Tag Archives: Transnational history

Collecting for Seed Testing

By Anaïs Got, University of Angers

In agriculture it all starts with a seed. In 1869 the German agronomist Friedrich Nobbe founded and theorised a new agronomic speciality called “Seed Testing”. From the end of the 19th century, it spread as a set of practices and knowledge built and mobilised by scientists, also called agro-botanists, who identified seeds as fundamental elements on which States should intervene in order to improve national agriculture. To this end, they developed a set of methods and techniques essentially based on the scientific examination of characteristics and faculties of seeds. From then on, seed agro-botanists asserted themselves both as agronomists, i.e. with a resolutely agricultural perspective and purpose, and also traditionally as botanists of a botany intended to be applied to the seeds of cultivated species as plant reproductive organs.

Seed testing stations had their own seed collections, as here in the French station around 1910 (Archives of the French National Seed Testing Station, 2 ARCH 390, glass plate, 18×13cm, by. 1910)

Agro-botanists operated in laboratories called seed testing stations where they undertook to answer technically and scientifically all the questions that agricultural and industrial seed application raised. To this end, they carried out both technical analyses and examinations of seed samples sent to them by the seed industry, as well as a variety of scientific research on seeds.

From the beginning, the practice of collection has therefore been fundamental and recurrent in Seed Testing. If analytical activities generated punctual collections of samples, they also made it possible to collect a variety of agricultural seeds preserved by the seed testing stations in order to be used as a guide and reference for subsequent manipulations. The experimental work also allowed seed collections to be made. Finally, from a transnational perspective, it appears that the agro-botanists of different seed testing stations, who have been very connected to each other since the end of the 19th century, frequently exchanged seeds in order to participate in comparative campaigns or to feed their respective collections.

Inventories kept track of seed samples kept in seed testing stations. This extract lists the varieties of wheat and their origins (Archives of the French National Seed Testing Station, 1 ARCH 18, manuscript notebook, 1902-1907)

In short, Seed Testing Stations started to collect seeds as the basic material, in turn support and referent, of their scientific and technical activities. In addition, collecting was at the heart of scientific process aimed at identifying and referencing the normal and the abnormal in order to understand and rationalise knowledge. Thus, new samples were listed, identified, analysed and then preserved in a scientific approach. During the 20the century, photography renewed traditional seed collection practices for obvious practical reasons: collections of Seed Testing Stations became then more iconographic.

Un tren de gliptodontes, Museo de La Plata, Argentina

Por Irina Podgorny, CONICET/Archivo Histórico del Museo de La Plata, Argentina

[Leer en inglés]

En la segunda mitad del siglo XIX y mucho antes de la manía por los dinosaurios, todo museo que se preciara debía contar con, al menos, una coraza de gliptodonte, un animal extraño, acorazado y de dimensiones gigantescas que, desde 1839 formaba parte del catálogo de los gigantescos mamíferos fósiles procedentes de la América del Sur.

Los primeros en viajar llegaron en la década de 1840 a las colecciones del Royal College of Surgeons de Londres y, a partir de allí, no hubo museo del hemisferio norte o del sur que no deseara o comisionara el envío de semejante portento. En Londres, Richard Owen los llamó Glyptodon, un nombre genérico que remarcaba la forma esculpida de sus dientes, la pieza en la que basó su existencia.

El esqueleto y, sobre todo, su cubierta, no eran fácil de transportar: aunque la coraza apareciera con todas  o casi todas sus piezas, una vez extraída de la tierra, la coraza se partía en cientos de pedazos. Se pagaban caro y los proveedores de especímenes debieron ingeniársela, inventar maneras para que lo que se desarmaba en las pampas se volviera a unir del otro lado del mar o donde fuera que se instalara. Una de las soluciones consistió en concebir el caparazón como una suerte de mosaico pompeyano: numerado en el papel y en cada una de sus piezas, se lo enviaba desarmado para que las placas (tesserae), una vez en el gabinete y con una gran inversión de  tiempo y trabajo, se pudieran recomponer en su forma ideal. Los gliptodontes que hoy vemos son el resultado de la anatomía comparada y de ese trabajo artesanal que combina las prácticas de la carpintería, la herrería y la albañilería.

Sin embargo, una vez montados, pegados con cola y sostenidos por estructura de metal o de madera, la fragilidad del montaje no desaparecía: gracias a la misma, el director del Museo Público de la ciudad de Buenos Aires (entonces capital de provincia y no de la nación), en 1883 apeló a esa característica para argumentar la imposibilidad de mudar las colecciones a otro edificio, a otra ciudad. Los gliptodontes, una vez armados, se hacían sedentarios y servían para negociar espacios, cargos y presupuestos.

A fines del siglo XIX el Museo de La Plata, museo general de la nueva capital de la provincia de Buenos Aires establecida en 1882, a falta de uno, instalaba un tren, una verdadera manifestación de la variedad de los esqueletos acorazados que la provincia podía ofrecer al mundo. Con ello no solo demostraba la riqueza de las pampas: le enrostraba al pequeño y algo vetusto museo de la capital de la Nación- ahora Museo Nacional, las dimensiones que la exhibición de la naturaleza podía adquirir en las nuevas instituciones de la provincia.

Mientras tanto, el gliptodonte llevaba medio siglo de vida como espécimen de museo y poblaba, entero o en pedazos, las salas, las colecciones y los depósitos de los museos de varias decenas de ciudades de todo el mundo. Esta foto y estas palabras son una invitación a revisar las vitrinas más cercanas para constatar su presencia y trazar los caminos del gliptodonte en los museos del mundo.

Para seguir leyendo:

Irina Podgorny, Fossil dealers, the practices of comparative anatomy and British diplomacy in Latin America, 1820–1840

Irina Podgorny, Mercaderes del Pasado: Teodoro Vilardebó, Pedro de Angelis y el comercio de huesos y documentos en el Río de la Plata, 1830–1850

A train of glyptodonts, La Plata Museum, Argentina

By Irina Podgorny, CONICET/Archivo Histórico del Museo de La Plata, Argentina

[Read in Spanish]

In the second half of the 19th century and long before the dinosaur craze, every self-respecting museum had to have at least one glyptodon carapace, a mighty, armoured animal of gigantic dimensions that since 1839 was part of the catalogue of strange and gigantic fossil mammals coming from South America.

The first one arrived in the collections of the Royal College of Surgeons in London in the 1840s, and from then on there was no museum in the northern or southern hemisphere that did not wish and commission such a wonder. In London, Richard Owen called them Glyptodont, a generic name that emphasized the sculpted shape of their teeth, the element on which he based their existence.

The skeleton, and above all its shell, were not easy to transport: even if the carapace appeared with all or almost all its pieces, once extracted from the ground, it could break into hundreds of fragments. They were expensive, and the dealers of natural history specimens had to find a way to make what was disassembled in the pampas come together again on the other side of the ocean, or wherever it was installed. One of the solutions consisted in conceiving the carapace as a sort of Pompeian mosaic: numbered on paper and in each of its pieces, it was sent disassembled so that the plates (tesserae), once in the cabinet and with a great investment of time and work, could be recomposed in their ideal form. The glyptodonts we see today are the result of comparative anatomy and of the craftsmanship that combines the practices of carpentry, blacksmithing, and masonry.

However, once assembled, glued, and supported by a metal or wooden structure, the fragility of the assembly did not disappear. Thanks to this, in 1883, the director of the Public Museum of the city of Buenos Aires (then the capital of the province and not of the nation) invoked this fact to argue the impossibility of moving the collections to another building or another city. The glyptodonts, once armed, became sedentary and served to negotiate spaces, positions, and budgets.

At the end of the 19th century, the Museo de La Plata, the main museum of the new capital of the province of Buenos Aires established in 1882, for the lack of one installed a train, a true manifestation of the variety of armoured skeletons that the province could offer to the world. By doing so, it not only demonstrated the richness of the pampas: it showed the small and somewhat old-fashioned museum in the capital of the nation – now Museo Nacional – the dimensions that the exhibition of nature could acquire in the new institutions of the province.

Meanwhile, the glyptodont had been living for half a century as a museum specimen and populated, whole or in pieces, the halls, collections, and deposits of museums in dozens of cities around the world. This photo and these words are an invitation to review the nearest showcases to verify its presence and trace the paths of the glyptodont in world museums.

To read more:

Irina Podgorny, Fossil dealers, the practices of comparative anatomy and British diplomacy in Latin America, 1820–1840

Irina Podgorny, Mercaderes del Pasado: Teodoro Vilardebó, Pedro de Angelis y el comercio de huesos y documentos en el Río de la Plata, 1830–1850