Drawn entirely from the library’s extraordinary collections, the exhibition presents rare books, photographs, manuscripts, posters, and other historical documents in two long display cases. Rather than telling a chronological story, it explores patriotism through a series of themes, including absolutism, inclusion and exclusion, American exceptionalism, and patriotism as ideology. The introductory label reads:
Louisa May Alcott’s desk in her bedroom at Orchard House in Concord, Massachusetts. Courtesy of Orchard House.
Many visitors come to Orchard House because they love Little Women. The museum embraces that connection. As it notes on its website, visitors often remark that a tour is “like a walk through Little Women!” It is easy to understand why. The house inspired the setting of the March family home, and many of the people who lived there found their way into Louisa May Alcott’s novel.
After touring Orchard House, however, I came away with a different realization. The house certainly rewards visitors who come looking for Little Women. But its greatest contribution is something deeper: it reveals the creative world that shaped Louisa May Alcott as a writer.
That distinction became clear as the tour unfolded. Rather than treating Louisa as the sole focus, the guide introduced each member of the Alcott family through the rooms they occupied and the activities that took place there. Instead of presenting a series of biographical sketches, the house gradually revealed a household alive with writing, theater, art, education, reform, conversation, and, at times, financial struggle.
By the end of the tour, Little Women seemed less like the work of an isolated author than the literary expression of a remarkable family’s shared experiences. The rooms themselves reveal the different ways creativity found expression within the Alcott family. The dining room and parlor evoke oldest daughter Anna’s family theatricals, younger sister May’s rooms preserve the work of an aspiring artist, and Louisa’s bedroom centers on the desk where she wrote much of Little Women. Together, these rooms reveal a household where writing, art, and performance were all part of everyday life.
Emily Dickinson’s writing table, preserved in her bedroom at the Homestead in Amherst, Massachusetts.
Before visiting the Emily Dickinson Museum in Amherst, Massachusetts, I knew surprisingly little about Emily Dickinson. The Museum encompasses two historic houses: the restored Homestead, where Dickinson was born, died, and wrote most of her poetry, and the unrestored Evergreens, the neighboring home of her brother Austin, his wife Susan, and their family. Although the Museum includes both houses, it was the Homestead that demonstrated how a historic house can become the key to understanding a poet.
I knew Emily Dickinson was one of America’s greatest poets, that she published very little during her lifetime, and that she lived much of her adult life in relative seclusion. I was also familiar with a few of the recurring stories surrounding her life—her correspondence with Thomas Wentworth Higginson, her close relationship with her sister-in-law Susan Gilbert Dickinson, and the questions surrounding her withdrawal from society. Beyond that, she remained something of a mystery. What I did not expect was that the house itself would become the key to understanding her.
Many literary house museums preserve the places where authors lived and worked. The Emily Dickinson Homestead does something more ambitious. Rather than treating the Homestead simply as the place where Emily Dickinson lived, the guide used the house as a framework for understanding the person behind the poet. Each room served as a setting for exploring a different aspect of her life. This was done not through dates and events alone, but through her own poetry, her education, her family relationships, her intellectual curiosity, and her creative choices. In doing so, the house became not simply the setting for Dickinson’s story but an essential part of telling it.
Harriet Beecher Stowe’s writing desk in her Hartford home.
When we visit the home of a famous writer, what are we hoping to discover? The works have already been written. Their biographies have been published. Their letters have been collected. So what can walking through the rooms where they lived add to our understanding?
Those questions were on my mind as I visited the Harriet Beecher Stowe Center in Hartford, Connecticut. The Center asks visitors to look beyond Uncle Tom’s Cabin and consider how Harriet Beecher Stowe became one of the nineteenth century’s most influential antislavery writers. It is an ambitious interpretive approach, one that emphasizes the firsthand accounts of enslaved and formerly enslaved people, abolitionist networks, and the many individuals whose experiences, testimony, and activism shaped Stowe’s writing.
As I reflected on the tour afterward, however, I found myself asking a different question: What can a historic house contribute to this story that no biography, lecture, or documentary can?
A period room at the Bern History Museum in Switzerland.
We recently returned from a two-week visit to Switzerland, where we visited more than fifty museums and historic sites across the German-, French-, and Italian-speaking regions. In the art museums of German-speaking Switzerland, I noticed a strong tendency to organize galleries around named private collections, or Sammlungen. In the history museums and historic sites, I noticed something different: interpretive practices in transition.
Some sites still rely on familiar approaches: chronological narratives, object identification, and basic descriptions of place. But many museums are clearly rethinking their exhibitions. They are experimenting with new interpretive layers, broader contexts, difficult histories, and more ambitious questions about identity, science, colonialism, and national memory.
The results are uneven, but they are worth attention. Swiss history museums seem to be moving beyond “what happened?” and “what is this object?” toward more complex questions: What systems produced this wealth? How did a person’s life connect to larger social and technological changes? How is national identity constructed? What should be done with inherited installations that no longer speak clearly to visitors?
For museum professionals elsewhere, the Swiss examples offer several useful lessons.
Founded in the 1780s, Kunsthaus Zürichnow straddles a busy intersection in two buildings.
We recently returned from a two-week visit to Switzerland, where we visited more than fifty museums and historic sites across the German-, French-, and Italian-speaking regions. Among the many differences in museum practice, one pattern was especially noticeable in the art museums of the German-speaking cantons: their organization around named private collections, or Sammlungen.
A wealthy collector may have assembled works of art over a lifetime and later donated or loaned the collection to a museum. Rather than fully integrating those works into a chronological, thematic, or art-historical presentation, the museum often retains the collection as a distinct unit bearing the donor’s name.
There are legitimate reasons for doing this. A named collection preserves its provenance and recognizes the role of private collecting in the formation of public museums. It can reveal an individual collector’s tastes, preferences, ambitions, and blind spots. The collection itself can become a historical document.
This model is not unique to Switzerland. American museums such as the Barnes Foundation in Philadelphia, the Phillips Collection in Washington, DC, and the Frick Collection in New York preserve, to varying degrees, the identity and vision of their founders’ private collections. In those institutions, however, the collector’s personality, residence, installation choices, or philosophy of looking is central to the museum’s public identity. Visitors generally understand that they are entering a particular person’s conception of art.
The situation becomes more complicated when several named collections coexist within a larger institution. The visitor is no longer encountering one clearly defined collector’s museum but moving among several private visions whose differences are not always explained.
Do I need permission to take photos of a guided tour in a museum?
In the previous posts in this series, I looked at visitor codes of conduct, visitor photography policies, and commercial or media photography policies. Those policies are becoming more visible because photography is no longer a simple matter of “Can I take a picture?” A single image can be a personal memory, a social media post, a teaching tool, a scholarly document, a news illustration, a commercial asset, or evidence in a public debate.
This final post turns to the more complicated issues: fair use, copyright, photo releases, privacy, and ethics. As a reminder, I am not a lawyer, and this is not legal advice. Museums should consult an attorney when writing policies involving copyright, image permissions, privacy, publicity rights, releases, commercial use, or contracts. My purpose here is to identify common points of confusion that arise when museums, visitors, writers, teachers, scholars, and photographers try to understand what permission is needed and from whom.
I encounter these questions in my own work. As someone who photographs museums and historic sites for this blog, teaching, consulting, and research, I occasionally wonder: should I ask permission from the museum before publishing a photograph of an exhibition? Do I need a model release if visitors appear in the background? Is it appropriate to photograph a historic house where people still live nearby? Does it matter if I am writing criticism, promoting the museum, or using the image in a paid presentation?
These questions are often confused with a different issue: what museums need to do when they use images of visitors for their own promotional purposes. A visitor taking a photograph in a gallery, a museum using a child’s image in a fundraising campaign, and a company filming a commercial in a sculpture garden are not the same thing. They raise different legal, ethical, and managerial questions. Policies should be clear enough that frontline staff can explain them without being expected to interpret copyright law, privacy law, or fair use on the spot.
Four Issues That Often Get Confused
Photography policies often blend several distinct issues:
Copyright: who owns the rights to the artwork, photograph, exhibition label, design, film, or other creative work that appears in the image?
Access: what conditions did the museum place on photography as part of admission, ticketing, visitor conduct, or use of its property?
Privacy and publicity: are identifiable people shown in the image, and is their likeness being used in a way that requires permission?
Ethics: even if a photograph is legally permissible, is it respectful, accurate, safe, and consistent with the museum’s values and the dignity of the people, places, and stories involved?
Wedding photo taken at the Cincinnati Museum of Art. Credit: Sherri Barber Photography.
In the previous post in this series, I looked at visitor photography policies: whether visitors can take pictures, where they can take them, what equipment they can use, and how museums distinguish casual personal photography from behavior that disrupts the visitor experience. But there is another side to museum photography policies.
When photography moves beyond ordinary visitor memory-making, the questions become more complicated. A museum gallery, historic house, a picturesque barn, sculpture garden, or historic landscape can quickly become a backdrop for someone else’s project: a wedding shoot, fashion session, graduation portrait, influencer campaign, documentary film, news segment, advertisement, stock photography shoot, or corporate video. That shift changes the issue. The question is no longer simply, “Can I take a picture?” It becomes: who benefits from the image, what resources are being used, what risks are created, and how is the museum’s name, space, collection, or reputation being presented?
As with the earlier posts, this is not a scientific or comprehensive study. I reviewed a selection of commercial, media, and photography policies from museums and historic sites to identify patterns in current practice. I am not a lawyer, and this is not legal advice. Museums should consult an attorney when developing policies involving copyright, releases, insurance, contracts, filming agreements, or commercial use. My interest here is in how these policies reflect museum management, visitor experience, institutional risk, and revenue. Just a warning: this is a loooong post because of the complexity of this topic—and I’ll only be touching the surface.
From Visitor Photography to Site Use
The most useful distinction is between photographing a museum and using a museum as a setting. A visitor photographing a child in a gallery, a favorite object, a historic room, or a garden path is usually documenting a visit. A photographer staging an engagement session, fashion shoot, commercial, product video, or sponsored social media post is using the museum as a resource. Those are different activities. They require different policies.
Screenshot from “The Clip Economy is Eating Everything” by the Atlantic.
I was recently listening to a podcast from The Atlantic—“The Clip Economy is Eating Everything”—where Charlie Wartsall interviews business writer Ed Elson about the rise of short-form video. Their argument is straightforward: the dominant unit of media is no longer the article, the podcast, or even the YouTube video. It’s the clip.
That stuck with me and I’m uncomfortable.
Much of what rises to the top in this “clip economy” is not especially thoughtful or constructive. And yet, it’s how many people are now consuming information—not through television, books, newspapers, museums, or even longer-form digital content, but through YouTube Shorts, Instagram, and TikTok. Whether we like it or not, this is the environment our audiences are living in.
While I’ve been producing content for this blog for more than fifteen years, a few years ago I began producing YouTube videos. Based on research on the attention span of viewers, I aimed for a six-minute length but yikes, those take me days to produce. I don’t do it frequently so editing is slow, narration has to be re-recorded when I inevitably trip over a sentence, and assembling images into something coherent takes real effort.
It was a brown cardboard box at a local auction filled with framed prints and miscellaneous ephemera. The sort of lot you bid on partly out of curiosity and partly because, if you’re lucky, you might discover something interesting. I did—it was a framed page from a 500-year-old German book.
As a historian, I enjoy reading. But more than that, I love books as objects. Their design, typography, and material presence give me tremendous joy. I got the bug in college in a federal work-study position in the rare books and special collections department of the library, where I learned how much evidence a single page can hold: paper quality, typeface, layout, illustration style, and wear patterns can all reveal a story before you even understand the words.
This page immediately caught my attention.
The typeface was Gothic, clearly German, probably around 1500. But the illustrations were strange. Instead of familiar late-medieval imagery (saints, cities, plants, kings) one woodcut showed a man lying in bed while another pressed a knife to his neck. Another showed a dining table with people seated around a severed head on a platter. Huh?
It was unmistakably early printed material, but not religious, political, or medical.
Engaging Places 