Looking to the world like a Gothic cathedral picked up and placed in the Deep South by a playful giant, Louisiana’s Old State Capitol Museum in Baton Rouge is unusual in appearance and focus. Burned in the Civil War so that only the outside walls remained, and rebuilt in 1882, the structure is one of two Gothic Revival statehouses in America. Combine this architectural distinctiveness with the museum’s focus on Louisiana politics, a unique facet of American political history, and one has a museum unlike any other in the country. Still, there are certain similarities between this museum, the House of the Seven Gables, and many others. Foremost is the question of presenting realistic and encompassing political history in an arena where diverse political, social, and ethnic groups share common history, but not necessarily a common experience. Just as important is the issue of interpreting history, or histories, in a manner readily accessible to state natives, American tourists, and international visitors. Who owns these histories, and who determines the version to be told? How does one convey such a rich topic to the public? Is anyone excluded? Most importantly, by examining this museum’s approach, I hope to illustrate themes inherent in all museums, as well as further applications of the frameworks for discussing museums introduced at the beginning of this book.
The mission statement of the Louisiana Old State Capitol emphasizes its political rationale, maintaining that the museum “provides a learning experience in Louisiana history and the democratic process through exhibitions, educational outreach and the arts. This historic and diverse facility advances the visitor’s knowledge of our rich cultural heritage and vibrant political tradition.” In reference to Kenneth Hudson’s theories on museums of “influence,” this mission statement would make the Old State Capitol the museum of influence in its field, as it is the only one in the world devoted exclusively to Louisiana politics. Having said that, the staff has taken its own stand in the debates over the ownership of culture. As Donna Langford will further explain in chapter 9, views on this subject tend to fall into three groups: those who believe that objects may be owned by individuals and institutions, those who hold that objects belong to everyone, and those who contend that objects cannot be owned. The staff of Louisiana’s Old State Capital Museum maintains that there is no such thing as ownership of culture, political or otherwise. Individuals or museums might own objects, but it is impossible to own the experiences or beliefs these objects illustrate. Although many observers call the state America’s first melting pot, Louisianans often refer to their culture as a gombo, and a brief glance at some of the state’s ethnic groups illustrates why. Native Americans, Africans, French, and Spanish produced a Creole culture base, leavened by successive waves of Canadians, Irish, Germans, Acadians, Hungarians, English, Slavs, Canary Islanders, Koreans, assimilated Americans, and about every other group one can imagine. The northern part of the state is conservative and Protestant, while southern Louisiana is more liberal and Catholic. In a state so diverse in political, social, and ethnic groups, if this museum attempted to speak for all or present a single, unified history, it would quickly find itself mired in controversy. When dealing with thousands of visitors every year, the staff bears in mind that there are many stories, and that each is valid.1 In other words, museum employees recognize the shifting, diverse nature of students and other visitors.
The Old State Capitol Museum staff draws upon as many avenues for interpretation as possible. A multimedia presentation and optional guides add perspective to the museum as a whole, but individual displays are interactive and can stand alone. Although thirteen of the museum’s major rooms are devoted to permanent and rotating exhibits, only six exhibits will be examined in this article. They are chosen not only because they are the most popular in the building, but also because they illustrate major themes in museum theory and state history. The building itself serves as an artifact and exhibit reflecting Louisiana’s political history; the Louisiana Purchase Room emphasizes the international roots of American politics; the “We the People” exhibit examines who is included or excluded in the political process; the Huey Long Assassination Room emphasizes detective work and the role of the individual in politics; the Governors of Louisiana exhibit illustrates how even those considered to be the elite represent diversity; and the Merci Train boxcar reflects modern ties with Louisiana’s former mother country.
This belief that the museum structure and its history constitute an exhibit is central to the philosophy of the staff.2 The history of the statehouse is also inherent in every exhibit and must therefore pervade any examination of the modern museum. Surveys of visitors show that the single most common reason they come to the museum is to learn about the history and architecture of the building. This survey data is supported by Marie Louise Prudhomme, the director of the Old State Capitol Museum: “We view the building as an artifact and exhibit in its own right, and we believe this view is shared by the majority of people who come as our guests. To paraphrase Sir Christopher Wren, if you want to learn about our history, look around you. We interpret the architecture and physical history of the building through film, tours, and exhibits. To understand the architecture and physical beauty of this statehouse is to understand Louisiana’s political history. It would be most appropriate to view the statehouse as an exhibit housing smaller exhibits.”3
The story of the Old State Capitol museum forefronts its political rationale, for the institution offers a microcosm of Louisiana politics, explained through film, interpreters, and exhibits. The original move to Baton Rouge illustrates the decline of French power in the state and the eclipse of New Orleans in politics, as well as the rise of the country parishes. The move from Baton Rouge corresponds with the Civil War, a seminal time in Louisiana political history, with the changes in status for slaves, free people of color, and whites. War changed the political structure of Louisiana and ushered in Reconstruction, during which time P. B. S. Pinchback, America’s first African-American governor, served in office. The decision to move the capitol back to Baton Rouge in 1877 and the official statehouse opening in 1882 correspond with Bourbon restoration, an era characterized by attempts to return the state to the antebellum status quo. Huey Long’s construction of the new statehouse and decommission of the old in 1932 reflect a sea change in Louisiana politics and the death of Bourbonism. Finally, the conversion of the Gothic Revival statehouse into a museum devoted to state politics in 1994 reflects a maturation of political thinking—politics recognized not just as a battlefield, but as a source of knowledge for better understanding who we are.
Of all the exhibits within the Old State Capitol Museum, the Louisiana Purchase Room is the most international in scope and the most detailed. It emphasizes politics but also raises issues of transportation, trade, and military activity. Using a chronological approach, the exhibit starts with the Spanish closing of New Orleans to Americans; nervous about American expansion, the Spanish decided an expedient move would be to exclude Americans from the colony unless they swore allegiance to Pope and King. The exhibit then illustrates how all American rivers west of the Alleghenies emptied into the Mississippi, which strangled national expansion. Signage details the secret treaty which allowed the French to revoke the colony from the Spanish, as well as the American delegation sent to buy the port of New Orleans, only to be told by Bonaparte that he would sell them all French possessions in North America for four cents an acre. Text further explains the economic machinations with Dutch and English banking houses which secured necessary funding, and the resulting attempt by East Coast states to derail the Purchase. Five countries were active players, and another four were minor players in the transaction. All are given equal representation in the display. Clearly, from the beginning, the state’s history included different and often competing constituencies, which are reflected in the Louisiana Purchase Room. The overriding exhibit “curriculum” is how international events drove a transaction Americans associate with nationalism and individuality.
The designers created an exhibit which combines reminders of nineteenth-century American imperialism with the elegance of Napoleonic France. Placards with the look of vellum and old-fashioned writing hang below colorful flags representing France, America, and the fifteen states which came either whole or in part from the Purchase area. Mellow lighting reflecting off dark wood and tawny walls gives a golden, refined mood. Combined with handsome portraits of some major players in the Purchase, copies of antique maps, and the hanging flags, the displays and lighting give an impression of empire, elegance, and authenticity. This feeling is heightened by the room’s centerpiece, a state of the art display case which held the American copy of the Louisiana Purchase borrowed from the National Archives when the museum opened and now contains copies of the French and American versions. These copies link visitors to the original document, illustrate that France was an equal partner in the transaction, and, with their wax seals and elaborate script, emphasize the feel of empire. Elegant as the exhibit design might be, visitors who actually read all the material draw the impression that the Purchase was anything but glamorous both in its cause and its transaction. As an example, the Spanish were terrified that godless Protestants would invade Spanish holdings and contaminate Catholic society; xenophobia led them to close their colony to all who did not swear to uphold their beliefs. Another example was Bonaparte’s desire to rid himself of an unprofitable colony and thereby gain ready cash for his bloody military campaigns in St. Domingue and Europe. A last example was how Creoles in Louisiana were overjoyed to hear that they had been taken back by France, only to learn they had been sold to America, a nation whose population they viewed as being a mass of unwashed, lowerclass, illiterate Protestants. A thoughtful visitor is left with the feeling that, as with most political activity, the Purchase negotiations involved hard work, hurt feelings, and several ruined careers, masked by a skillfully created aura of elegance and empire.
It is ironic that the exhibit has perhaps the most antique atmosphere of any in the museum, because the feel is possible only because of state of the art technology. The dark wood display case towers toward the ceiling like an ancient curio cabinet, yet humidity filters hidden in its joints treat the southern Louisiana air and early on ensured that the original Louisiana Purchase document was maintained in pristine form. When the document was lodged in the case, no direct lighting was allowed, and even today, hidden motion detectors bring up the lights only when a person enters the room. The glass of the case is unobtrusive, but a bulletproof barrier protects the document from casual contact or deliberate attempts to remove it. As intended, the visitor never notices the security measures, but the combination of grace and grim reality typifies the Louisiana Purchase transaction better than the aura of elegance the visitor invariably remembers.
While the exhibit on the Louisiana Purchase examines international themes, the “We the People” exhibit focuses on what it means to live in the American political system. All of Schwab’s commonplaces are in evidence. Although geared toward fourth grade school groups, it raises adult issues and, of all the exhibits in the museum, stands out in its examination of national and regional political culture by emphasizing themes inherent to national, southern, and Louisiana politics. Housed in four rooms, its purpose is to teach children about the political process and involve them in voting. The underlying theme is that of inclusion versus exclusion. In the first room, one learns about the responsibilities of political officials by placing one’s face in cutouts with mirrors, such as one finds in a fun house. When visitors look through the cutouts, mirrors reflect them as voters, senators, or other public officials. Viewers then read in the reflection what their responsibilities would be as each particular individual. Geared toward children, these mirrors teach that although politics is serious business, politicians are basically ordinary people, demystifying much of the political process. Visitors also use a computer to devise a $13.9 billion budget and then compare that to the actual state budget. The computer then informs them what will happen to various state agencies and the people they serve if too much money is spent by one particular agency. Visitors can change their priorities at will and see how their actions affect constituencies throughout the state.
In the second room, the visitor may use an electronic messaging system to contact an elected official’s office and also learn about people who made a difference in Louisiana politics. Scattered among displays on politicians are sections on such “unknowns” as the first child to integrate the New Orleans school system, a nineteen-year-old city council member, and an environmental lobbyist.
In the third room, one learns about the various forms of media upon which a well-informed voter draws and the advantages and disadvantages of each. Visitors also devise their own political platforms and then see if their choices on issues such as taxation, spending, and the environment make them Republican, Democratic, or Independent “candidates.” One activity that is very popular during the school year is a mock election in which students designate a peer “candidate.” That student then speaks for the group, and everyone sees what is involved in making a political speech. This activity gives a sense of participation and empowerment few other exhibits in the museum can match.4
The displays in these rooms are constructed so the visitor cannot simply be a passive observer. In order to learn from the exhibits, one must join the “political process.” To do otherwise means self-exclusion. In the final room, the political rationale—the issue of involvement versus self-exclusion—is most pronounced. Children walk through a maze in which they must answer questions about elections, such as,“Do you believe your vote counts?” and “Do you care who wins?” If they offer the “wrong” answer, they are pulled out of the process. Regardless of whether visitors make it to a final voting booth, they see displays about women, Native Americans, and African Americans and their struggles to gain the vote. Visitors examine the test given to African Americans in the South to discourage their voting in decades past and listen to oral histories of people involved in the Civil Rights movement. After passing these displays, visitors confront a final sign asking if those who excluded themselves from the simulated voting process would like to rethink their positions now that they know how many people struggled for that right. No judgments are made in the exhibit about those who choose not to vote, but thoughtful visitors leave the room knowing that plenty of others lived and died for the right they now choose to exercise ...or not to exercise.
In contrast to the design of the other exhibits,“We the People” does not have a dramatic or antique feel. On the contrary, it appears very contemporary and streamlined. Part of this atmosphere stems from the exhibit being created by another designer several years after the other exhibits, but part of it stems from a desire to reach a particular target audience. Jenny Zehmer of Whirled Peas, Inc., a design firm centered in Birmingham, Alabama, geared the displays toward fourth graders. Although adults certainly learn from the exhibit, the age of the target audience dictated signage, design, display heights, and the atmosphere. Moreover, Zehmer chose to avoid drawing attention to the architecture and instead to focus on the displays. Clean white walls, bright rooms lit by tall Gothic windows, and an open plan combine with child-friendly displays to impart information with a deliberately light and non-threatening approach.
The “We the People” exhibit is powerful and raises concerns well beyond the scope of Louisiana politics. By doing so, it also raises a vital issue in museum theory today: how much museum educators can assume visitors know. During the school year, six hundred students a day might tour the building, to say nothing of the adults. Given the diversity of museum guests, can one assume that the visitor has a good working knowledge of the material in a particular exhibit, or is the museum required to “dumb down” the material so all can learn from it? The Louisiana Old State Capitol’s Education Department deals with this question by sending to schools throughout the state a packet titled “Louisiana’s Old State Capitol Classroom: A Teacher’s Guide for Grades K-12.” Offering lesson plans for students K-3 and 4-12, the packet trains teachers, who in turn educate their students before they arrive at the museum, and it also offers post-visit lesson plans. Once the students are in the building, the guide gears the tour to the particular age group. The packet provides information on all the exhibits and gives a general history of the building, but it focuses the most on the “We the People” exhibit. This packet has proven one of the most beneficial elements of the museum outreach program; not only is it a way of educating students so they appreciate the museum more upon their arrival, but many teachers around the state have incorporated the packet into their social studies lesson plans. Given the exhibit’s design, visitors who have not had access to the packet still learn from the exhibit, but not as much as they would have with its materials. Adults in the museum are presumed, rightly or wrongly, to have a fair grasp of the American political system, but the fact that children will not have the same grasp of these issues necessitates the close partnership the museum has developed with schools around the state.
The Huey Long Assassination Room examines the September 1935 assassination of Louisiana’s best-known politician and appeals mainly to people from the state, unlike the “We the People” exhibit. Having said that, survey forms show that its appeal to this group is enormous. Although it is the smallest exhibit room in the museum, it receives the most visitors. Huey Long was to Louisiana what Churchill was to England, de Gaulle to France, and, some detractors argue, what Stalin was to Russia. People loved him or hated him, but no one was indifferent to Long. The Progressive Democrat’s political ambitions became the basis for biographies, articles, novels, and movies. Some might argue that the room is simply another example of hagiography dedicated to the “pale males” of political history, but it is much more than that. Voting records, registration polls, editorials, and other assorted political evidence show Huey Long was the first Louisiana politician (many argue the first southern politician) to appeal to voters across racial and economic lines. His carefully constructed political image as a folksy poor boy made good, even though his family was actually quite wealthy, set him apart from other politicians of the era, and his smashing of the Bourbon dynasty ushered in a new era for Louisiana politics. Long’s outspoken and carefully orchestrated championing of ethnic minorities and poor whites outraged the former power elites and created as many enemies as friends. His murder, allegedly by the son-in-law of a political opponent, is still controversial and engenders as much debate as his life. Rather than simply reinforcing stereotypes of Huey Long as “Saint Huey” or “the southern Mussolini,” the exhibit examines issues of class, extreme power, and corruption in a way impossible in a hagiography.
For the observer, the Huey Long room seems an impartial display, but a visitor versed in museum theory knows that all museum “realities” are staged. The Bourbons created their own vision of their past and then acted to maintain that false reality. Huey Long smashed the power of the Bourbons by using a carefully constructed image which he maintained until his death. Another layer of artificiality is added as modern museum professionals use the events of the past to create their own reality. That the designers of the Huey Long exhibit made every effort to be historically accurate and impartial as well as to place the events in a broad historical context is laudable, but the motivation to showcase (or change) events of the past to suit the needs of the present is as old as the Babylonians and Egyptians who chiseled the names of their predecessors off obelisks and walls. In this respect, the exhibit designers followed a time-honored tradition.
The exhibit’s heavy curtains, dark colors, and dim backlighting create a funereal atmosphere, heightened by somber music and ghostly images of Long’s life projected onto hanging gauze. The gun allegedly used by Long’s assassin rests in a raised central display case, so it is protected from the elements, yet visible from every angle, and an eight-foot statue of Long gazes upon visitors while they are in the room. Yet too much should not be made of the placement of the statue and the gun. The large statue is a copy of the one which stands in Long’s hometown of Winnfield, Louisiana, and was put in the display for aesthetic reasons and to give the poorly maintained plaster image a place where it would be conserved. The gun was placed in a raised viewing platform not so it would be seen as a holy object showcased in a shrine, but so it could be seen from all angles. True, some people might argue that a large statue and a raised and showcased object combine to make a martyr’s shrine, but neither the exhibit designers, the museum’s employees, nor members of the general public have voiced this opinion. Again, it is true that a skillful display might induce a feeling of awe without visitors realizing that they have been manipulated, but this would not really work in the case of Huey Long. He was such a notable and controversial politician that almost all visitors who come to the museum enter either loving him or hating him. An exhibit design is unlikely to change the strong feelings visitors bring with them. It is my opinion that the statue and the gun would neither support a hagiography nor damage one.
Given the pervasive Long mythology, the exhibit designers are to be commended for separating the man from the myth, which many people consider impossible. Placards on the wall state: “Official Version,”“Continuing Controversy,” and “Recovered Evidence.” Explanations accompany each placard. Perhaps as much because many Louisiana citizens hold strong views on Long and his assassination as because it attempts to offer a thorough and balanced history, the exhibit offers no answers, only possible theories. The theme is not only the assassination itself but also the historical detective work needed to draw one’s own conclusions.
Another very subtle theme is the cult of personality. How does one person make such a difference and inspire such strong emotion more than seventy years after his death? A thoughtful observer realizes Long manipulated reality as easily as he manipulated people, and the constructed version of his life and death keeps him almost as involved in Louisiana politics now as when he lived. For good or ill, most state politicians since his death have been measured against him. And the museum’s effort to confront and bring into question mythologies of the past offers a stark contrast to Wichita’s Old Cowtown museum, which will be discussed in the next chapter.
The specter of Huey Long also rises in the Governors of Louisiana exhibit, but he has to share the stage with others. Museum planners turned the former governor’s office into an exhibit tracing the role of the office and the histories of individual governors since the founding of Louisiane. The paradox of the exhibit is that, although one would consider the governor’s position the domain of elites, in many respects the room is most expressive of Louisiana’s political and social diversity. The museum’s historian and chief archivist in 1994 summed up the focus of the exhibit when he said, “We’ve had an unfortunate situation in that our more colorful political leaders tend to get a great deal of publicity. But they’re not necessarily representative of most of the people of Louisiana. This [display] has a quieter grandeur that to me is representative of our people.”5 Indeed, the Governors of Louisiana exhibit has two themes. The stated theme is, as mentioned, to examine the role of the governor through the histories of individuals who have held the office and through analyses of major issues in their terms as governor. The unstated theme is the way these men’s careers reflect the issues and needs of the average citizen. In its mechanics, the exhibit has three main components: an interactive portrait, which is actually a high-resolution computer monitor containing the images of and key facts on each governor from earliest times until the museum’s opening; a display case containing smaller images of the governors combined with artifacts and text on key issues in Louisiana politics; and a podium from which one can gaze into a teleprompter and watch video footage of Louisiana politicians from 1932 forward.6
Visitors entering the room see the electronic portrait directly in front of them. An image of each governor dominates the screen, while a narrator gives an overview of that governor’s career, followed by his “resume,” with details about his education, religion, birth and death dates and locations, political affiliation, and other personal information. This is the least-utilized facet of the exhibit. Guided tours and survey forms reflect that the device is generally used only by people curious about how it works or who want information about one particular governor. The average visitor usually watches only for a minute or so and then goes to another facet of the exhibit; many state that they find the detailed information on obscure governors boring, thus showing that technology alone is not enough to hold visitors’ attention. Those watching the display are most interested in a family member who was governor, or a governor who shared their ethnicity or home town. For example, Edwin Edwards, the first Cajun governor, is popular among Cajun visitors.7
Documents and artifacts in display cases draw much more attention. The objects purportedly offer insight into individual governors but actually illustrate much of the state’s diversity. One document outlaws the enslavement of Native Americans and recognizes them as equal trade partners with the French and Spanish. Others reflect the legal status of Africans in the colony, both slave and free. State requirements for pharmacists are detailed, always an important issue in plague-ravaged Louisiana. Two official acts are displayed, one moving the capitol to Baton Rouge in 1846, and the other outlawing African slavery in 1865. Both are recorded in French and English, which in itself says much about the political issues of ordinary people; for over a century, Creoles and Americans fought to determine who would control the state.8 The largest artifact in the case is a portrait of P. B. S. Pinchback, an African American who served as Louisiana governor for three weeks and was actively involved in Louisiana politics for thirty years. He served as America’s first African-American governor and remained the only one until the election of Governor Wilder of Virginia in 1989. As a free person of color before the Civil War, he illustrates an experience not examined much in decades past, but vital to understanding Louisiana’s political history.
The exhibit’s centerpiece is a raised podium from which visitors watch news footage of various state officials. The Old State Capitol Museum is the largest video and film depository in the state, and one of the museum’s major goals is to preserve and showcase these resources for future generations. Clips highlight governors from the last seventy years but also include a civil rights leader and other notable Louisiana politicians. The podium’s size and location pique the visitor’s attention, but what keeps it is the combination of modern technology with primary documentation. These clips date back to the 1920s and offer the visitor closeness with political figures that could only be matched by actual interaction. To see a leader, hear his dialect, and observe his mannerisms binds the modern viewer to events of the past. Add to that video clips chosen specifically because they reflect the political issues of decades past and present, and the attractions are evident. Selected by the staff when the building reopened as a museum in 1994, the clips are as relevant now as then, and there is no indication they will be changed. Based on visitor responses culled from guided tours, survey forms, and time spent at the podium, the staff readily states that this is the most popular element of the museum. Many repeat visitors say that, of all elements in the building, they remember the video clips the most. Some museum theorists might argue that these clips imply a narrative of progress by being encased in a high-tech device. On the other hand, their opponents might argue—with a great deal of support—that these clips do not bring the speakers into the present so much as draw visitors into the past, and the modern display monitor is simply a servant to the wisdom of the past.
The last exhibit in this chapter is the boxcar which was part of the Merci Train, a present from France to America for aid in World War II. The train was composed of forty-nine boxcars, one for each state and one to be shared between the District of Columbia and Hawaii. To give some background, in 1947 Americans gathered approximately $40 million in supplies for relief of wartorn France and Italy. The seven hundred railroad cars of clothing, food, and fuel were shipped in what was called the American Friendship Train. The French people were so overwhelmed by this generosity that, even with all the hardships of post–World War II Europe, they gathered a series of boxcars filled with French art, wine, food, lace, historical artifacts, children’s drawings, and assorted other treasures; as a play on the number of American states, these cars were selected because they were “forty and eight,” big enough for forty men or eight horses. These were shipped to the United States, divided by region, and then shipped to individual states. Both because the museum is dedicated to the veterans of Louisiana and America and because of its central location, Louisiana’s Old State Capitol was chosen as the site for Louisiana’s boxcar. Covered with an open-air roofed structure and painted regularly, the car never deteriorated, and in 2001, it was restored to its original appearance with national French colors and seals of French provinces.9
For many people, the exhibit serves one purpose, as a symbol of gratitude between two nations for their combined efforts in the last world war. For many citizens from southern Louisiana, however, the boxcar has an added layer of meaning. World War II records and anecdotal evidence show that many people from southern Louisiana were sent to France to serve as interpreters for other Americans. It is hard to underestimate the effect this had on many Cajuns, because this was the period in which the Louisiana public school system was attempting to eradicate the use of French among schoolchildren, and the word Cajun came to be used by many as a synonym for backwards, illiterate swamp dwellers. Yet these southern Louisiana men were sent to France because they were fluent in a language that could keep other soldiers alive and forge bonds with members of another country. Thus, the quality that made them “backwards” in their home state made them ambassadors in the country their ancestors called home. This boxcar reminds them of their efforts and their patriotic service, and it also reminds them of the persistence of their culture.
For many people who stayed in Louisiana during World War II, the boxcar also served as a reminder of their connections to France. I once listened as an elderly woman told me quietly in French how she had received a bridal veil sent from one of France’s great lace-making towns on the Merci Train. Too poor to afford such finery as a young bride, the woman said that what she wore on her wedding day was not only the most beautiful veil she had ever seen, but carried the wishes of distant family who had not forgotten grace in the face of war. She smiled into my eyes and said that all women are beautiful on their wedding day, but how can any woman not be beautiful wearing the good wishes of a nation?10
The boxcar exhibit is interpreted through tours, the exhibit guide, and a raised marker which gives a history of the “forty and eights.” Having said that, the car’s central location on the grounds, its condition, and its prominence in the memories of many Louisianans is such that extensive signage is not really necessary. The Old State Capitol’s outreach program produced a packet called “The Merci Train: The Friendship Carries On” for educating students, and in 2001, the museum created a program for Louisiana schoolchildren to send gifts to schoolchildren in France, thus strengthening ties between the two countries. This is part of a statewide movement to recover the use of spoken French and reestablish cultural ties to France.
The Old State Capitol Museum is without doubt a specialized entity, but a thoughtful visitor notices themes which present themselves at museums around the world. Who owns the history? How does this museum contribute to national, regional, and local cultures? How does one appeal to a very diverse group, both within the state and without? Lastly, how does one tell a complete story in a state with so many divergent groups? The solution this particular museum takes is to gear exhibits toward as many target audiences as possible. The statehouse itself is a political artifact, and its history tells as much about the state’s past as a guidebook. In the exhibits, individual displays address issues of nationalism and internationalism, exclusion versus inclusion, historical detective work, and the power of the individual. The museum ultimately encompasses all of Schawb’s commonplaces, demonstrating how telling the story of one individual illustrates the history of many, and how shared experiences establish or reestablish links between social groups. These are not the only themes a curator and museum planner might emphasize, but they affect many history museums. These themes address challenges that are as much a part of the museum as lighting and lettering and are to be welcomed rather than disparaged. These are the challenges which will continue to inspire museum professionals for many years.
1. For further examination of the issue of “influence” in the museum setting, see Kenneth Hudson, Museums of Influence (Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 1987). Although the issue crops up throughout the work, the most succinct discussion is in the preface; gombo, or gumbo as many people now pronounce it, is a spicy dish influenced by almost every ethnic group in Louisiana. It is often hot, frequently spicy, very filling, and unique to the state. Many people in the state use this word to describe how they are mainstream Americans, part of a melting pot, yet at the same time very different.
2. Although not examined in this article, there have been a number of displays about the history of the building. The Old State Capitol’s staff’s belief that the museum itself is an artifact and that by tracing the various statehouses one could trace the history of Louisiana politics is so strong that two of the former curator/historians, Daniel d’Oney and Ray Lukas, researched the locations, architecture, and dates of all the statehouses, collecting images for an exhibit. This research was first on display in a temporary exhibit designed by Dr. John Rodrigue of Louisiana State University and is currently part of a permanent exhibit by Jenny Zehmer of Whirled Peas.
3. Author’s interview with Joyce Chaney, Head of Visitor Services, 18 July 2001. Ms. Chaney is in charge of the interpretation staff at the Old State Capitol Museum and compiled a database of thousands of visitor surveys. Data was collected on the visitors’ addresses, the amount of time they spent in each exhibit, what they found most interesting, and other factors; author’s interview with Mary Louise Prudhomme, Director of the Old State Capitol Museum, 19 July 2001.
4. Old State Capitol visitors’ database; survey information from Louisiana teachers.
5. “Capitol Castle,” Historic Preservation 45, no.3 (May/June 1993): 93.
6. “The Governor’s Exhibit,” Capitol Chronicle: The Official Journal of Louisiana’s Center for Political and Governmental History 1, no.2 (October 1993): 3.
7. Author’s interview with Joyce Chaney, Head of Visitor Services, 18 July 2001. This statement about the electronic portrait is derived from the thousands of responses in the database.
8. By law, all official documents were printed in both languages until the English speakers managed to pass Act No. 24 of 1914, which outlawed the use of French in state documents.
9. La Société des Quarante Hommes et Huit Chevaux. Merci Box Car Memorial Book (n.p., 2 February 1984), 4–5, 16, 40; Louisiana’s Old State Capitol in partnership with the Louisiana Department of Veterans’ Affairs, “The Merci Train: The Friendship Carries On” (n.p.: Fall 1999), 9–11.
10. Sources for this passage are the Old State Capitol visitors’ database and the writer’s personal experiences.