On pain and peace

In some ways, it’s been a sad couple of weeks for me. As a half-Israeli American Jew, I spend a lot of time in tense worry about the current conflict–about family members and dear friends and innocent people on both sides who are waiting out this summer of war. And two days ago, I found out that a Harvard classmate, a fellow rising sophomore who had lived in my dorm, had passed away unexpectedly. Though I had never met her, the random senselessness of her death stung. Lately I’ve felt that there’s too much pain like that in the world: pain that can’t really be explained or gotten over.

Meanwhile, my summer continues here at Dumbarton Oaks, probably the most beautiful and peaceful place I’ve ever had the pleasure of getting to know. Sometimes, as I play in the pool or wander the shady walks, I wonder if it’s wrong for me to be so happy here–if it means I’m slipping into pampered apathy about the outside world. Given the opportunity, we insulate ourselves from pain, focusing on the peace and joy in our own lives rather than the suffering in someone else’s. It’s human to do that. But is it right?

This is a question I still struggle with. On one hand, thinking exclusively about our own troubles and pleasures can lead to a loss of empathy and, perhaps worse, to simple ignorance of what’s going on around us. We should stand in solidarity with people who are suffering, and we should never stop trying to make them feel less alone.

garden

On the other hand, though, I think there’s another kind of empathy that can arise from the deep enjoyment of peace. When I walk the bustling streets of DC at night, where people of all ages and ethnicities turn out to take a draught of the heady summer air, I hope that the streets of Tel Aviv and Gaza can someday feel this free. When I meander alone among the flower beds in the gardens, I hope that the loved ones of my lost classmate, and all grieving loved ones, may someday feel so at peace. Places like Dumbarton Oaks may not be solving the world’s problems or even ameliorating its pain. But they do remind us of the peace that can perhaps come after the pain. They show us what we have to keep hoping for.

Call Me Nancy Drew.

Besides owning Penny Loafers and adoring 1950s-inspired clothing, I have developed additional characteristics similar to those of Nancy Drew. Specifically, during the last few weeks, I have acquired my own set of detective skills, especially through my recent work with Marta Zlotnick, the Registrar at Dumbarton Oaks.

MYSTERY 1: MISSING COINS

There were written records of coins and even photographs of them, but the coins themselves were missing an accession number! How could one go about finding these coins? Head to the Coin Room in the basement of Dumbarton Oaks, grab a magnifying glass, and start sleuthing.

The clues in the case of the missing coins: Grierson's handwritten notes for the pentanummia.

The clues in the case of the missing coins: Grierson’s handwritten notes for the pentanummia.

In Philip Grierson’s handwritten notes in the Post-Catalogue Accession binders, these “missing” Byzantine coins to which I refer lacked an accession number, which is a unique number assigned to a newly acquired work of art or object. Without a unique accession number, objects, such as Byzantine coins, cannot be differentiated and their exact locations can be unknown. With Marta, I ventured to the Coin Room to track down the coins. Since Grierson had noted a question mark after the emperor to whom he had assigned the coin (in the handwritten registry), thus leaving other identifications open, we had to look through the trays of several Byzantine rulers and closely analyze the shape and die of many coins. Eventually, with both patience and persistence, Marta and I found the “missing” coins and their accession numbers: BZC.1956.23.2448 and BZC.1956.23.2449. Case solved.

MYSTERY 2: FIND THOSE HOBOS

HOBOs—they are all around you in the museum galleries, but they go virtually unnoticed. Of course, if you accompany Marta to the galleries, you can develop a keen eye and easily spot them.

Where's HOBO? Can you find one or both of the data loggers?

Where’s HOBO? Can you find one or both of the data loggers?

One afternoon, Marta and I checked all the HOBOs, which are data loggers that record temperature and humidity conditions in the galleries. When Marta challenged me to find the data loggers on my own, I truly did harness my inner detective. After considering which objects need the most stable environmental conditions and should thus be monitored closely, I made my way to the Byzantine works of ivory on display in the gallery. Not only was there a HOBO on the top of the case, but there was also one located within the case itself. Marta and I downloaded and then analyzed the data from these and other data loggers placed throughout the galleries. We discussed that fluctuations in temperature and humidity can be caused by various influences: season, time, and human presence. Status report: HOBOs found and cross-examined to gather vital information.

MYSTERY 3: THE SECRETS OF HAGIA SOPHIA

Metal tins filled with dust, plaster, bits of stone, and handwritten notes. How do all these pieces fit together?

BEFORE: the cigarette tins that contained the Byzantine Institute's notes and materials from the restoration of Hagia Sophia.

BEFORE: the metal tins that contained the Byzantine Institute’s notes and materials from the restoration of Hagia Sophia.

As an additional project to the Byzantine coin database, I have assisted Marta with rehousing materials from the Byzantine Institute. Founded and directed by Thomas Whittemore, the Byzantine Institute worked on conserving and restoring the mosaics of the Church of Hagia Sophia in Istanbul from 1931 to 1949. Built between 532 and 537 during the reign of Emperor Justinian I, Hagia Sophia was converted into a mosque in 1453 after which the figural and iconographic mosaics were covered with whitewash and plaster. The mosaics remained hidden and lost from human memory until the architects Gaspare and Giuseppe Fossati accidentally uncovered them while completing structural repairs in 1848 and 1849. Once the building opened as a museum in 1931, the Byzantine Institute uncovered and cleaned the mosaics, restoring them to their former state.

IMG_4228

AFTER: the materials properly rehoused, labeled, and organized in Object Storage.

Dumbarton Oaks’ collection includes many materials and films from the Byzantine Institute’s work on the Hagia Sophia, including 278 envelopes and metal tins filled with samples of wall plaster, tesserae stones, pieces of gold foil, and other objects. Since cigarette tins are not the best container for these artifacts, Marta and I have been photographing the tins and their contents, recording relevant information, and then rehousing the samples in archival storage boxes and bags, which are more environmentally stable than the boxes and envelopes and will help to better preserve the objects themselves. I have greatly enjoyed learning about the Byzantine Institute’s work as well as experiencing bits and pieces of Hagia Sophia, which I hope to one day visit (in its entirety).

Dust Masks Required: Marta and I transfer some brick dust from a cigarette tin to a more suitable container.

Dust Masks Required: Marta and I transfer samples of brick dust from a metal cigarette tin to an archival box.

These various experiences and different projects of my internship at The Dumbarton Oaks Museum are perfectly fitting together, like the individual tesserae of a mosaic.


About Me: I am a rising sophomore at Harvard University where I intend to study both the Classics and art history. Like Caitlin, I enjoyed reading Nancy Drew as a child. What young girl wouldn’t want to solve mysteries while cruising in a blue convertible?

 

The Community Necessary for Scholarship

Throughout the twentieth-century as key Byzantine sites like Hagia Sophia and the city of Antioch were excavated, private and public collectors alike vied to buy mosaics, tapestries, statues, and the like to display in their homes and museums. Unsurprisingly, art dealers often cut pieces of tapestry up, choosing to sell multiple fragments rather than complete works. As a result, today, pieces are often scattered around the globe.

Curtain Fragment 6th century

Curtain Fragment
6th century

The Dumbarton Oaks collection, as I learned on a recent Textile Tour, contains at least one piece with exactly this sort of dilemma. Research Assistant for the Byzantine Textiles Project Elizabeth Williams showed us how the straight-cut edges on the textile fragment (shown to the left) indicate that it was originally part of a larger piece of fabric. Amazingly, on a trip to the Islamic Museum in Turkey, she discovered another fragment on display that exactly matched the design and measurements of the piece in our collection. This second fragment, located halfway around the world from Dumbarton Oaks, is probably one of the other corners of the same long, rectangular cloth as our textile piece. Such a find led Williams to believe that the piece was once an exceptionally large curtain or hanging. When a conservator examined the same piece, she discovered that one of the medallions on the bottom of the fragment was actually sewn into the piece as well. This revealed that yet another fragment exists in the world somewhere.

This story illustrates the critical need for collaboration in today’s scholarly world. With pieces from the same site, or, indeed, fragments from the same cloth, spread throughout the world, scholars must follow each other’s work and visit new museums and research sites in order to develop a more complete picture.

With over half the summer already gone, I have found this constant striving for communication and collaboration to be a central feature of Dumbarton Oaks. This is demonstrated both through Dumbarton Oaks’ work to publish its Byzantine coin and seal, textile (in the works!), and correspondence collections online and through its atmosphere on the physical grounds. By encouraging staff, interns, and fellows to eat together in the refectory and on the bowling green each day and to socialize together around the pool in the evenings and by enabling the fellows and interns to live in the same building—La Quercia—these sorts of conversations and partnerships appear to develop organically.

However, in my time at Dumbarton Oaks, I have gotten a taste of the behind-the-scenes work that goes into creating such a familial atmosphere. Over the past six weeks, I have done everything from brainstorming ways for Dumbarton Oaks to further engage with both Harvard undergraduate students and students in the surrounding community to creating mailing lists for upcoming events and comparing our fellowship programs to those of other institutions. The common thread that I have found between all of these projects is the conscious effort on the part of Dumbarton Oaks’ staff to convey a sense of inclusion, belonging, and community in order to facilitate casual conversations and friendships. This, I believe, is the distinguishing feature of Dumbarton Oaks—its role as a home, rather than just a museum, for scholarship.

Operation ICFA Oral History Initiative: A Case Not To Be Closed

by Caitlin Ballotta, August 8, 2014

The tools of the oral historian. Not pictured:  magnifying glass and trench coat.

The tools of the oral historian. Not pictured: magnifying glass and trench coat.

When last she wrote nearly one month ago, ICFA’s aspiring detective (that would be me) had just made contact with a few “key suspects”—that is to say, with several desired oral history interviewees—in possession of valuable information concerning ICFA’s image and document collections.  (For more on the pre-interview phase of Operation Oral History Initiative, please see my previous blog post, “A Not-So-Private Investigation: ICFA’s Oral History Project.”)  And now, with less than one week of my internship left to go and two formal interviews under my belt, I can proudly say that I have never felt more detective-like in my life.

Before you think me too crazy, I should state for the record that I am not claiming to be a real detective.  That job title I’ll leave for the professionals.  (And for Nancy Drew, my childhood idol.)  What I am saying, though, is that I have a newfound appreciation for what it is that detectives do—because what they do is very similar to what I (attempt to) do:  to get the whole story.  Think about it in this light:  getting to the bottom of things requires asking the right questions in just the right way, whether the questioner be sizing up suspects or collecting oral histories.  I would argue, in fact, that—although their respective interview tactics and the nature of their interactions with their interviewees may differ—both the detective and the oral historian are, in essence, collecting witnesses’ reports of events that have already transpired.  Both, then, are interviewers by trade who must be able to account for quirks of memory, to sense if (and why) interviewees are holding back, and to draw them out as necessary in order to “close the case.”  No small feat.

Practicing the interview process.

Practicing the interview process.  A very entertaining pastime.

Interviewing—or, better, conversational detective work—is not a job for the faint of heart.  Indeed, from the first moments of my initial “practice interview” (one of my supervisors, Rona, graciously played the part of Particularly Difficult Interviewee in order to test my skills as an oral historian), I quickly saw that the interviewee is not the only one in “the hot seat,” so to speak.[1]  The interviewer, too, must be ever on his or her toes. This requires becoming well-versed in the interviewee’s background so as to be prepared for anything that might arise over the course of an hour-and-a-half-long conversation.

Robert Van Nice, Jr., was interviewed by ICFA in October of 2012 about his father's (architect Robert Van Nice's) work at the Hagia Sophia.

Robert Van Nice, Jr., was interviewed by ICFA in October of 2012 about his father’s (architect Robert Van Nice’s) survey work at the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, Turkey.

Yet preparedness is not enough.  Try as the interviewer-to-be might to “script” his or her part of the interview by drafting a lengthy (read:  very, very lengthy) list of questions ahead of time, he or she cannot predict where the conversation will lead once the interviewee gets to talking.  For this reason, the oral historian must be quick on his or her feet—that is to say, an adept multi-tasker who is able to keep track of a whole host of things at once while simultaneously helping the interviewee to feel at ease by providing the appropriate verbal or visual cues.  Consider a brief (and not at all comprehensive) Interviewer’s To-Do List:

  • (1) Listen to the interviewee: Listening to and processing what the interviewee says is absolutely vital.  This may seem obvious, but listening—really listening—is easier said than done when there are so many other things on the interviewer’s mind.  For further explanation, read on…
  • (2) Determine which (if any) questions are being answered simultaneously: As I mentioned above, there is no fixed script, and an interview can go in any direction—or, quite often, in multiple directions—at any given moment.  Keeping track of the topics discussed by the interviewee is essential so as to avoid asking redundant questions.
  • (3) Come up with impromptu follow-up questions: At times, the interviewer will want to know more than what the interviewee has said of his or her own volition, and it is up to the interviewer to get the particulars.  On the other hand, a single response from the interviewee can on occasion render an entire series of prepared questions irrelevant, forcing him or her to devise new ones on the spot.  (Yes, I speak from experience.)
  • (4) Steer clear of interrogation tactics: By this, I mean that the interviewer sets the tone for the interview—both in terms of what he or she asks and how he or she asks it.  Because the oral historian wants an interview to have the easy flow of a conversation, rather than the more staccato rhythm of an interrogation, he or she should aim to insert logical transitions between the various thematic segments of the interview.
  • (5) Aim for variety: The best interviews incorporate a mixture of question types. Biographical or fact-based questions and name or place association questions are useful in that they help to “warm up” the interviewee and to set him or her at ease.  Indeed, these seemingly basic questions (which often elicit interesting and unexpected responses) are just as important as the “hard-hitting” ones—for instance, those comparing personal with broader (societal or institutional) reactions to past events or social dynamics. Finally, while oral histories call interviewees to reflect on the past, it is also worthwhile to ask the interviewee—a person who, like the interviewer, is an individual living in the present moment—about his or her vision for the future.
  • (6) Respect time constraints:  Sadly, an interview cannot continue indefinitely, and some questions will inevitably go unasked.  The clock is ticking as the camera is rolling, and it is the interviewer’s job to prioritize questions accordingly—and to strike a careful balance between the depth and breadth of the discussion.
I was able to interview Susan Boyd, who--in addition to serving as Curator of the Photograph Collection (ICFA)--participated in a number of fieldwork projects in Cyprus and in modern-day Macedonia (FYROM).

I was able to interview Susan Boyd, who served as Curator of the Photograph Collection (now ICFA) and who participated in a number of  Dumbarton Oaks-affiliated fieldwork projects.

While I am not a real detective, I do love a good mystery story (give me anything Agatha Christie)—or any good story, for that matter.  Perhaps that is why I’ve enjoyed my summer in ICFA so much:  I’ve had the chance to “read up on” an array of interesting people and then to hear their (oral his)stories as they tell them.  Beyond just reading or listening to their stories, though, I’ve also gotten to help in recording them—and even, to a certain extent, to help in shaping them.  As I see it, the oral historian is something like a co-author—or perhaps a ghostwriter—of an interviewee’s oral history.  Without doubt, the interviewee is the primary author (not to mention the protagonist) of his or her tale, but the interviewer, the question-asker, lends to that tale its particular narrative bent by encouraging the interviewee to focus on specific topics.

In just a few days, my part in ICFA’s Oral History Initiative will come to an end, but the project itself will continue after I go.  As long as there are more mysteries to solve—as long as there are more stories to collect—ICFA will have its work cut out for itself, and you, Dear Reader, will be able to follow along once the Oral History Initiative web page (which is currently in progress) launches.  And so, since I am not quite a detective, I can happily say the following:  case not closed.


 About Me:

I graduated from Harvard College in May with a degree in English.  I am deeply interested in the intersection of technology and education.  Thus, when my internship with ICFA ends, I will seek to work in the Digital Humanities field while applying to graduate programs in English.  My eventual aim is to teach at the university level and to aid in the development of online supplements for humanities education in primary and secondary school classrooms.


[1] That is not to say, of course, that our oral histories are at all confrontational.  On the contrary, our conversations are quite congenial.  What I mean to say is that the very nature of the interview process places both the interviewee and the interviewer on the spot.

5 Things That Have Surprised Me at Dumbarton Oaks

  1. The Enormous Library
    • As a Harvard student, the odds are against me being taken aback by the scope of a library; I say that in the least pretentious way possible, as I am repeatedly told that literally any book or resource I may need is accessible- a statement which has more than proven to be accurate with Harvard’s 73 libraries and over 16 million volumes. That being said, I consider Dumbarton Oaks Library to be one of the most impressive libraries I have come across.Books
    • With over 220,000 volumes (including 10,000 rare books), the sheer number of works would be impressive; however, it is not the mere statistics that astound me. It is the concentration of the books that are here. On each of the three main disciplines of study at Dumbarton Oaks: Byzantine studies, Garden and Landscape studies, and Pre-Columbian studies, you can find an extraordinary variety of books which discuss the cultural, social, political, ecological, and historical aspects of each. Quite plain and simply, it is the type of collection that researchers dream about.
  2. Pool Parties are a Thing Outside of Florida Too
    • If you look at the oral history interviews, you will see that there was a time when adherence to rules of propriety was, well, a bit less rigorously pursued. With generations of young scholars living on or near the Dumbarton Oaks campus,
      Who wouldn't want to host a party here?

      Who wouldn’t want to host a party here?

      the emergence of large (and often rowdy) social gatherings may have been somewhat inevitable. The stories of such parties, which included good food, drinks, lively music, and healthy doses of UV exposure, have become something of lore here at Dumbarton Oaks. As a South Floridian, I thought that I had left the world of bikinis and beach balls behind when I ventured away from the Sunshine State, but, between you and me, let’s just say that poolside gatherings are not solely a thing of the past- after all, times haven’t changed that much!

  3. Interesting Things are Around Every Corner
    • It is assumed that the most exciting objects in a museum are clearly designated and expressly displayed. At Dumbarton Oaks, fascinating objects seem to be everywhere: 17th century first editions of now-famous academic works (with authors’ signatures of course!) sit on the shelves of the library, mosaics grace the walls of the basement and poolside loggia, 6th Century tapestries lounge in humidity-controlled underground storage chests, and sophisticated marble statues reside peacefully in the gardens.

      If you are lost in the basement, this guy will show you the way

      If you are lost in the basement, this guy will show you the way!

  4. Academics at Dumbarton Oaks have Led Exciting Lives
    • Contrary to popular belief, scholars do more than read and write all day. Going
      Like a real-life Indiana Jones, American archaeologist Samuel K. Lothrop had regular run-ins with Nazis in Latin American hotels!

      Like a real-life Indiana Jones, American archaeologist Samuel K. Lothrop had regular run-ins with Nazis in Latin American bars!

      through accounts in the archives and reading biographies, I was startled to discover just how many adventures researchers affiliated with Dumbarton Oaks have had during the course of their work. From living in Europe during the tumult of world war to journeying through unexplored regions of South America to working as spies in territory occupied by bitter national enemies, individuals who I imagined led tiresome existences seem to have had the most thrills.

  5. Aforementioned Academics are Prone to Typos
    • Even individuals who have spent decades penning and publishing material at the cutting edge of their field make typographical errors. Looking through archival documents, I repeatedly stumble upon awkwardly corrected mistakes in letters, as their writers had limited means of correcting them using a typewriter.

      Mistakes Happen

      Mistakes Happen

    • By no means do I judge them for such slips in their compositions, without spell check most of my writing would look something like this:

this is nto a joke or exageratoin, sometmies my heed works fster than my singers fan move

  • These tiny missteps have shown me that even the most revered individuals can be flawed and prone to error at times. With this in mind, I have a better sense of their humanity as I write accounts of their lives. Often it is these inconsequentially small details which remind me that no matter how many works they may have published or how great their influence on contemporary thought, these titans of scholarship were just as human as you and I.

Alexander Kazhdan: A Scene or Two

Over the past few weeks I’ve transcribed a few oral history interviews and proofread even more half-finished transcriptions. It’s been fascinating to watch the same names pop up again and again and to collect various anecdotes, watching my understandings of individuals come together piece by piece, like a grand mosaic. One individual who hovered prominently in the background of nearly every conversation was Alexander Kazhdan, the famous Soviet émigré Byzantinist. In this piece I’ve tried to bring together a few biographical details and a few anecdotes about Kazhdan that I found illuminating or charming.

A disclaimer: Hopefully it goes without sayingbut just in case it doesn’tthe research/narrative/mass of assumptions displayed hereafter is neither authoritative nor wholly reliable, being the half-formed result of a cursory acquaintance with, and study of, the subject. Anyone desiring a more nuanced (read: accurate) understanding of the matters treated should feel free to consult the correspondence herein referenced, which can be found in the Dumbarton Oaks Archives.

In 1966 Ihor Ševčenko and his wife traveled to Moscow and spent what we can assume to be an enchanting evening at the historic Bolshoi Theatre. Afterward, Alexander Kazhdan—the famed Soviet Byzantinist—invited the pair to his home. They made themselves comfortable, allowing the conversation to play over several topics. At one point, Ševčenko—the Director of Byzantine Studies at Dumbarton Oaks—asked Kazhdan if he had any interest in coming to America and working at Dumbarton Oaks. Kazhdan’s answer, according to his wife, Musja, was brusque and unequivocal: No, never, his place was in Moscow—he would never leave.

This curt refusal, so in line with Kazhdan’s general bearing—efficient, honest, occasionally dramatic—was most likely an uncharacteristic instance of dissimulation. Ševčenko later received a letter from Kazhdan’s superior at the Soviet Academy of Sciences that referenced Ševčenko’s tentative offer. The letter explained that, unfortunately, “press of work” made it impossible for Kazhdan to accept any invitations in the near future—a response that smacked of suppression and censorship. Three years later, Ševčenko was back in Moscow to visit Kazhdan and reiterate his offer. Shortly after this second meeting, Ševčenko wrote a letter to Professor Paul Lemerle in France, detailing his most recent covert discussions with Kazhdan:

“[Dr. Kazhdan] was not optimistic concerning his chances of coming to the United States at this particular juncture in time, but said that these chances would be better if he were to receive an invitation from a European Center of Byzantine Studies.”

What we get here is a snapshot of a decidedly shrewder Kazhdan, a calculating, politically savvy puppeteer; not only does he desire to escape the Soviet Union, but he is willing, in the process, to circumvent traditional bureaucratic channels, and—better yet—he knows exactly how to do it; he seems to be slowly prodding Ševčenko in the right direction.

The plight of Soviet academics was well recognized at the time, and, as a result, there existed baroque pathways for the extrication of promising intellectuals. What followed Kazhdan’s expression of interest was an impressive display of international realpolitik. Ševčenko was in constant communication with members of the US State Department, the International Research and Exchanges Board (IREX), university professors in Austria and France, Kazhdan’s superiors in Russia, and myriad minor bureaucrats the world over, the end result being that in May of 1971 an additional invitation was sent to Kazhdan at the Soviet Academy of Sciences. A month later the Soviet Academy responded equivocally, refusing to clearly deny Kazhdan the right of travel and leaving him in a sort of academic limbo. A final decision was awaited.

Efforts to remove Kazhdan eventually stagnated, and it wasn’t until early 1976 that he was again invited to Dumbarton Oaks. In the meantime, the Kazhdans’ circumstances in Russia had deteriorated drastically. Their son, Dima, had become highly and inconveniently religious and had emigrated to the United States, a move that provoked the ire of the Soviet state. As a result, Musja had been laid off from a job she’d worked faithfully for 28 years, and Kazhdan himself was forbidden to attend conferences or publish scholarly work. Dima, now working at Harvard University, communicated his parents’ renewed wanderlust to Ševčenko—also at Harvard—while Alexander and Musja prepared to leave.

Because leaving Russia had only ever seemed a remote possibility, a vast library had accrued within the Kazhdan home. Transporting the obscure and oftentimes rare volumes posed a problem for more than just practical reasons; by order of the state, only certain books (and a certain number of those certain books) could be moved across international lines. Kazhdan’s solution was both wily and time-consuming; hoping to bypass as many of these strictures as possible while avoiding suspicion, he went from post office to post office, mailing out small packages of only two or three books at a time. Some of the books were sent to Dumbarton Oaks, where Alice Mary-Talbot, then working part time, witnessed them trickling in: “I noticed in the mail room there were these piles of brown paper packages. Every week there would be more of these piles of packages. And I said, ‘What is this?’”

The official itinerary that Kazhdan and Musja eventually submitted to Russian authorities claimed that, after a reasonable period of globetrotting, they would end up settling in Israel. Travelling under the aegis of this deception—another uncharacteristic bit of guile—they arrived in Vienna, Austria, where Kazhdan rendezvoused with Giles Constable, the recently appointed Director of Dumbarton Oaks. There was still much to be fleshed out: a salary had to be negotiated, as well as the specifics of Kazhdan’s impending appointment (the length of his stay, his official title, and so on); visas had to be arranged, living space provided. After some prolegomenous discussions,the Kazhdans traveled to Paris, where they awaited further news.

While in Paris, they lived in Cité Universitaire; Alexander lectured for a small influx of cash at the Collège de France. As Musja recalls, Alexander asked the university officials whether it would be better to lecture in bad French or bad English; they told him, matter-of-factly, that bad English would be preferable. At the time, Kazhdan possessed a writing knowledge of English; over the next two decades he would go about the task of compiling this new language, ending up with a bemusing mélange of the arcane and esoteric, a formidable accretion once described by Anthony Cutler—a four-time fellow at Dumbarton Oaks—as “good, but very amusing.” Alexander culled words from a wide array of readings—historical texts, a copy of Roget’s Thesaurus that he steadily translated into Russian, nineteenth-century novels—resulting in a vocabulary that was highly flexible yet frequently antiquated. He was constantly trying out new words, both in conversation and in his writing. Michael McCormick recalls editing Kazhdan’s articles:

“He would use all these words that I’d never heard of. And I’d say, ‘Sanya, you can’t use this word.’ And he would say, ‘But it’s an English word!’ And he would pull out an English dictionary and show me it was an English word; and Sanya would use it. I mean, I could cross it out and he’d put it back in again.”

His time at the Collège de France was the start of an extended engagement with the English language, which would later become the primary language of his scholarly works.

And so, after a brief stint as refugees, the Kazhdans arrived in America—and, more specifically, Dumbarton Oaks—in the summer of 1979, only to find themselves living in an apartment girt about by a large new Soviet embassy. “So, they were surrounded by the KGB,” Michael McCormick recalls, laughing. “They were a little skittish about it…I mean, you wake up and all you see around you is the power of the Soviet Union.” Despite this perceived threat of continued surveillance, Kazhdan reveled in the fresh promise of academic freedom, a liberty which augmented an already impressive propensity for work. “He was happy in direction—that he could do what he wanted,” Musja explains. “It was not this pressure that he had to only write something about economics.” Kazhdan threw himself into his work, evincing the notoriously stalwart work ethic for which he’d later become known. Once, in the midst of preparing the Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium—perhaps his most famous contribution to the field of Byzantine studies—Kazhdan experienced a health scare. “He convinced himself that he was going to die in the next two weeks or something,” McCormick explains. “And, he just locked himself in the room and churned [articles] out. It was incredible. He produced something like—I don’t know, but literally hundreds.” Kazhdan survived this little scare, continuing to work at Dumbarton Oaks until his death in 1997.

Anecdotes of Kazhdan’s time at Dumbarton Oaks are numerous and frequently colorful; he’s remembered most readily for his stubborn (and often risible) nature, his harsh but fair criticism of scholarly work (others’ and his own), and his singular commitment to Byzantine studies. Despite this, he managed to cut a larger-than-life figure, becoming an irreplaceable presence on the grounds of Dumbarton Oaks. He threw great parties in his home, hosted grand feasts that segued smoothly into early morning roistering, and generally made an indelible impression (good or bad) on all he met.

The trouble when contemplating a near-mythic figure like Kazhdan is, of course, that our moon-eyed fascination with the two or three distilled attributes that we suppose constitute the figure’s essence—his eclectic tongue, his brusqueness, his sterling mind—will often preclude any willingness to accept divergent anecdotes or traits. There is a certain depth, a certain complexity denied the object of worship; we ignore the occasional fault, the hidden vice, the obscure sorrow.

Which is not to say we can’t enjoy the image of Alexander Kazhdan, more myth than man, the source of countless enthralling yarns—it’s just to say that we might find the quieter moments rewarding as well, that we might consider, in lieu of a flashier anecdote, the time Michael McCormick took his good friend Alexander Kazhdan fishing along the Niagara River. We might examine this subtly limned scene and find within an old man—worn out by the specter of an authoritarian government eternally nipping at his heels—comfortable for once, in the calamitous roar of a nearby cataract, with dropping the veil of his habits:

“We’d drift down to the Falls (the closer you get to the Falls, the better the fishing is). I fished, and Alexander rowed. When we were out in the middle of the river, and there were no boats to be seen anywhere, he told me many things that he’d never told me before and never told me after.”

Learning How to Share

One of the first lessons a child learns in school is how to share – in other words, how to spread around good things so that they might reach other people who would enjoy them. This elementary lesson has been quite resonant in my life lately, as much of my most recent Communications work has concerned crafting plans to reach out to the local community in order to convey information about events and resources at Dumbarton Oaks. One of my current projects involves publicizing the extension of hours that the Dumbarton Oaks Museum is open to the public. Our lovely Museum, which you can learn more about here, will now be welcoming visitors Tuesdays through Sundays between Noon and 6 PM.

Finding A Rare Medium

In outreach work such as this, it is important to use media innovatively to attract and engage the general public. Some strategies that can accomplish this publicity feat are suggested in a recent New York Times article entitled “Sharing Cultural Jewels.” The piece explains how a prominent freelance photographer employed visual media to effectively promote the Metropolitan Museum of Art and other prestigious New York City cultural institutions. The after-hours romps through moonlit museums which he documented on Instagram provide a glimpse into the “life” of seemingly inanimate structures and exhibits.

Dumbarton Oaks Music Room

Could similar Instagram adventures take place in our own Music Room?

Such social media campaigns share the sense of mystery encountered in the exploration of curated space in addition to revealing underlying narratives. Museums such as ours and the institutions in New York do indeed tell stories tangibly, but they also present a bit of a puzzle for the public. Both exhibit viewing and outreach work require the piecing together of related bits of salient information in order to produce a cohesive mental image. Like any game of skill, tackling these brainteasers requires a good strategy. Just as preliminarily peeking at the back of a puzzle box to see the whole picture aids my assembly, defining objectives before writing out a communications plan allows me to efficiently develop events and sort through contact information with specific goals in mind.

Solving the Publicity Puzzle

Puzzlingly enough, museums have more in common with communications work than the organizational “pieces” that they share. Like a museum, an outreach document is a meaningful and strategically designed form of display. Meanwhile museums themselves act as conduits of communication, for their exhibits are able to reconstruct the narratives of fallen empires. Social media techniques expand the range of this communication in the same manner that the printing press magnified the accessibility of the written word. This comparison illustrates why it is so beneficial that Dumbarton Oaks has a museum to complement its research libraries: material objects bring life to words and images in order to share stories from the past. When I was a child, I not only learned how to share but also received an introduction to classical civilizations from some short but captivating books. Presented as Greco-Roman newspapers, these volumes illuminated ancient lifestyles with accounts of everything from wars to worship conveyed through first-person story snippets.

Roman News Book

Just wait until you read about usurping emperors and rebellions in the Byzantine News!

Similar storytelling methods can facilitate sharing in our newsletters and promotional campaigns. Through advertising exhibits and events, I hope to better learn how to effectively share stories and information with insight and ingenuity. Of course my creativity must be a bit tempered, as the goal of this advertising is not to manipulate perceptions but to lead people towards the truth. Various newsletter features, each of which showcases one of the many interrelated aspects of scholarship occurring here, will permit people to systematically piece together an authentic picture of Dumbarton Oaks. Like the ancient “newspapers” of my childhood, the pieces I create will allow people to be introduced to the past by sharing in stories firsthand. I am so glad that my internship enables me to share such material, as this news is far too enjoyable to keep to myself!