The simple answer: to tell a meaningful, engaging and informative story. But we could say the same for any exhibit component. Exhibit labels and signs meet those criteria, as do videos, artifacts and our skilled presenters. For an exhibition designer, the question is more complex and depends largely on the situation. Digital media is just one of many experiential techniques to choose from.
Being informative is easy. A white label with black text stating the birth date of a historical figure provides sufficient information. In some cases, it’s exactly what’s needed. A more challenging task is making the informative engaging and therefore meaningful. To do this, we must find the best storytelling device that allows us to connect to universal ideas where all individuals — within our wide spectrum of guests — can find relevance.
Digital experiences excel in areas where there’s a need to convey complex or layered information, attract through novelty and fun, or respond with flexibility and adaptability. Virtual exploration — by simulation or transportation — has the magical ability to whisk our guests beyond the confines of our campus (or bring them to us) and put them into situations they may never find themselves in, such as walking on the wings of an airplane or working on a racing pit crew. The possibilities are nearly endless, and emerging technologies are ever widening the imagination. I’m sure an AI chatbot would have lots to say on the subject.
Despite the many exciting opportunities with digital, it isn’t always the best choice. Hardware and code evolve at a rapid pace, and keeping up can be costly. We also consider how our museum experiences are unique in 2024 when many of us live entrenched in a digital world already. Our ideal exhibition experience is one where guests don’t notice the methods — and the complex questions feel like they have simple answers.
Written by Wing Fong, director of Experience Design, The Henry Ford
This post was adapted from an article in the Winter/Spring 2024 issue of The Henry Ford Magazine.
Prototype Beehive Hanging Lamp, 1960. / THF370555
When Lucia DeRespinis designed the Beehive Lamp in 1960, she was the only female industrial designer at the George Nelson Associates design firm in New York City. The firm is often remembered for its connection to the Herman Miller Furniture Company where its founder, George Nelson, served as design director for decades, but George Nelson Associates worked with and for a variety of companies during its long tenure. One such collaboration was with renowned lighting company Nessen Studios to design a series of versatile indoor/outdoor lighting. DeRespinis was put on the project and the Beehive Lamp she designed for the series is one of her more celebrated product designs today. This particular Beehive Lamp, acquired by The Henry Ford in 2023, is likely the second prototype, DeRespinis posited. It cannot be the first prototype—although it is nearly identical to it—as that one sits in DeRespinis’ own home, above her dining room table.
Lucia Neumann was born in 1927 in Cleveland, Ohio. She initially attended St. Lawrence University but transferred to the Pratt Institute, graduating with a bachelor’s degree in industrial design in 1952, as one of just a few women in her class. She first worked for the design office of Monte Levin before hearing about an open position at George Nelson Associates. She was hired as George Nelson’s first female industrial designer in 1956 and shortly after, in 1957, married Pratt classmate and fellow industrial designer, Louis DeRespinis. While employed by George Nelson, Lucia DeRespinis designed the iconic Eye and Spindle clocks for Howard Miller, interiors of an apartment at the 1959 American National Exhibition in Moscow, dinnerware for Hall China Co., and more—although she has only recently received credit for this work. As was common in the mid-twentieth century, the lead designer (in this case, George Nelson) received credit for all work completed by the eponymous design firm.
Underside of the Prototype Beehive Hanging Lamp, 1960. / THF370558
DeRespinis left George Nelson Associates in 1963, when she was “too pregnant to lean over the drafting table.” She became a freelance designer, and her contracted work varied from designing interiors for television news programs to logos and packaging design. In 1970, Lucia’s husband Louis tragically passed away, leaving her a single mother. With the help of her building’s babysitting co-op, DeRespinis continued to freelance design. In 1975, while working with advertising firm Sandgren & Murtha, she selected the vibrant orange and fuchsia colorway of the Dunkin’ Donuts logo, inspired by the favorite colors of her daughter—because she thought “donuts are fun!” and that the logo should reflect that playfulness. Although the Dunkin’ Donuts logo has been altered in the decades since, what remains is DeRespinis’ iconic orange and fuchsia.
DeRespinis returned to Pratt Institute in 1980. She spent decades teaching generations of designers as a professor in the Department of Industrial Design at Pratt Institute and retired in 2020. She lives in the same I.M. Pei-designed Manhattan apartment complex that she and Louis moved into in 1965.
Katherine White is curator of design at The Henry Ford. Katherine is grateful to Lucia DeRespinis for generously opening her home and sharing stories of her life’s work.
Through mid-December 2024, the What We Wore exhibit in Henry Ford Museum of American Innovation presents work “fashions” — and a bit of work lives — of a postal carrier, fast food worker, nurse, flight attendant, and dairy delivery worker.
Work uniforms can denote an occupation, support a sense of unity and belonging, identify staff for customers, promote a brand, or even suggest trustworthiness.
Uniforms have changed over the years as fashion, fabrics, corporate identity, and gender roles have evolved.
Postal Carrier
Postal carrier uniform and hat, 1955-1965. Worn by Herbert Temple Goltry of Allen Park, Michigan. / THF152804, THF152867
Uniforms worn by U.S. Postal Service carriers are designed for comfort and function. Created in regulation styles and colors — with some local variation — these uniforms are instantly recognizable and imply that the wearer is a trustworthy government employee. Carrier uniforms adopted the "Eisenhower jacket" look in 1953. This practical, yet smart, waist-length jacket, named after General Dwight D. Eisenhower, was developed for the U.S. Army during World War II. The eight-point cap — made with a woven cane band for ventilation — became the mandatory cap style for carriers beginning in 1955.
In 1913, the U.S. Post Office began Parcel Post, offering delivery service for packages weighing over 4 pounds to customers across the nation. Herbert Goltry, the wearer of this uniform, delivered parcel post packages from the 1940s into the 1970s. Post Office patch design and trouser stripe colors were changed from time to time and no longer appear on this uniform.
Herbert Goltry wearing a postal carrier's uniform, 1940-1945. / THF717914.
Postal carriers are known to spend a lot of time on their feet. These Jerk brand "Activ-8" elasticized support socks use the image of a postman as an “endorsement” of their product. 1955-1960. / THF196279
Fast Food Worker
Dairy Queen uniform blouse, 1978. Worn by Laura Gentry of Harvester, Missouri. / THF372105 Gift of Laura (Gentry) Stupperich
A growing number of fast food restaurants have become part of the American landscape since the mid-20th century — jobs at these restaurants are often among a teen’s first. Wearing a uniform that represents the company's brand is part of the experience.
Laura Gentry worked at Dairy Queen in Harvester, Missouri, from her senior year in high school through college. She wore this distinctive uniform blouse — brown, red, and gold plaid — along with dark brown pants purchased on her own.
Laura dove in, preparing ice cream orders, dealing with customers, handling money, cleaning tables, and mopping floors. She loved making the iconic Dairy Queen curly twist on top of the soft-serve ice cream cones.
Laura's hard work earned her a management role at the restaurant while she attended college classes for a career in accounting. Her family had wanted her to go places. For Laura, her experiences at Dairy Queen paved the way.
Laura Gentry posed on her Halloween birthday in 1978--then headed off to her job at Dairy Queen! / THF718996 Gift of Laura (Gentry) Stupperich
When Laura Gentry and her Dairy Queen coworkers graduated from high school in 1979, the restaurant's sign took note. / THF718998 Gift of Laura (Gentry) Stupperich.
Laura Gentry's job at Dairy Queen was part of DECA, a program aimed at providing work experience for high school students. / THF719001 Gift of Laura (Gentry) Stupperich.
Nurse
Nurse's uniform, cape, and cap, 1957. Worn by Marie Goltry of Allen Park, Michigan. / THF371971, THF152866.
Nursing is a demanding job that requires specialized training — and until recent decades, it was predominantly a woman's profession. Marie Goltry was one of more than 5,000 nurses who graduated from the Henry Ford Hospital School of Nursing in Detroit during its 71 years of service. In the mid-20th century, college programs would begin to replace hospital-based education.
For decades, nurses' uniforms were white — in the early 1900s white was considered more sanitary and scientific. Nurses wore a crisp white dress, white cap, white hose, and sturdy white shoes. The uniform was reassuring to patients who knew their care was in the hands of a trained professional.
Wearing a white dress and cap — and keeping them spotless — was often impractical in a healthcare setting. By the 1980s, clothing for nurses took a more practical turn. Scrubs were easier to move in, keep clean, and came in fabrics that let the wearer express their individuality — and scrubs were gender neutral, as men joined the nursing profession.
Marie Goltry poses in her uniform after graduating from Henry Ford Hospital Nursing School in 1957. "Ford grads," like nurses who graduated from other training programs, were easily recognized by their unique caps. THF717912
Journals helped nurses learn of new developments in health and health care. R.N.: A Journal for Nurses, March 1958. THF719176
Flight Attendant
Trans World Airlines flight attendant uniform, 1965. Worn by Diane Beers of East Orange, New Jersey. / THF372094 Gift of Diane B. Hill.
In the 1960s, when flying was still an adventure for many, being a flight attendant — or stewardess as they were then known — offered an exciting career choice for young women. Winging one's way to destinations across the country or around the globe had great appeal.
In an era when most airline travelers were men, most flight attendants were women — young, attractive, and well-groomed. Uniforms by prominent designers — like TWA's French-inspired contemporary look by couturier Pierre Balmain — gave women like Diane Beers of New Jersey an enviably sophisticated air.
Competition for jobs was intense and expectations high. A stewardess was expected to handle with smooth professionalism the hospitality and safety needs of dozens of passengers. Her appearance was carefully regulated, including regular weigh-ins. Well into the 1960s, airline careers for women were usually short, ending with marriage or with women aging out in their early 30s.
Diane Beers joined TWA as an “air hostess” after earning an associate degree — major airlines often hired women with a college education. Here, Diane Beers poses proudly in her Pierre Balmain-designed TWA uniform, 1965. / THF718807 Gift of Diane B. Hill.
Air Line Stewards and Stewardesses Association membership card for Diane L. Beers, 1965. / THF718792 Gift of Diane B. Hill.
Flying was an event in the 1950s and 1960s. Stewardesses presented a polished appearance and professional demeanor as they served passengers. / THF717916
Dairy Delivery Worker
Twin Pines Dairy delivery uniform, about 1993. Worn by David Ivanko of Birmingham, Michigan. THF371986 Gift of John M. Ivanko.
There was a time when many households had a “milkman” who regularly delivered bottles of cold, fresh milk — in the 1950s, more than half of consumer milk sales came from these home delivery services. Customers conveniently placed standing orders but could change the order by leaving a note in one of the returned empty glass milk bottles. A dramatic increase in two-car families and small convenience stores changed things by the mid-1970s. Today, doorstep milk delivery is uncommon.
Twin Pines Dairy trucks were a familiar sight on the streets of the Detroit metro area in the 1950s and 1960s, covering approximately 500 delivery routes. During the time that John Ivanko of Birmingham, Michigan, owned a route in his wealthy Detroit area community, home delivery routes were far fewer — his was one of only about 50 in 1993.
Twin Pines milk bottle, about 1950. Twin Pines Farm Dairy was an employee-owned, independent cooperative, whose delivery routes were also independently owned and operated. / THF800558 Gift of Gail S. Woodruff.
This Twin Pines window card lists the variety of products available for convenient, “worry-free” home delivery, 1965-1975. / THF718810, THF718809
Twin Pines Dairy drivers delivered their products to customers in trucks manufactured by the Divco Truck Company of Detroit, Michigan, shown in this late 1950s photo. / THF717898 Gift of Ralph Seabright.
Some homes had “milk chutes” built into a wall. Delivery workers opened the compartment from outside the house. Customers retrieved the milk through another door inside. Image courtesy of Kate Herron.
Jeanine Head Miller is curator of domestic life.
Dancer Martha Graham was formidable in her work, art and life.
Born in Allegheny, Pennsylvania, in 1894, Martha Graham first became captivated by dance when, at 17 years old, she saw Ruth St. Denis — known even then as a pioneer for drawing influence from Asian dance forms — perform in Los Angeles. In 1916, Graham joined the Denishawn dance troupe (co-founded by St. Denis and her then-husband and dance partner, Ted Shawn), and began a performance career that would continue until her retirement from the stage at age 74.
In 1926, Graham founded the Martha Graham Dance Company with herself as principal choreographer. Her work would come to define modern dance, with her technique creating the first teachable methodology. Eschewing the delicate, airy aesthetic of traditional ballet, Graham’s choreography was grounded, focusing on the contraction and release of the body, originating in the solar plexus. Sharp, sometimes harsh movements, interrupted by moments of spiraling fluidity, were used to convey an emotional reality in each performance.
Early in 2024, The Henry Ford acquired five color slides documenting the creative collaboration between Graham and designer Isamu Noguchi. Noguchi designed sets for over 20 of the company’s performances (including Graham’s most notable work, Appalachian Spring), his spare but innovative designs pairing perfectly with Graham’s choreographic style. The images capture dancers in action among Noguchi’s set pieces, evoking the energy and reality of the performances in a way that programs or other ephemera would not.
Slide images from performances of (clockwise from bottom) Acrobats of God (1960), Seraphic Dialogue (1955) and Frontier (1935). Photo by EE Berger.
Martha Graham’s importance lies not just in her choreography; the same thread of boldness ran throughout her life. Years after her death in 1991, she is remembered for her forceful personality — she was known for pushing herself and those around her, inspiring in many an intense devotion to her and her teachings — and her unflinching commitment to telling feminist stories through her works, which often included unvarnished depictions of female power and sexuality.
Collecting her work — even in the smallest of images — allows The Henry Ford to explore more of Graham’s dynamic story.
This post was written by Rachel Yerke-Osgood, associate curator, and adapted from an article in the Winter/Spring 2024 issue of The Henry Ford Magazine.
2024 marks two milestone anniversaries for the Ford Rouge Complex
By Paige Gilbert, social media manager, The Henry Ford
One hundred years ago, in 1924, Henry Ford opened the massive Ford Rouge Complex for the public to see and experience the manufacturing process. By 1936, a memorable phase of Rouge tours began. The Ford Rotunda — originally designed for the 1934 World’s Fair — reopened as a visitor center and starting point for tourgoers who boarded glass-roofed buses to see the massive complex. Some of today’s guests still remember walking through the steel operations plant.
Ford Rouge Complex circa 1955 / THF274424
After a 1962 fire destroyed the Rotunda, Ford Motor Company opened a building called the Spirit of Ford directly across from Henry Ford Museum of American Innovation and bused tour attendees from there to the Rouge. In the early ’80s, Ford stopped offering factory tours for various reasons.
In the late ’90s, Bill Ford, then chairman of Ford’s board, began to reimagine a Rouge Complex of the future. He brought on architect and designer William McDonough to help make the Rouge more efficient and sustainable. Together, they envisioned a site that could become a model of industrial production and environmental redesign. The complex saw many transformations — including new approaches to stormwater management, landscaping, waste minimalization and lighting, as well as the creation of one of the world’s largest “living roofs.”
With this redevelopment came the opportunity to build a visitor center and reopen the factory to the public. The visitor center project came to life through a collaboration between Ford Motor Company, The Henry Ford and UAW Local 600.
Twenty years ago, on May 3, 2004, the Rouge reopened to the public, this time with tours managed by The Henry Ford. Today, Ford Rouge Factory Tour guests are bused from Henry Ford Museum of American Innovation to be immersed in the past, present and future of American manufacturing as they get an inside look at where the Ford F-150 is assembled.
Since 2004, the Ford Rouge Factory Tour has welcomed more than 2 million guests from all over the world.
This post was adapted from an article in the Winter/Spring 2024 issue of The Henry Ford Magazine.
A team of staff from five departments at The Henry Ford have been busy during the final three weeks of an exciting IMLS grant project. Over the last two years of this grant-funded project (October 2022-August 2024), the efforts of conservation, collections management, cataloging, the photography studio, and curatorial, have led to the treatment and interpretation of 2,106 items stored in THF’s Collections Storage Building. Read on to explore behind-the-scenes work in the conservation lab!
Broadcast Seeder with parts wrapped in fabric / Reference Images by Jeeeun Sims (Jee Eun Lim) / 00.1384.23
This object might make you scratch your head, but it held clues that curators and cataloguers explored as conservators completed their work.
Conservation of the object started with a thoughtful study to determine next steps for treatment. This required unwrapping fabric and straw bound around two of the metal components. This was likely done by the donor to protect people from injuring themselves on the sharp metal while handling the object.
Grain Sack / Reference Images by Jeeeun Sims (Jee Eun Lim) / 00.1384.23
One of the fabrics was a grain sack with the word “J.EDISION” stenciled in orange paint on the outside, front and back. The sack included torn areas that had previously been mended.
The level of dirtiness was first checked with wet paper and deionized water. Next, the bag was vacuumed to remove residual substances such as large pieces of dust and insect carcasses. During this process, we found a few grain seeds that were placed separately in a plastic bag for future research.
Grain Sack / Reference Images by Jeeeun Sims (Jee Eun Lim) / 00.1384.23
After vacuuming, conservators worked with textile Conservation Specialist Katrina Herron to perform a wet cleaning. The bag was submerged in a tray filled with tap water. The bag was lightly agitated to remove dust and contaminants. The water was replaced and the process repeated until the water was clear enough to call the bag “clean.” While changing the water, the bag was rolled with a mesh sheet and set aside. This technique reduces the likelihood of damage to the bag when carried flat, as the weight of the water can cause too much tension to the fibers.
Grain Sack Treatment / Reference Images by Jeeeun Sims (Jee Eun Lim) / 00.1384.23
The water was changed a total of fourteen times. At the beginning of the process, the dust and contaminants were removed with only tap water. The next cycles used tap water mixed with liquid soap. Orvus and Vulpex are gentle cleaners used by our conservation staff. In this project, they were used to clean the stains on the surface of the bag by pressing it with a soft sponge. In the end, deionized water was used to rinse out the soap thoroughly. Each time the water was replaced, a sample of the water was taken to determine the level of contamination.
Grain Sack before, during, and after treatment / Reference Images by Jeeeun Sims (Jee Eun Lim) / 00.1384.23
After completing the wet cleaning process, the bag was left to air dry slowly on a mesh drying rack sandwiched between clean towels. The surface of the fabric is brighter after cleaning but still retains some stains that show its previous use.
As conservators treated the object, other members of the IMLS grant team explored additional clues to help with identification.
An attached tag reads: "GRAIN SOWER"/ "FROM: MR. + MRS. HAROLD EDISON"/ "GRAND RAPIDS." The description “Grain Sower” indicates that a farmer used the machine to sow wheat or other grains. Cranking the wooden handle turned a shaft topped with a flanged disc that broadcast the seed onto the field. An inscription on one of the cast metal components gave a patent date of March 22, 1870, and that led to U.S. Patent 101,136 for a “Broadcast Seeder.” The inventor, Jacob C. Kurtz of Wooster, Ohio, included illustrations with his patent, explaining that his device could rapidly and evenly distribute seed, and could also be adapted for use from a wagon.
Illustration from U.S. Patent 101,136, issued March 22, 1870 to J. C. Kurtz, Wooster, Ohio / United States Patent and Trademark Office
J.EDISON, UNPACKED
How did Mr. and Mrs. Harold O. Edison acquire this machine? The donors, likely Mr. Harold Ogden Edison and his wife Cosetta A. Hessey, did not explain this history, but the grain sack with “J.Edison” stenciled on it provided a critical clue. Harold descended from the family of Moses Edison (1783-1849). Moses had a son, John, who likely purchased the broadcast seeder and had the grain sack stenciled “J.Edison.”
In 1837, Moses, his wife Jane Saxton (1787-1872), and several children including John (1806-1889) moved from Vienna, Canada, to Walker Township, Kent County, Michigan (the Grand Rapids area). This date derives from a reminiscence shared when the Moses Edison family donated their spinning wheel to The Henry Ford (Wool Wheel, C. 1800-1830 / THF176591). They settled on land north of the Grand River, which was previously occupied by Ottawa (Odawa), Chippewa (Ojibwa), and Potawatomi (Bodewadi) peoples, who were required as part of the 1833 Treaty of Chicago to move to Kansas territory.
Did the Edison families in Walker Township have any connection to Thomas Alva Edison? Yes.
Moses was a brother of Samuel Ogden Edison (1767-1865) who was Thomas Alva Edison’s grandfather—which meant that Moses was Thomas Edison’s great uncle, and John (the owner of the grain sack) Edison’s first cousin once removed. In 1933, Thomas Edison’s homestead was sold to Henry Ford and moved to Greenfield Village. The broadcast seeder treated during the IMLS grant was located in the Edison Homestead as of 1951, confirmed by a small aluminum plate attached to its base (E.H.-382) during an inventory conducted in the house that year.
Thanks to funding from the Institute of Museum and Library Services, this broadcast seeder led to in-depth conservation treatment, while also prompting exploration of the stories connected to it, including removal, migration, agriculture, and familial connections over decades.
This blog was produced by Jeeeun Sims (Jee Eun Lim), Conservator, with Debra A. Reid, Curator, Agriculture and the Environment.
Our handcrafted and salt-glazed stoneware bread cloche allows you to mix your dough, proof it, and then bake it all in one dish. During the baking process, the lid traps steam, creating bread that is light and airy with a golden crust. Salt-glazed stoneware was a popular kitchen staple in the early 1800s as the firing process resulted in a surface that was both durable and beautiful.
German Bread Recipe
Ingredients:
- 1 pint bread sponge (To make a bread sponge, dissolve 2 tablespoons sugar and 1 teaspoon active dry yeast in 2 cups warm water)
- 1 cup sugar
- 1 egg
- 3 tablespoons melted butter
- 4 cups flour (Keep an additional 1 to 2 cups on hand as needed)
Directions:
- 1. Beat together the bread sponge, sugar, egg and butter until you have a light mixture.
- 2. Stir in flour until the mixture is thick. Begin with 4 cups and then add 1-2 additional cups as needed.
- 3. Grease interior sections of the bread cloche and pour in the mixture.
- 4. Cover the cloche and let the dough rise until it doubles in size (roughly about an hour).
- 5. Open the cloche and punch the dough down.
- 6. Re-cover the cloche and let the dough rise a second time (about 30 to 45 minutes).
- 7. Bake covered in a moderate oven (350 F for 25 to 30 minutes).
This recipe and cooking technique are demonstrated onsite at Firestone Farm in Greenfield Village.
Source: The Household of the Detroit Free Press, 1881, p. 386; edited for modern use by The Henry Ford Living History Leadership.
In August 1924—one hundred years ago—an interplanetary celestial event between Earth and Mars became an opportunity for speculation, scientific study, and inspiration. Every 26 months or so, our planet aligns in “opposition” with Mars, reducing our distance from around 140 million miles to 34.6 million miles. But not all oppositions are equal. Since Earth and Mars have elliptical orbits, every 15-17 years the distance during an opposition becomes even shorter. The view, more clear. A distance scale of millions of miles described as being “close by” is unfathomable to many of us. Still, these special “perihelion” oppositions have served as an essential time for astronomers to observe Mars and test their theories. The 1924 Mars opposition from August 22-24 was one of these special “perihelion” examples.
Astronomer and Mars enthusiast David Peck Todd looks through a telescope at Georgetown University Observatory, 21 August 1924 / Courtesy of National Photo Company Collection (Library of Congress)
During this time of celestial wonder, an ambitious and strange experiment occurred: an attempt to “listen” for signs of life emanating from the Red Planet. While this experiment may seem fitting in a science fiction novel, it was supported by the U.S. military and the U.S. Weather Bureau. The Army and Navy collaborated with astronomer David Peck Todd and engineer Charles Francis Jenkins as the project's leads, with the assistance of cryptographer William Friedman.
Portrait of Charles Francis Jenkins, c. 1925 / THF120578
Charles Francis Jenkins was an inventor who worked in early cinema and television technology from the 1890s into the 1930s. Many of his experimental devices used radio wave technologies to transmit and record images over long distances. While Jenkins was eager to test new reaches for his inventions across state lines, he definitely wasn’t aiming for transmission at a deep space level.
David Peck Todd was an accomplished astronomer and the former observatory director at Amherst College in Massachusetts. In 1882, he became the first person to photograph Venus's transit and later became fascinated with the “intelligent planet” theories of 19th-century astronomers Percival Lowell, Giovanni Schiaparelli, and Camille Flammarion. Todd was fascinated with the "canals of Mars" theory, which claimed that the lines crisscrossing the surface of the planet—observed by Todd and others through telescopes—were Martian-made irrigation canals. In reality, these lines proved to be an optical illusion caused by telescope lenses of the time, but the hope remained for Todd. Seeking to achieve extraterrestrial communication, Todd convinced the military to cooperate with his plan to harness the 1924 opposition as an ideal time to gather “signals from Mars.”
Label from a former exhibit at The Henry Ford with details about Jenkins’ SE-950 radio. The radio is visible in the image above, to the left of Todd (standing). Jenkins is seated with another component of the Jenkins Radio Camera / Image by Kristen Gallerneaux
The short version of this story is that during the peak of the Mars opposition, on August 22-24, the military would request periods of radio silence each day—any rogue signals that bled through Jenkins’ and Todd’s equipment could, in theory, prove the existence of life on Mars. On the ground, the devices used to “listen” for signals were Jenkins’ “radio photo message continuous transmission machine” (more simply, the Jenkins Radio Camera) and a SE-950 NESCO radio. If any signals were detected, they would be translated into flashes of light, exposing static-like forms onto a 30-foot long piece of photographic paper fed onto spools in the wooden box seen in the image above.
Radio Receiver, Type SE-950, used by Charles Francis Jenkins in experiment detecting radio signals from Mars / THF156814
For his part, Jenkins was skeptical and tried to distance himself from Todd’s belief to protect his reputation as a scientist. Throughout the experiment, static did filter through the Jenkins Radio Camera. William Friedman, the cryptographer, could not make sense of it. The public interpreted these signals visually, believing they were seeing the form of a human face in the static. The fervor quickly died down when it became obvious that the interference was likely caused by radio heterodyning, from passing trolley cars, or even the natural radio waves of Jupiter.
Radio signals collected during the 1924 Mars opposition by Todd and Jenkins using the “radio photo message continuous transmission machine” / Courtesy of Yale University Archives, David Peck Todd papers
The Henry Ford’s collections contain many of Jenkins’ prototypes and experimental technologies that he used in his laboratories, which came to us in 1940 through Jenkins’ widow, Grace Love Jenkins. What remains of Jenkins' apparatus used during the 1924 Mars opposition? In this curious stretch of three days, technology was pushed beyond what it was ever intended to do. This SE-950 radio is a poetic conduit in communication history—and believed to be the last remaining three-dimensional object used in the experiment. The rest of the Jenkins Radio Camera is believed to be lost, although the photographs of the messages received during August 1924 are located in the Yale University Archives.
Illustration from the December 1913 issue of Ford Times, predating the 1924 Mars opposition. What if the tables were turned, with Mars observing Earth? / THF3205
This experiment is often cited as part of the lineage that led to the formation of organizations like the SETI Institute, which employs scientific experts to search for intelligent life in the universe. A century later, the events of August 1924—reported on, rediscovered, and recently rediscovered once again as we near the 100th anniversary—continue to find new audiences. Celestial events like solar eclipses, comets, and meteor showers inspire people to seek out collective moments of awe-inspiring wonder, sometimes travelling long distances for the best view of these fleeting moments. Readers who can relate might broaden their celestial horizons to consider the history of public and scientific fascination with Mars, which will be in opposition to Earth in January 2025, February 2027, and March 2029. For the next extra special “perihelion” opposition, akin to the one that happened in 1924 though? You’ll need to wait a little longer, until 2035.
Kristen Gallerneaux is curator of communications & information technology and the editor-in-chief of digital curation.
In 2023, The Henry Ford acquired a remarkable collection — a hair dryer and salon chair, in fabulous mid-century pink and chrome, as well as the tools, pins, rollers, and documents that hairstylist Velma Truant had collected over her nearly forty-year career. The collection serves as detailed documentation of Velma’s career, balanced with her home life as a wife and mother.
Velma Truant at the Illinois state line during her honeymoon, about 1950 / THF712578
Velma was born in Hungary to Steven and Suzannah Toth, on Christmas Day 1928. Shortly after Velma’s birth, the family immigrated to the United States, settling in Detroit’s Delray neighborhood — an area popular with Hungarian and other Eastern European immigrants who had come to Detroit looking for opportunity and well-paying jobs. Steven worked as a musician in a Hungarian band until his death when Velma was eleven, while Suzannah worked in the kitchen at the Book Cadillac hotel — a job that allowed her to bring home extra food to sustain her family during the Great Depression. Beginning at age fourteen, and while still attending school, Velma worked a series of jobs, including at a candy store and a funeral home.
After graduating from Southwestern High School in 1946, Velma initially began taking engineering and design classes at Wayne State University. She changed her plans, however, and decided to enroll at the Del-Mar Beauty School in Detroit to begin training to become a hairstylist. By February 1948, twenty year old Velma was styling hair at the J. L. Hudson department store (commonly known as Hudson’s) in downtown Detroit. In 1950, Velma married Aldo Truant, the son of Italian immigrants. The couple first lived with Aldo’s parents in the Oakwood Heights neighborhood of Detroit, before building their own home in Allen Park. Even after marriage, Velma continued to work at Hudson’s, as she enjoyed earning her own money.
The Del-Mar Beauty School, Inc. Diploma Awarded to Velma Ella Toth, 1947 / THF714037
By the time Velma worked there in the early 1950s, Hudson's was the second-largest department store in the country — second only to Macy’s — and the tallest store in the world with thrity-two floors. The downtown building housed 200 departments on forty-nine acres of shopping floor space, employed 12,000 people, and averaged 100,000 customers per day. At its peak in the late 1940s through the early 1960s, it offered a circulating library, a writing lounge, dry cleaning, shoeshine, travel services, typing lessons, interior design consultation, home advice, hat cleaning, and jewelry repair. Its beauty salon had existed since at least the 1920s, and in 1947 was updated to include 17,000 square feet and 160 employees, offering facials, complexion consultation, makeup services, and permanent wave machines, in addition to traditional hairstyling. Velma would have been busy, as she worked in an era when many women made frequent trips to the beauty parlor.
Velma Truant (front row, far left) and other Hudson’s hairstylists, 1962 / THF712587
While working at Hudson’s, Velma frequently traveled to New York City to receive training at the American Hair Design Institute, where they taught new techniques and the latest fashions. Velma loved these trips, and was often joined by Aldo. On one notable trip to New York, Velma was asked to work with Lucille Ball; as a natural strawberry blonde, Velma understood how to work with red hair. Velma took great pride in her work. While she liked the glamour and social aspect of the salon, she herself was never too “into the beauty thing,” as her daughter recalled. She always had immaculate nails and dressed meticulously, but never used much makeup.
Velma Truant working on mannequin hair in New York / THF712584
In August 1963, Aldo and Velma — who had struggled for years to conceive a child — adopted a baby girl, whom they named Cynthia after Velma’s boss at Hudson’s. That same year, Velma made the choice to leave Hudson’s to devote more time to caring for her daughter. She did, however, continue to take clients in her home salon, set up in her basement laundry room. Once Cynthia settled into elementary school in 1970, Velma returned to work with Hudson’s, transferring to the Southland branch in July. In December, she was promoted to manager. The promotion, however, changed the way Velma felt about her work, and she retired from Hudson’s in 1972.
Hair dryer and salon chair from Velma Truant’s in-home salon, likely acquired when Hudson’s updated their Northland location in 1960s / THF370815, THF370816
During her brief return to Hudson’s, Velma continued seeing clients in her home. She worked from her basement salon throughout Cynthia’s school years, only fully retiring from hairstyling in 1981.
While the artifacts themselves document Velma Truant’s work as a hairstylist, the reminiscences provided by her family further tell a story about who she was as a person. Her daughter, Cynthia, recalls that Velma was “always immaculate,” both in her personal attire and in the presentation of her home — even going so far as to keep a stock of green toilet paper to match her salmon-and-green basement bathroom. Velma and Aldo would often dress in matching colors, and remained close until his death in 2018, after 67 years of marriage. Velma herself would pass away in November 2021, leaving behind a legacy as not just a talented hairstylist, but a devoted wife and mother.
Velma and Aldo Truant at Portofino’s restaurant, Wyandotte, Michigan, July 2009 / THF712591
Rachel Yerke-Osgood is an associate curator at The Henry Ford.
With gratitude to Saige Jedele, who conducted the original research for this acquisition.
Our carousel exposed: a simple mechanism with lots of pizzazz
Each week Jacob Hildebrandt, manager, historic operating machinery, climbs atop Greenfield Village's Herschell-Spillman Carousel to properly lubricate its gears and fittings. During the season, the Henry Ford staff also do daily safety inspections of the carousel, listening for squeaks and grinding noises, inspecting for loose boards and bolts, putting pressure on every animal and many other checks. / Photo by EE Berger
In this blog, we examine what's at the heart of the carousel — the inner workings that keep the ride in motion and the staff that maintains its motor, gears and bearings so thousands of visitors can go round and round and up and down each year.
Today, a 10-horsepower electric motor runs the carousel. In 1913 when the ride was built, it was likely run by an early Westinghouse electric motor, said Jacob Hildebrandt, manager, historic operating machinery.
A fairly simple machine, the carousel's motor turns a vertical drive shaft that runs up to the crown of the ride. The rotation of that shaft then rotates a large ring gear at the top that turns the carousel round.
“It's like twirling an umbrella,” said Hildebrandt. “All the power comes from the middle and spreads out.”
The carousel's electric motor is connected to a gearbox with an electric brake and torque converter similar to a vehicle so the motor can run before the carousel begins to spin, avoiding jerky, sudden movements. The brake can bring the ride to a complete stop within two revolutions.
Radiating from the middle are smaller crankshafts with bevel gears, which is what the carousel's moving animals hang from. The rotation of these shafts and gears — and therefore the up-and-down motion of the animals — is powered by the carousel's spin.
Marc Greuther, vice president, historical resources and chief curator, who has intimate knowledge of the underbelly of the carousel, likens the transfer of power from a shaft on a vertical axis to a set of undulating animals on a platform as “a quiet masterpiece of motion."
To keep this masterpiece in motion, Hildebrandt, one other full-time employee and a part-time staffer are on-site daily climbing about the ride lubricating its gears and fittings. “Functionally, the grease we use is one of the most modern things about the carousel today,” he said.
The carousel is equipped with highly durable Babbitt-style bearings, added Hildebrandt, rather than the now more common ball bearings. In the early days, these bearings and the carousel's gears would have been lubricated with a less-viscous oil, which is much messier and ephemeral than the grease now used — which “sticks to everything,” said Hildebrandt.
While some of the carousel's larger gears have worn and been replaced over the years, for the most part its internal hardware remains original. “It's a fairly straightforward mechanism underneath the skin,” said Greuther. “An application of very, very practical machinery that's the result of innovation and applications in industry.”
Jennifer Laforce, managing editor, The Henry Ford Magazine
