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| Notes documenting my initial observations of the stereoscope from my first visit to Grand Valley State University's Seidman Archives. |
Material culture analysis (as outlined by Jules Prown) begins with substantial analysis; measurements of the object, and the materials used in making it. And I guess the broadest observation I can make is that the artifacts I’m examining are the stereoscope, the stereoscope cards from the collection of Harvey E. Lemmen, and their respective cases.
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The stereoscope card case and the telebinocular case are of similar size, each around seven inches tall, seven inches wide, and three inches thick. The telebinocular case, with the stereoscope inside, is much lighter than the card case with the cards inside. Without their contents, the cases weigh about the same.
The cases seem to be made of cardboard, with some leather (or faux leather) elements, as well as what might be plastic and what I’d assume to be imitation gold leaf.
The fronts of the cases resemble two boxes sitting next to each other on a shelf. There’s text on each case that reads “Vol. I and Vol. II”, which evokes images of encyclopedias. In the same vein, each case has text that reads “Stereographic Library”.
Both cases are black, with pairs of golden stripes forming a pattern on each “spine”. The text on the front of the cases is also gold, with a similar imitation gold leaf texture. There are bands of more reflective material, also black, on each spine, between the pairs of gold stripes.
The cases are grainy, and a little cold to the touch. They’re also worn, and frayed. The “spines” of the books are less worn but still riddled with imperfections. The reflective black bands are smooth and glossy.
Moving and opening the case— both cases, really— was a tense experience. In part, because they’re antiques, but they also feel terribly fragile. When I was younger, I didn’t take very good care of my books, and handling these cases feels like handling the worn-out encyclopedias of comic book characters I have in my childhood bedroom. Any thoughtless touch or movement might damage them even further.
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| The "Tour of the World" case with its cover removed, revealing its contents; approximately 102 stereoscope cards. |
Now, to discuss the actual contents of the cases. The stereoscope cards are approximately 7”x3”, of similar size to the case, but small enough to sit inside, albeit somewhat uncomfortably. There is some degree of thickness and heft to each of them.
Each card is two glossy photographs mounted on something similar to a piece of cold press illustration board and stamped with ink. Whatever the material of the photos, they’re sensitive to the oils on hands.
There are around 102 cards in the case. There are also seven different numbering systems, with the highest number of cards in one set being 43.
Every card has two photos placed side-by-side and the tops of the photos are rounded. This creates a kind of double arches, reminiscent of Romanesque architecture. The photos on the cards depict scenes of everyday life, natural landmarks, and monuments from North America, Central America, South America, and Europe.
The boards the photos are mounted on are a cool gray, and faintly speckled; they’re also matte, which contrasts with the reflective material of the photos. They also slight curve in on themselves, creating a crescent shape when viewed in profile.
Touching the boards, they feel kind of powdery. I always think there’s a residue on my fingers after I finish handling them. Some boards are in worse condition than others; peeling, or nicked, or just more weathered.
The photos on the cards, however, felt smooth. (I was later told by a helpful archivist to avoid touching the photos directly.)
Stamped on the boards are titles, numbers, and descriptions— or rather, curated narratives— regarding the events depicted in each stereophoto. In the summer of 2016, I sold antiques and old toys on eBay in a low-effort attempt at self-employment. I did, however, pick up on a few things; namely, that when a seller was trying to inflate the value of their product, a lot of aggrandizing adjectives would slip into their listings. The language on the cards, and the veneer of worldliness, very much remind me of those eBay hucksters.
Something that I only observed in my second time working with the cards; there seems to be an internal logic to how these cards are labeled. There are cards without a number; cards with a number; the letter “T” and a number; the “T”, a number, and a star; the “T”, a number, and two stars; a number and one star; a number with two stars. In each numbering system (or, “sequence”), as the count increases, the focus of the images travels in an east-to-west, north-to-south direction, similar to the left-to-right, up-to-down direction that text is generally read in the West.
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| My diagram of the labeling system, as I understand it. |
Cards with early numbers in the sequence are set in North America, and as the sequence continues, the cards travel to Central America, South America, and Europe. The seven sequences repeat many of the same locations; multiple series include photos of New York, Mexico, Brazil, the British West Indies, Ireland, Scotland, England, and Norway.
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| The stereoscope, or telebinoculars, inside of their case, with the cover removed. |
The stereoscope itself (or as the case describes it, the pair of “telebinoculars”) has metal eyepieces, plastic barrels, glass lenses, and a metal tray that extends out in front of the barrels to hold a stereoscope card. I’m unsure of its dimensions, but it must be disassembled in order to clumsily fit inside its 7”x7”x3” case. Speaking to its iconography, the stereoscope resembles a pair of binoculars, typically used for viewing the world outside of the comfort of your own home, or, in this instance, outside of the Seidman archives.
The stereoscope is black, with the exception of the steel-gray bridge that extends out to connect with the binoculars. The barrels of the binoculars are engraved with a pattern that resembles a wood-grain texture.
Bringing the telebinoculars up to my face, the metal eyepieces feel cold, and they’re not sharp, but they aren’t comfortable pushed up against my cheeks and my brow. The texture of the barrels looks like wood grain, but they feel inorganic, like plastic.
Taking the disparate pieces, I assemble the stereoscope; I extend the bridge and place a random card in the tray. I hold it up to my eyes and there’s some dimensionality and depth to what I see. I imagine the curve of the card, the length of the bridge, and the lenses all contribute to the effect.
From what I remember of the sociology seminar I took last year, Pierre Bourdieu came up with a framework for describing a person or an object’s status in the field of consumption. I think there were two axes— class, and cultural capital. An artist, for example, might have high cultural capital, but be low class.
I think the stereoscope and its accompanying collection of cards is similarly situated. Its selling point appears to be that it is taking international experiences and bringing them into the home of the viewer; democratizing world travel. It is or tries to be, of cultural significance, while being accessible and, presumably, affordable.
However, to determine whether or not the telebinoculars and the cards can deliver that rich of an experience, more critical analysis is necessary. (That critical analysis can be found here, in my next post.)
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| The fully assembled telebinoculars, with card T97-star in their tray, and a few other cards placed beside them. |
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