What can a preserved animal specimen tell us about colonialism, extinction and even genocide? In this blog post, Thomas Kador reflects on the themes of his recent book Object-Based Learning: Exploring Museums and Collections in Education and considers how museum objects, often seen as neutral or purely scientific, can reveal troubling histories. From the Thylacine skeleton in UCL’s Grant Museum to instruments linked to eugenics, these objects challenge us to confront uncomfortable truths and rethink the role of collections in education.
Object-based learning (OBL) refers to a pedagogy based on working with material culture in support of learning and critical engagement with the world. While object-based approaches can involve all types of objects, there is usually a particular focus on items from museums and other curated collections.
My recent book Object-Based Learning: Exploring Museums and Collections in Education explores the many ways in which we can employ objects in formal and informal educational settings, and the benefits of doing so. Research repeatedly demonstrates that learners find working with objects – especially heritage ones – inspiring. It also shows that working with objects can support the development of subject-specific, transferable, and interdisciplinary skills, as well as benefit learners’ health and wellbeing.
You can probably recall a time when you felt inspired by a beautiful museum object or work of art, but there are museum objects that testify to much darker and challenging parts of human history. This does not diminish their capacity to facilitate learning. On the contrary, such objects represent extremely powerful catalysts for interrogating the past, including power structures, abuses of power, injustices, and even atrocities.
There are some well-known examples you might be aware of, such as the so-called Benin bronzes in the British Museum, and the artworks that were stolen by Nazi officials from their Jewish owners during the Holocaust. However, many items’ connection to difficult histories is less readily apparent, and we need to scratch a little deeper below the surface to reveal their stories.
For example, the deep entanglement of many museums and collections in the colonial project is well known. Objects and specimens allow us to lift the curtain on colonial exploits, with much of the discourse focusing on archaeological, anthropological, and historical museums, and – to a lesser extent – art collections. But what about natural history museums? Often mistakenly seen solely as spaces of scientific study which are unconnected to past or present political situations, these museums can also reveal problematic histories if we dig a little deeper.
UCL’s Grant Museum of Zoology has a collection of animal specimens that stretch back to the university’s foundation in 1826. When the collection was started in the 1820s and 30s, animals which have since become endangered or extinct were still in existence. For example, the museum has a collection of Thylacine – commonly known as the Tasmanian Tiger – material, consisting of a complete skeleton, some skulls, a number of other bones and a fluid specimen (i.e. a dissected animal preserved in alcohol). As Thylacines became extinct nearly 90 years ago, the remains at the Grant Museum are significant, especially as the fluid specimen is possibly the only one in the world.
But this is where it gets political, as Tasmania – the island from where the Thylacine specimens originate – was declared a British colony in 1825. At the time, the Thylacine, the largest modern day marsupial carnivore, was seen as a threat to European sheep plantations, and a bounty was placed on their pelts. This resulted in perhaps the only documented purposeful extinction of an entire animal species in human history. The mission ‘succeeded’, and by 1936 the last known Thylacine had died in that Australian zoo. The native human population did not fare much better, with the colonisers coming extremely close to exterminating the local Aboriginal people during the 1824-1832 Tasmanian war. It is striking how quickly a seemingly ‘harmless’ specimen in a natural history collection can become an emblem not only of its own species’ extinction, but also a reminder of the genocides perpetrated by Europeans on Tasmanians and other Aboriginal peoples.
While these are truly dark subjects, museum objects and specimens allow us to explore them closely in a relatively safe and non-confrontational manner. We can interrogate difficult topics from multiple perspectives, including some that differ from our own personal views. This brings us back to the role of objects as conduit for highlighting and critiquing institutional power and violence without being violent in their own right. This allows learners to confront uncomfortable truths, such as our own complicity – or inaction – in local or global injustices.
As an employee of UCL, it would be remiss of me not to mention my institution’s promotion of scientifically racist and ableist ideas through its enthusiastic embrace of eugenics in the early twentieth century. As a legacy of UCL’s involvement, we have a collection of objects, instruments and materials related to the study of eugenics, which recently have found new use as items that allow learners to critically engage with this troubled history. In this context, objects that were once instruments of oppression are now enabling students and researchers to interrogate, challenge, and come to terms with these practices and the mindsets that gave rise to them. The objects remain as tangible connections to these troublesome chapters of human history, but they have been transformed from tools of power and domination to facilitators of dialogue and cultural understanding.
