s office building across the courtyard. I actually don’t know if admission is even required to visit this exhibit; no one checked our tickets, and most of the people walking through seemed to work in the building’s offices.

I liked Photo Camp: A Decade of Storytelling not just for the amazingly diverse and striking photographs, but also for the humanitarian, educational mission behind this program. The exhibit did a great job of including glimpses at behind-the-scenes processes, interviewing both the Nat Geo photographers and their students. Photo Camp sends professional photographers and editors to various locations around the world to teach photography skills to young people. As they learn, these budding documentarians snap scenes of their communities, putting a newly trained eye to their daily lives. The images are powerful and speak for themselves; I’d recommend just popping into this unassuming exhibit in the lobby whenever you’re looking for a breath of fresh perspective.

When I went to New York two weekends ago, I arrived with the lofty goal of visiting, oh, five museums I had never been to before. In two and a half days. While also catching up with high school and college friends who live in the city. In other words, it didn’t happen, even though I had made a list and mapped out each museum’s neighborhood and subway stop. But, I realized, that’s how NYC operates. You get caught up in a whirlwind of too much to do and see (and eat). That being said, I did manage to escape on Friday afternoon while my friends were still at work, and I’m glad I did. The Hispanic Society of America was suggested to me by the museum-tweeting pro behind @ITweetMuseums, @MarkBSchlemmer. He said: “@HSAmuseum is recommended and sadly undervisited. Easy to get to by subway.”

He was right on both counts. I took the C train farther uptown than I had ever gone before, to 155th street, but it was a breeze. It’s true, the Hispanic Society of America Museum and Library is off the beaten path, both in the sense that Washington Heights is not typically thought of as museum destination land, and also that its entrance isn’t visible from the sidewalk: it’s through a courtyard, up a flight of stairs, through a set of stately iron gates to an upper courtyard, and then through a grand, Beaux Arts entrance into the museum itself.

Though the trek to the Hispanic Society of America, paired with its imperial external demeanor, might deter visitors, I actually found that the journey added to the experience. I felt like I was on a treasure hunt finding my way there, and the courtyards leading up to the museum acted as a buffer between the city noise and the hushed, almost reverent tone within the museum’s walls. I really hadn’t known what to expect, but stepping into HSA’s interior court made me feel transported to a medieval Spanish castle, a warm sanctuary from the piles of snow outside. With red tiled floors, dark wooded arches, and diffuse natural light coming in through glass ceiling panels, the architecture certainly helped get me in the right mindset for the art it houses—and get lost in its rich histories.

The Hispanic Society of America’s name sometimes causes confusion—and debate—as it focuses predominantly on Spanish art, though it does also have Latin American works in the collection. Furthermore, it's not a "society" in the exclusive sense of the word. Founded in 1904 by philanthropist Archer Milton Huntington, the HSA still strives to adhere to his original vision of a place of Spanish culture, research and learning. I won’t get into the contemporary pressures it faces to adapt to the times, but those arguments are explored in this 2011 New York Times piece.

The pleasant routes you can wander through the museum—circling the grand central court, surveying from the overhead balcony, and slipping into side passageways that lead to unexpected rooms full of decorative art objects—help emphasize the narrative feeling of many of the works. Often cited as the can’t-miss gallery, the Sorolla Room displays a massive panoramic mural, "The Provinces of Spain" (1911-1919), which covers nearly all the wall space in the room. Like the center court, its sheer scale and sumptuous jewel-toned colors have the powerful effect of spiriting you away to another time and place. 

Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida, described as the “painter of light,” captured scenes of outdoor life, from festivals to daily labor, all bathed in various tones of sunlight. While it’s a sight to behold in its entirety, my favorite part about the Sorolla Room was getting up close to certain small details. These little snapshots are full of activity and color in and of themselves, and it helps heighten a feeling of immersion in this painted world that seems to almost emit warmth (did I mention it was >20 degrees when I was in NYC?).

I also enjoyed some of the less traveled galleries upstairs at HSA. Heading through a room of 16th century Spanish door knockers (a surprise around every corner!), I found myself in the ceramics galleries—which include Spanish, Portuguese, and Latin American works as well as pieces from the Philippines and Portuguese India. I was sort of amazed by the level of artistry in these small and seemingly everyday objects, and it provided a nice contrast to the instantly visible grandeur of the stunning large-scale works in the collection. I had that feeling of having sneaked into the castle’s private china cabinet, poking around these treasures in total peace and quiet. I was especially tickled by these animated incense burners, ca. 1700-1750.

A series of painted tiles also caught my attention, as it again brought to mind the feeling of visual storytelling that carries throughout the museum. Titled "The advances of the 19th century," made in Barcelona in 1902, it was a fun challenge to try and identify the new technologies depicted: heated shower? Foot-powered saw?

Overall, my visit to the Hispanic Society of America was marked by the feeling that there were these great little gems all around, waiting to be discovered. A mix of warm Spanish hospitality and shrouded mystery made this a memorable passage through history and place, in a way that provoked not only intellectual curiosity but also appealed to the emotions and the senses. From the moment you set foot on those burnt sienna tiles, it is an invitation to take a delightful sojourn to majestic Old Spain in a truly immersive setting—one that even provides a cure for the winter blues.

I’m writing this post while on a train to New York because I (clearly) plan to visit some museums there, and I don’t want my recent visit to the Charles Sumner School in DC to lose its fresh place in my memory. Yesterday I visited the school, now a museum and archives, after having walked by it probably dozens of times in the past. A couple things that initially surprised me: 1. Public schools were apparently MUCH NICER buildings back in the day, and 2. The museum doesn’t focus solely on the history of Charles SumnerSchool; in fact, it covers a highly detailed history of the DC public school system and the evolution of African American education in the capital city. 

Returning to point #1: the fact that Charles Sumner School is an architectural marvel—an impressive red brick building with a bell tower and arched windows—is actually significant in and of itself. The Sumner School’s predecessor was likely neither attractive nor functional. It was a two-story schoolhouse constructed out of salvaged wood and opened for African American students in 1866. This lackluster building for the “M Street School” (which stood at the same location of 17th and M Streets where the Sumner School currently resides) was soon demolished. The structure that took its place was designed by famous architect Adolf Cluss—the same man who designed the Smithsonian Castle and the Arts and Industries Building, among many others throughout DC. If you can notice any blatant similarity here, it would be that red brick:

The Smithsonian Castle, via SI Newsdesk.

In fact, Cluss became known for transforming DC into the “Red Brick City” after the Civil War. This is why (I think) that a Cluss-designed building for an African American school is so significant: brick was locally made, inexpensive, and deterred fire, making it practical—but it was also regarded as new and modern during the period of industrial growth after the Civil War. I’ll defer to the Cluss historians to make this point, since I think it is phrased so well: “Brick satisfied a desire to show that this building was different from a building of an earlier period and was thus modern, not tied to other cultures, classes and styles.” Cluss designed several public schools in the city, which, according to an exhibition at the Sumner School Museum, “were meant to inspire students, dignify teaching, and elevate free public education to a position of prominence and respect.” Obviously, school integration would have been a more modern outcome, but that was still decades away. Sumner School was momentous for its time, as a state-of-the art building created specifically for the purpose of offering public education to African American students. When it was built in 1872, it was one of just three public elementary schools for African American children. It also hosted the first graduation in the country for African American high school students, in 1877.

A photo from an exhibit on Bill Webb’s documentation of DC public schools from 1975 to 1991, located on the ground floor of the Sumner School Museum.

Finally, heading inside the building: it’s impeccably maintained, and initially hard to imagine it as a school rather than a beautiful mansion (the metal school bells on the walls help give it away). It ceased functioning as a school in 1978 due to disrepair, and community rallying saved the building to be preserved as a historic site. 

The ground, first, second, and third floors all contain artifacts and records related to the DC public school system. Rooms are loosely organized around the histories of individual schools, like Cardozo, Duke Ellington School of the Arts, and Booker T. Washington. It also chronicles the contributions of teachers and administrators who helped advance African American education. One notable educator, Myrtilla Miner, founded a school focused on instructing African American women to become teachers, which also operated out of the Sumner School building.

One of Myrtilla Miner’s teachers-in-training instructing students on the lawn of the Sumner School.

Georgetown is famous for its beautiful historic homes, many of them striking in their Georgian, Federal and Victorian styles. But there’s a humble little structure on M Street that has them all beat when it comes to seniority. The Old Stone House, now owned by the National Park Service and open to the public, was built in 1765 and proudly holds the title of being the oldest structure still on its original foundation in Washington, DC.

Located in the midst of Georgetown’s busiest commercial drag, the Old Stone House is easy to miss in the steady stream of restaurants, bars and retail businesses (it’s directly across the street from the massive Nike store). It reminded me of the children’s book, “The Little House,” about a country house that sees the scenery around it transformed over time, for better or for worse. According to an NPS pamphlet I picked up during my visit, the area around the Old Stone House was growing into a busy commercial port by 1800, and the house was threatened by encroaching development. However, it appears that local legend saved the house: popular belief at the time held that George Washington and Pierre L’Enfant convened at the Old Stone House to work on city planning. (In fact, they likely stayed at an inn and tavern several blocks away.) 

Stepping through the Old Stone House’s entrance lands you directly in a gift shop, which was a little disappointing after I learned that this space was the original one-room, one-story house. It was built by a family from Pennsylvania, the Laymans, constructed out of solid oak and blue fieldstone from a nearby quarry. It wasn’t completely clear to me how much of the house is original material versus restored, since it has experienced so many changes over time. The house’s second owner, a wealthy widow who purchased the house a few years after it was built, expanded the first floor and added two additional floors. The Old Stone House even served as a used car dealership—and its garden as the lot—before it was bought by the NPS.

The restored English-style garden was at one time a used car lot. 

When I made my way through the gift shop and back into what is now the reconstructed kitchen, it offered a charming immersion into early American life. Some of the informational signs in the house are hard to read, as they’re mostly typed out on printer paper, but the objects themselves are fascinating and help to construct a snapshot of the time period. The massive hearth is the center of the kitchen, surrounded by various cooking and washing implements, and I liked seeing the list of popular foods of the time posted nearby, some familiar and some not so much: oatmeal, river herring, scrapple, cabbage, apple pie, and more.

The ceilings inside the house were noticeably lower than modern buildings, and I thought the Old Stone House had a fun way of putting that in perspective—literally. Similar to how I marked my height on a doorframe at home growing up, visitors to the stone house could see where they stood compared to Martha Washington and Thomas Jefferson, as well as the average 18th century man and woman. (This guy was happy about being between Benjamin Franklin and George Washington.)

Heading upstairs, the second floor contains bedrooms, while the very narrow ascension to the third floor leads to a children’s room. I noticed that these rooms were all generalized reconstructions of what the typical house of the time may have looked like, rather than attempts to incorporate history about actual occupants. For example, a sign in the children’s room read, “European American children in the late 1700s usually only had time for toys and games on Sunday.”