Peale-ing Back American History: the Life of Charles Willson Peale and his Cabinet of Curiosities

In the first fan girl crush blog about Charles Willson Peale, I talked about how Peale created the first American Museum. Today, I’m talking about the rest of his life.

Part of the reason I admire Peale so much is that his attitude about life seemed to be, “I can figure that out.” If he admired a talent or a skill, he would figure out how to acquire that ability himself and work at it until he was at least proficient at the skill. At every turn, he taught what he knew to others, particularly his children. A contemporary of the founding fathers, Peale had the same zest for life and learning that Franklin and Jefferson exhibited. In fact, those three often exchanged correspondence discussing new inventions and sharing ideas on how to improve them. Until the very end of his life, Peale demonstrated this zeal for learning and a desire to share his knowledge with others.

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Charles Willson Peale.

But, let’s go back to the start…

Peale was the son of a British convict who was banished to the colonies. The senior Peale moved to Annapolis and used his considerable smarts to become the headmaster of a prestigious school, where the Peale family lived and the Peale children attended the school for free. This fantastic opportunity meant that young Charles Willson Peale was exposed to many subjects that he wouldn’t normally get to experience, and he soon discovered that he loved drawing and painting, a love that stayed with him his entire life. When the elder Peale died in 1750 at the age of 41 and the family was left destitute and homeless, an old student of elder Peale took the family in. Mrs. Peale became a dress maker to earn some money. Too young to work himself, Charles would help his mother by going to town to sketch the latest styles for her.

At the ripe old age of 13, Charles and his mother decided it was time for him to earn a trade, so he was apprenticed off. The two of them discussed his options and Charles decided on saddlery. Saddlery was smelly and hard but Charles was so industrious that his master gave him extra jobs and he was actually able to save some money. His first big purchase was a pocket watch, but it stopped working almost immediately. He took it in for repair, paid a considerable sum and then the watch stopped again. So he decided to learn how watches work so he could fix it himself. This started his interest in tinkering.

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Portrait of Marquis de Lafayette by Charles Willson Peale.

At 21, after considerable confusion, he was married to his first wife and the love of his life, Rachel. They lived with his mother while he was creating a successful business to compete with his former master. Unfortunately, he chose to establish his new business a little too close to his master, and to show his dissatisfaction, the old master offered to set Peale up in business by making him a loan on tools and leather. The friendly and trusting Peale took him up on his offer, only realizing the bad deal afterwards, which ended up being the cause of considerable financial troubles for years.

While on a trip to Norfolk to buy more supplies, Peale visited a man whose oil paintings were so bad that Peale thought, “I can do better.” He had never actually seen an oil painting before this visit and had nothing to use for comparison. But that didn’t matter. He was now a painter. He immediately came back to Annapolis and painted portraits of Rachel, his brother James and himself. They were so good, he got several commissions. At this point, he added sign-making to his trade using the carriage oil paint.

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Charles Willson Peale’s wife Rachel, weeping over their daughter who died of smallpox.

To continue with this new venture, he needed portrait supplies from Philadelphia. When he got to Philadelphia, Peale didn’t know how to actually paint so he couldn’t order pigments and supplies. Instead, he got a price list and said he’d come back. He then got a basic art instruction book (two volumes) from London and read that. With that new knowledge and his price list, he selected his supplies. He still had no practical knowledge, so he traded a saddle for lessons (stretching canvases, sizing a canvas, etc.) from a local artist.

In 1764, Peale joined “The Sons of Freedom” and used his artistic ability to paint their protest signs. Because of this, all the financial troubles he incurred from his original master came back to bite him. The prominent men to whom he owed money were not happy with his involvement with these colonial rabble-rousers, and they were coming for him. It was either flee or rot in jail. So, leaving a very pregnant Rachel at home, he fled to his sisters’ home. From there, he ended up on a schooner that was making a short trip to Boston to deliver corn. Eighteen months and several adventures later, Peale had developed enough skills to stave off his debts and reunite with his beloved Rachel. Shortly thereafter, he had the opportunity to study art in London for the next year.

While in London, Peale popped in on another colonist from Pennsylvania, Benjamin Franklin. This impromptu visit resulted in a great friendship that would last a lifetime. Upon returning to Pennsylvania, Peale spent the next several years building his reputation and earning commissions as a portrait painter.

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Independence Hall, formerly the Pennsylvania Statehouse, as painted by Charles Willson Peale.

On July 8, 1776, Peale began his military career. He made the short walk from a newly-purchased home in Philadelphia to the statehouse to hear the Declaration of Independence being read. A month later, he joined the militia and was responsible for a group of 81 men. Before heading out to an unknown fate, Peale made the effort to check on the families of each of his 81 men, inquiring about concerns and needs while they would be away fighting. Although he and his men were not at battle long, this concern for his men continued throughout the war and did not go unappreciated by those he led. During the Battle of Princeton, Peale used saddlery skills to make moccasins for those without shoes.

During the war, Peale painted portraits of various important figures. Among them was Gilbert du Motier, know as the Marquis de Lafayette. Lafayette was a key figure in the American Revolution. He was commissioned as a major general and was a friend and trusted advisor to General George Washington. As Lafayette sat for his portrait, he and Peale became friends. This pattern repeated with Washington, Jefferson, Madison and many other familiar names.

Lord Cornwallis was defeated at Yorktown in 1781 which caused everyone to put candles in their windows. A young Frenchman removed two of the sashes in the windows and put up transparent pictures instead. Peale followed suit the next night and all the windows featured portraits of leaders of Yorktown. People came from all over town to see the display, which he changed out several more times. This provided a wider audience than his wealthy patrons and helped those who’d turned their back on Peale for political reasons to notice him again. This also began Peale’s career as a showman.

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Advertisement for Peale’s Museum.

Before, during and after the war, Peale painted portraits of various sizes, and a year after the Battle of Yorktown, Peale added an addition onto his house to hold them all. This was the first public picture gallery in America. The portraits were of the heroes of the revolution. Included in the gallery were full-length portraits of Washington and Gerard to smaller portraits of Lafayette, Baron von Steuben, Thomas Paine, and Robert Morris. He charged no admission fee because he wanted commissions for copies but also because he wanted to inspire his fellow citizens to live up to the highest ideals of a republican form of government.

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Model of Peale’s patented fireplace.

The next few years were busy. First, the portrait gallery transformed into a gallery for moving pictures, and then later became the precursor to the first natural history museum. In 1804, Peale returned to painting again, which led to the founding the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. Peale received two patents and subsequently spent a great deal of time copying out the documents for others. To save time, he perfected the polygraph, which allowed the writer to pen two documents at once.

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Peale is credited with patenting improvements to the original polygraph machine, which had nothing to do with truth-telling. A writer would pen a document on one side, and the machine would replicate the hand movements on the other.

In 1810, Peale decided to retire to a farm, and by retire he meant totally re-do. He added a studio, redid the kitchen, planted crops, and repaired the farm tools. Peale was too fond of his livestock to slaughter them. He needed money, so his neighbor suggested currants for wine, which he planted reluctantly because he himself was not a drinker. The wine became the most profitable project at the farm and was highly praised. During this time, Peale and Thomas Jefferson kept up a steady exchange of letters discussing new agricultural methods and equipment. At Monticello, Jefferson invented the moldboard plow and Peale put it into service at Belfield.

While Peale enjoyed tinkering with the farm equipment, he didn’t actually like the farming. In fact, farming may be the only thing at which Peale never truly excelled. Not to worry, however. His son Rubens loved botany, so he applied his artistic eye to this arena and created a lavish garden. The beauty of the gardens attracted flocks of people, so many in fact that the family had to close the gates to keep people from crushing the flowers. Rather than producing crops, Peale produced landscape paintings. In the end, Peale discovered that “retirement was hard on the wallet.” For a number of reasons, Belfield was sold, and Peale returned to Philly to focus on the future of his museum.

A few years later, the Marquis de Lafayette, a Revolutionary War hero, returned to Philadelphia for a visit. The red carpets were rolled out. There was to be a parade and a public gathering, but Peale was not asked to play any role in the visit. While this wounded his pride, he came to cheer in the crowd nonetheless. During the processional parade to the statehouse, however, Lafayette spied Peale in the crowd and immediately left the formal gathering and went to embrace his old friend. He insisted that Peale join him for several of the planned events as his special guest.

As he got older, his children believed that he had obtained a certain position in Philly society and they didn’t want him to jeopardize this. They became extremely nervous when he decided to write his autobiography in his mid-80’s. One of his daughters Sophy would read the installments nightly and would try to censor the more provocative parts. His kids were horrified when Peale put out an announcement in May of 1826 for his newest venture — Porcelain False Teeth, selling for $150 a set.

At the age of 85, Peale decided to find a fourth Mrs. Peale and marry again. A friend recommended an elderly lady who taught at a school for the deaf in New York. After a whirlwind two-week romance, Peale proposed to this lucky lady. The proposal also included an offer to teach her how to make false teeth. Shockingly, neither offer was accepted.

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Peale returned to Philly from this adventure by boat, but it ran aground in stormy weather about a mile from the dock, so he had to walk with his luggage in the rain for quite some distance. When he arrived home, he was exhausted and had “strained his heart.” He became increasingly weak over the next few weeks and died in his bed Feb. 22, 1827.  He was buried in St. Peter’s Churchyard in Philadelphia, just blocks from his beloved museum.

The Houston Museum of Natural Science is opening a Peale-like Cabinet of Curiosities next Friday, May 6. Come visit for a taste of the wonder Americans might have felt wandering through Peale’s museum.

Where Fact and Fiction Meet: LA’s Museum of Jurassic Technology and the Cabinet of Curiosities

I have two lives. At the Houston Museum of Natural Science, I’m a science blogger, but in my art life, I’m an aspiring novelist. Occasionally, I have the privilege of embarking on a literary pilgrimage to a city I’ve never been to, in the most recent case, Los Angeles, where I attended the AWP writer’s conference and met up with other writing friends from all over the U.S. I never expected my divergent lives of fact and fiction would meet, but in LA, they certainly did. Imagine a place chock-full of mind-blowing artifacts, not unlike HMNS, except as you move through the exhibits, you’re unsure of what’s real and what’s fake. That place is The Museum of Jurassic Technology.

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Four of my friends, all writers, lined up for a Wes Anderson-style photo outside The Museum of Jurassic Technology in downtown Los Angeles. I’m behind the camera. The museum prohibits cell phones and photographs inside. From left, H. Tucker Rosebrock, Stephanie Rizzo, Breana Steele and Ben Hahn.

From the title alone, you know something’s a little off about this place, tucked into a re-purposed building along Venice Boulevard in the Palms District (aka Culver City). The museum’s double-edged mission is straightforward — it is, by its own definition, “an educational institution dedicated to the advancement of knowledge and the public appreciation of the Lower Jurassic.” Okay, but the Jurassic was an age of toothy theropods and bus-sized reptiles, of Allosaurus pitted against Stegosaurus, so what possible technology are we talking about — time travel?

But even the idea of jumping back to a different era doesn’t do the collection justice. This place is a collection of artifacts straight out of folklore, there before your very eyes: a display of a hairy horn collected from a human woman, an exhibit about bats that emit X-rays and fly through walls, and a history of trailer homes in which the dioramas match nothing in recent memory. This isn’t a journey back in time; it’s a trip to a parallel universe.

As you walk through the spaces and corridors, dimly lit like HMNS, and read about the artifacts on their text-heavy plaques, you begin to believe and doubt all at once. The language is scientific, dry and authoritative, but some of the texts and displays are far too outlandish to be of this reality. Yet seeing is believing, and many objects are in fact authentic. Take for example, the taxidermied bust of an American grey fox (Urocyon cinereoargenteus), built into a display that includes a recording of its “voice.” It’s obvious when you hear the accompanying track that it’s simply a recording of a man barking and snarling in falsetto, and the exhibit hints at this unreality. When viewed at the right angle, a tiny three-dimensional hologram of a person, the kind you’ll find in the Wiess Energy Hall displays, appears “inside” the fox’s head. The fox is real, as is its taxonomy, but everything about its voice is faked!

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This monograph on the MJT by Lawrence Weschler provides a look inside the mind of David Wilson, the MacArthur fellow who invented the museum.

As you continue moving through the museum, you notice snippets of reality, but the inventions begin to wear on you, as well. You’ll read something you can recall from a historical text you read at the library or that article you pulled up on the internet the other day, and recognize it as information, but as the explanation continues, you reach a point where the reality you knew doesn’t exist anymore, and you are beset with an assured feeling that, “Wait… This can’t be right.”

The accomplishment of this museum, the brainchild of MacArthur fellow David Hildebrand Wilson, is to offer an experience that examines the way museums work in the mind. The language on display cases, that authoritative tone coupled with heaps of factoids, seduces the viewer to trust what is written. Vetted institutions like HMNS have earned the trust of our guests by working with scientists who provide verifiable data to back up our information, but it wasn’t always so. At its most basic, any museum is a carefully-designed walk through a maze of scientific facts, a sort of science journal using objects. In many respects, touring the HMNS is the same as reading a book on natural science, but here you see the science with your own eyes. You come in a student and leave enlightened, as long as you trust what you see, hear and read.

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The catalogue published by the MJTs Board of Trustees by a fictional press, “The Society for the Diffusion of Useful Information.”

From this perspective, the MJT is roughly the same as reading a book of a slightly different history from our own, an unconventional novel of objects that exists in the minds of the artists involved and the guests who experience the museum. You go in expecting to learn something new, and you do, but not about science. Instead, you learn about storytelling, the absorption of information and the power of the human imagination. You learn how much you trust what you read in a museum, and why shouldn’t you? Modern museums work to maintain a paragon of proven science. Yet it’s a haunting feeling to be “led always from familiar objects toward the unfamiliar; guided along, as it were, a chain of flowers into the mysteries of life,” one of the pet quotes of the MJT. Like reading a novel, you begin with a kernel of truth, but that truth is quickly muddied with layer upon layer of invention.

Excited to learn as much as I could about this strange place, I made contact with Wilson himself, who agreed to an interview to unpack the theories that make his museum possible. Inspired by the ethos of the German documentarian Werner Herzog, whose prolific filmmaking career began in the 1960s, Wilson built the MJT with a similar affect in mind, something Herzog calls “the ecstatic truth.”

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Publicity photo of David H. Wilson, founder of the MJT.

“There is a truth that exists that is beyond a three-dimensional truth, a more complex truth that is verifiability,” Wilson said. ” … Ecstatic truth is the truth of the imagination. Making too hard a distinction between that kind of truth and what oftentimes passes for truth is maybe not the most productive effort for the (human) species. The merging of these things is enormously valuable.”

Wilson’s collaborators, the employees of the museum who contribute their own work to the collection (and incidentally don’t consider themselves artists), are disinterested in making the distinction between what is “true” and what is “false.” Instead, they are “drawn to kinds of knowledge that are essentially on the periphery of believability,” he said.

“The verifiability of the material presented in the exhibits, while it’s a perfectly legitimate approach (to understanding the work), is something that we at the museum literally never talk about,” Wilson said.

When the audience begins to loosen its grip on the importance of distinguishing fact from fiction, true imagination can take place, which is different for every individual. There’s an understanding reached that loosely involves history, but emphasizes creating an unsettling feeling of the kind of wonder you had back when you were a child.

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Quote pulled from the MJT collection catalogue.

“The thing we find is that we’re only doing the first part of the work, and the observer, the patron of the museum, is really doing an enormous amount of work. They take things that we put into the world, and in their minds essentially ‘create’ them,” Wilson said. “Like a Rorschach test, almost all the work we do, not by intention or design, seems open to multiple interpretations or ways of approaching it.”

The museum owes its look and feel to the era of the cabinet of curiosities, a cultural phenomenon with origins in the Renaissance that developed into the modern museum. Instead of art or books, collectors would assemble a host of objects that bore scientific or historical merit, and share with guests their discoveries, some of which were faked. One can imagine a layer of doubt blanketing the crowd, depending on how involved the explanation of the object and how far from the truth the curator wandered.

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A replica narwhal tusk was the inspiration of some silliness for me as HMNS Marketing toured the cabinet collection last month.

At HMNS, we’re opening our own Cabinet of Curiosities Friday, April 29 in an homage to this era. Guests will be allowed to touch and manipulate the objects featured in the collection to learn both about natural science and the origins of the contemporary museum, and to feel the surge of inspiration and wonder the experience offers.

Next time you wander the halls of HMNS, and when you visit the Cabinet of Curiosities exhibit, remember there was once a time when dubious information was readily accepted — a magical epoch in which the human imagination was the sole tool in understanding our world and place in the universe. Then ask yourself the question, is that time now?

Doing American History Wrong: How I Won at Independence Hall

I recently had the opportunity to travel to Philadelphia. Everyone else was hot and bothered to see the birthplace of American democracy. I was excited to see the science museums: The Franklin Institute, The Academy of Natural Science, The Mutter and Independence Hall. (You read right on that last one.  Keep going…)

Next month, April 29 to be exact, we are opening a Wunderkabinet – a Cabinet of Curiosities. Our curiosities will be styled after those of Ferrante Imperato, an Italian apothecary who created, arguably, the most famous cabinet of curiosity in the world. But today you’ll be learning about Charles Wilson Peale’s cabinet of curiosities. Because he is super awesome.

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I’m not going to go into his backstory here, because it’s just too long, bizarre, and interesting on its own. I’m not going to talk about how he organized the first U.S. Scientific expedition in 1801 or how he went a-courting at the age of 88 or how they had to shoot the bear because it kept eating the rest of his collection. I will save that for another blog. (Honestly, it will probably be a couple of blog entries because I think Peale is super dreamy). Instead, today we are talking about Peale’s “Repository for Natural Curiosities,” his Philadelphia Museum.

I started my Peale sightings that day in Philadelphia at his grave, and all day long virtually every person I asked was very confused about why I cared about Peale, or they had no clue who he was. Half my morning was spent extolling the virtues of this wonderful American painter, scientist, statesman, entrepreneur and patriot. It was at the point when I had a crossing guard helping me look for a historical marker that I realized I had reached new heights of nerddom. Oh Peale, you make my heart flutter. 

Here’s the short(est possible) version of this tale. In 1786, Peale opened America’s first natural science museum to the public. It was known as the Philadelphia Museum, or colloquially as “Peale’s American Museum,” and was similar to that of Ferrante Imperato, in spirit. Peale was inquisitive himself and eager to instill that quality in others. Peale designed his museum to inspire a curiosity of the natural world and educate patrons about the diversity of life.

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So what does all this have to do with Independence Hall? Peale’s Museum started out as a small collection of portraits that he called “The Gallery of Great Men.” This gallery contained portraits of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, Benjamin Franklin and many others, but it grew to include specimens when he had the opportunity to sketch a collection of mammoth bones. The bones drew a crowd and Peale recognized an opportunity when he saw one. He began collecting specimens and added them to his portrait gallery.

Over the years, as he grew out of one space, he’d move to another. This led him to rent spaces in two very prominent buildings in Philadelphia. The first place you might know is a small building next to Independence Hall, where he rented a small gallery. This is the current location of the American Philosophical Society, which Benjamin Franklin founded and of which Peale was a member. The second was the Pennsylvania State House, more commonly known now by its nickname, “Independence Hall.” It was officially named the Philadelphia Museum, but referred to as “Peale’s Museum.”

Peale created the first scientifically-organized museum of natural history in America. Museums didn’t really exist in Peale’s time and those that did weren’t public. Peale’s museum was open to anyone with a sense of wonder and 25 cents. The “Great School of Nature” is what Peale called it. Although you may not know his name, Peale was a peer of America’s greatest men. Franklin regularly corresponded with Peale and donated to Peale the corpse of his French angora cat to be put on display. Washington contributed a pair of golden pheasants. After the Lewis and Clark expedition, President Jefferson, a close friend of Peale’s, arranged for specimens to go to Peale.  

When I arrived at Independence Hall that morning, I was warmly received by Jane, a National Park Ranger, who assured me that I wasn’t doing American history wrong. I was apparently the only person ever to forgo the tour of the room in which the Declaration of Independence was signed in favor of seeing the rooms in which Peale housed his museum. 

Peale’s collection housed both local species, that the entire Peale family collected, as well as exotic items from abroad. Sea captains brought him a llama, an antelope, an ape, and monkeys — all kept outside until they died and were then preserved. The family also had a bald eagle who imprinted on Peale and lived atop Independence Hall.
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One of Peale’s biggest struggles was discovering the secret to preserving these specimens when they died. After much experimentation, he settled on an arsenic solution for the birds and smaller animals and bichloride of mercury for the larger specimens. It worked, but was extremely toxic. Peale believed the purpose of his museum was “to bring into view a world in miniature.” To do this, Peale used his artistic abilities to make the displays visually appealing. It was not just a bird in a case; his displays included painted landscapes with real branches and rocks. Peale’s innovative habitats would become the standard for museum practices in modern museums.  

In 1791, shortly after the death of his first wife, Peale found a new wife in a group who had come to visit the museum and a few weeks later they married. She inherited six boisterous children (by the day’s standard), a menagerie of wild animals and constant visitors to the museum. The kitchen, usually considered the woman’s domain at the time, doubled as a laboratory and taxidermy shop. The Peale family unanimously loved her. 

Peale accepted an offer from American Philosophical Society in 1794 to move the museum and his family into the Philosophical Hall. At this time, he switched his focus more wholly to science over art. Peale was the first to use Linnaean taxonomy in organizing a collection, whereas other Museums just presented a Wunderkabinet — a smattering of specimens. Also in 1794, he had a little boy whom he named Charles Linnaeus. In 1795, another son arrived and it was the members of the Philosophical Society that named him Franklin, by a majority vote, after their founder who died in 1790. 

In 1802, Peale asked Thomas Jefferson to establish a national museum 50 years before the inception of the Smithsonian. Jefferson agreed that this was an excellent idea, but couldn’t agree to give public government funds for the project. So Peale asked the Pennsylvania State Legislature to support his ever-growing collection. They agreed to let him use the upper floors of the main building, the tower and first floor east room in the Pennsylvania State House, now Independence Hall, except on Election Day, when they would need to let people come in to vote. 

When the new and improved museum opened to the public, it contained 4,000 insects, a large mineral collection, a grizzly bear, a buffalo, a hyena, an antelope and a llama. It also contained a lens focused in on the venom groove in a snake’s fangs and artifacts from Native American tribes, Polynesia and the Far East. It also housed machines, antiques, inventions and copies of famous statues. To liven things up, the Peale family also did live snake handling demonstrations and procured an organ for evening recitals.

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Floor plan from Peale’s museum.

The first three people to have a membership to the museum were George Washington, John Adams and Thomas Jefferson — the acting President, Vice President and Secretary of State for the newly-formed United States of America. In fact, George Washington headed the annual membership drive. 

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Ticket to Peale’s museum.

At the age of 81 and at the request of the museum’s board, Peale painted one of his most well-known pieces of art, “The Artist and his Museum,” which is an amazing peek into the last version of Peale’s American Museum.

During his life, Peale never saw the establishment of a National History Museum and 20 years after his death, his collection was dispersed. Some of the scientific specimens were sold to P. T. Barnum and some were destroyed by a fire. “The Gallery of Great Men” was bought in bulk by the City of Philadelphia and is now on display in the Independence Hall National Historic Park Collection — just as Peale wished.

image6 Author’s Note: A big thank you to Park Ranger Jane who provided me with some pretty useful information and was willing to tolerate my unbridled enthusiasm!

 

Son of ‘Bridge of Spies’ pilot to deliver father’s story at HMNS Wednesday

When it comes to American espionage, few people are as close to the truth as Francis Gary Powers, Jr., and fewer have a story to tell as exciting as his father’s — one that inspired director Steven Spielberg to make a movie out of it. Bridge of Spies (2015) tells the declassified tale of New York lawyer James Donovan, who brokered the international prisoner exchange that brought home American U-2 pilot Francis Gary Powers, Sr. The narrative lives on through Powers’s son, who will tell his own story of historical preservation Wednesday night at the Houston Museum of Natural Science.

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May 1, 1960, during the height of the Cold War, Powers, Sr. was shot down over Russia during a spy mission to take photos of the ground from an altitude of 70,000 feet. Using specialized camera equipment, Powers’s plane gathered information on ground movements from 13.25 miles above the Earth’s surface, more than twice the cruising altitude of a commercial airliner.

Powers’s U-2 was damaged by an SA-2 anti-aircraft missile, which exploded near the tail section, breaking off a portion of the tail. The plane disintegrated as it fell through the atmosphere, tearing off both wings. According to his son, Powers never ejected but still survived the crash, and the middle of the aircraft remained nearly intact, leaving advanced technology available for Russian engineers to investigate.

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Francis Gary Powers, Sr., in the specialized pressure suit that allows U-2 pilots to survive at 70,000 feet.

Powers pulled himself from the wreckage and was later captured by the Russian military and detained in a Soviet prison for two years. In the media and history books, his capture and brokerage back to the United States became known as the U-2 Incident of May 1960.

At this point, Powers’s story grows muddled in rumor and conspiracy theory, which his son has passionately and patiently resisted for decades through his work with the public. Many Americans considered Powers as a traitor, believing he should have taken his own life to preserve U.S. secrets and that perhaps his return home meant military secrets had been exchanged.

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Powers, Sr. used this model to explain in legal hearings how the aircraft broke up as it fell to the ground.

“It’s never too late to set the record straight,” Powers, Jr. told the Houston Rotary Club at a special luncheon Tuesday, where he delivered his story as a guest speaker. He explained that the U-2 Incident happened when he was a child living in California, but he was old enough to understand his father’s POW status.

Later in life, after his father published his 1970 memoir, Operation Overflight: A Memoir of the U-2 Incident, Powers, Jr. became instrumental to the preservation of the U-2 Incident and Cold War espionage. His father died in a tragic news helicopter accident in 1977, and after many years of mourning, Powers, Jr. picked up the torch.

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With the help of John C. Welch, Powers, Jr. founded The Cold War Museum in 1996. Inspired by decades of research into declassified documents, his father’s memoir and personal experience, he first established the museum as a traveling collection with the preservation of truth in mind. Over the years, the museum traveled around the world to build interest in the creation of a permanent home, and in 2009, Powers, Jr. announced a physical address in Vint Hill, Va. He currently resides in Richmond.

For 15 years, Powers, Jr. pitched his father’s story to the film industry to further build interest in the museum, the memoir and the U-2 Incident. In July 2014, Steven Spielberg requested to option Powers’s book for Bridge of Spies, released last October. The movie stars Tom Hanks as Donovan.

Powers, Jr. will deliver a lecture Wednesday in the Wortham Giant Screen Theater at HMNS. He will discuss the U-2 Incident, the history of Cold War espionage and his experience establishing The Cold War Museum and serving as a technical consultant for Bridge of Spies. Tickets available online or at the box office.

Don’t miss our temporary espionage exhibit Spies, Traitors, Saboteurs: Fear and Freedom in America, open through next Monday, Jan. 18. Learn the secrets of spies before they disappear!

Still interested in espionage and counter-terrorism? Come back next week for a second spies lecture titled Terrorism, ISIS, and Emerging Threats — Evolution of Terrorism StrategyWednesday, Jan. 20 at 6:30 p.m. in the Wortham.