Library of Congress's Blog, page 12

My Job: Karen Werth

Karen Werth is deputy chief of the Exhibitions Office.

Tell us about your background.

I grew up in the Washington, D.C., metro area and earned a Bachelor of Fine Arts in sculpture from Winthrop University and a Master of Fine Arts in jewelry design and metalsmithing from the University of Michigan.

As a student, I volunteered in galleries at both of my universities. While serving as an adjunct professor at Winthrop University, it became apparent to me that the museum profession was a viable and exciting direction.

My journey took me first to the National Museum of Women in the Arts, where I served as exhibit designer, then to the University of Maryland, where I created and taught undergraduate courses in museum studies in addition to designing and producing exhibits.

Later, I served as project manager for museum exhibit fabricators and design firms, overseeing the design and production of high-profile, large-scale, multimillion dollar projects for cultural institutions across the country.

What brought you to the Library, and what do you do?

I joined the Exhibits Office in 2011 as a production officer, charged with managing procurement and production for the Library’s exhibits and displays.

In 2018, I was promoted to deputy chief of exhibitions. Now, in addition to overseeing the production of exhibitions, I actively participate in planning, budgeting, design development and procurement for them.

What are some of your standout projects?

I have had the privilege of working on many exceptional projects at the Library, including the Magna Carta exhibit, “Baseball Americana” and the Rosa Parks exhibit, to name a few. But the recent Treasures Gallery opening has been one of my more challenging and exciting adventures.

It required countless hours of planning, collaborating and creative problem solving involving the Exhibits Office, the exhibit design firm, an exhibit fabricator and stakeholders from across the Library in partnership with the U.S. Capitol Police and the Architect of the Capitol.

The final design features monumental and elegant glass display cases that allow visitors to experience the Library’s collections from many perspectives.

One of the greatest challenges for this project was getting these large glass cases into the Jefferson Building. They had to be carefully craned into the building in sections through a second-floor balcony door, an effort that took many weeks to coordinate and two full days to complete.

After the delivery, the project team spent several weeks assembling casework and installing collections, graphics and audiovisual components to create a magical and engaging exhibit experience — one that I hope will captivate visitors!

What do you enjoy doing outside of work?

I am an accomplished fine craft artist. Since 2010, I’ve created fused glasswork that I display and sell at craft shows and festivals around the region. I continue to explore new techniques and processes and occasionally attend workshops and artist residencies at places such as the Corning Museum of Glass in Corning, New York, and Penland School of Craft in Ashville, North Carolina. 

What is something your co-workers may not know about you?

I have been an active member of the Capital Rowing Club since 1996, and I row out of the Anacostia Community Boathouse. I learned to row with Capital and competed as a master rower for 12 years, winning gold on a regional, national and international level.  I’ve since retired from competition, though I still row for fun and exercise.

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William Crogman’s Daring “Race Textbook” of 1898

This is a guest post by Jordan Ross, a Junior Fellow in the Office of Communications this summer.

At the end of the 19th century, William Henry Crogman dared to think of a revolutionary idea: a textbook on African American history, achievements and survival for Black students both in and outside of the classroom.

Textbooks for Black children were rare and oftentimes impossible to develop in the era. Reconstruction had ended two decades earlier. “Black Code” laws targeted African Americans for police harassment and abuse. Racialized policies such as the 1896 Supreme Court decision in Plessy v. Ferguson mandated separate-but-equal facilities in public accommodations, effectively legalizing segregation. And instead of “equal” funding, legislatures spent little on educating Black children.

But Crogman’s 1897 “Progress of a Race; or, The Remarkable Advancement of the Afro-American Negro from the Bondage of Slavery, Ignorance and Poverty to the Freedom of Citizenship, Intelligence, Affluence, Honor and Trust,” written with fellow educator H.F. Kletzing, sought to fight that bigotry. (The link above is to a later, digitized edition with several editorial changes, including the title and co-author.)

It told the history of Black Americans as a heroic quest against overwhelming odds. It was advertised with tantalizing taglines such as “the information contained in this book will never appear in school histories.”

“Springing from the darkest depths of slavery and sorrowful ignorance to the heights of manhood and power almost at one bound, the Negro furnishes an unparalleled example of possibility,” wrote Booker T. Washington in the introduction. Washington’s intellectual rival in the era, W.E.B. Du Bois, also praised the book.

In this history, “Slavery” was just one chapter, while others dealt with the “History of the Race,” “The Negro in the Revolution,” “Anti-Slavery Agitation,” “Moral and Social Advancement,” “Club Movement Among Negro Women,” “Financial Growth” and so on.

The authors also portrayed it as a bold new step: “… to our knowledge there has been no attempt made to put into permanent form a record of his [Black peoples’] remarkable progress under freedom — a progress not equaled in the annals of history,” they wrote.

Containing over 600 pages with zinc engravings and beautiful pictures, the textbook caught on quickly, was heavily circulated and sold door-to-door through subscription for decades. A copy of the 1898 original textbook is preserved at the Library and a later edition is digitized.

Shortly after its publication, Daniel Alexander Payne Murray, one of the Library’s assistant librarians, had the foresight to include it on his list of books by Black Americans at Du Bois’ seminal exhibit the 1900 Paris Exposition, “The Exhibit of American Negroes.”

Murray’s bibliography, “Preliminary List of Books and Pamphlets by Negro Authors,” was not the first of its kind but probably the most influential. It included books on the emerging genre that Crogman’s “Progress” exemplified, often called “race textbooks” or what literary scholar Elizabeth McHenry has coined “racial schoolbooks.” These textbooks were subscription-based primers on African American history and progress throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries.

Largely forgotten now, these textbooks were daring and innovative, drawing praise from across Black intelligentsia. These predated Carter G. Woodson’s 1922 landmark “The Negro in Our History” and contributed to the celebration of Black history almost three decades before Negro History Week debuted in 1926.

Who was Crogman, and how did he come to write such an influential work?

He was born free in 1841 on the small Caribbean island of St. Martin and was orphaned at age 12. He was mentored by an American sailor, though, and traveled with him as a seaman through various ports in South America, Europe and Asia.

Intellectually curious, he saved money during these voyages and enrolled at Pierce Academy in Middleborough, Massachusetts. He quickly completed his studies and then enrolled in the classical course program at Atlanta University in Atlanta. Again, he was a dedicated and talented student, completing his studies in three years instead of four and was a member of the university’s first graduating college class.

Now armed with his bachelor’s degree, Crogman became one of the first faculty members of another famous Atlanta institution — Clark University. He became the university’s first African American president. (The two institutions later consolidated to form Clark Atlanta University.)

An aerial view of the 1895 Cotton States and International Exposition in Atlanta, Georgia. Designer: W.L. Stoddart. Prints and Photographs Division.

Crogman’s academic passion was not only in the classroom but also in the wider public sphere.

In 1895, he and 14 other African American men developed a Negro exhibit for the Cotton States and International Exposition in Atlanta. The exhibit, centered around the 25,000-square-foot Negro Building at the fair, displayed different forms of African American life throughout the South and highlighted their intellectual achievements. Scholars think it likely that Crogman was inspired by this exhibit and decided to put these experiences into a textbook – “Progress of a Race.”

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Einstein’s Love Affair at Princeton

This is a guest post by Rachel McNellis, an archivist in the Manuscript Division and Josh Levy, a historian in the same division. It also appears in the July-August issue of the Library of Congress Magazine.

In 1945, Margarita Konenkova was returning to Russia with her homesick husband, sculptor Sergey Konenkov. Before she left, she entrusted her New York neighbor with six letters received from Albert Einstein during their passionate affair. The neighbor left instructions that in case of her death, the letters be “burned without further ado.”

The letters were never burned. Instead, they ended up in the Library of Congress, closed to researchers until 2019.

Einstein, clearly infatuated, penned the letters between 1944 and 1945. One includes a sketch of a “Half-Nest,” a cozy room that resembles his home study. Though the sketch is simple, Einstein clarifies, he was not drunk when drawing it. He simply wished to capture the space he most associated with Konenkova.

The letters mix Einstein’s humanity with his genius. We see him incapacitated by illness, grounding his sailboat in stormy weather, railing against birthday parties as “stupid bourgeois affairs” but attending them anyway and smoking pipes that Konenkova sent him.

Then he becomes the renowned physicist again, debating Robert Oppenheimer, Bertrand Russell, Wolfgang Pauli and Kurt Gödel in his home. Occasionally, politics emerge. “I admire Stalin’s sagacity,” Einstein declares, without context. “He does it significantly better than the others, not only militarily but also politically.” He worries over nuclear secrecy and calls the growing alienation between Russians and Russian-Americans “a kind of personal expatriation.”

The affair was, of course, a secret. While Einstein was a widower, Konenkova remained married. Still, their friends were discreet. When asked later whether an affair had occurred, one only offered, “I certainly hope so! They were two lonely people.”

In 1994, a Russian newspaper finally revealed the affair. Later, Sotheby’s, having read the discredited memoir of an ex-Soviet spymaster, announced that Konenkova had been a spy, pressing Einstein for intelligence about the bomb. Several historians have since declared the claim implausible.

Of course, these letters contain no evidence that Konenkova really was a spy. But they do shed a little light on a clandestine encounter between two lonely people.

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Du Bois and the Paris Exposition of 1900: Three Pictures

This is a guest post by Lauryn Gilliam, a Junior Fellow in the Office of Communications.

The Paris Exposition of 1900 was an influential world’s fair devoted to technological achievements of the age, with awe-inducing buildings such as the Palace of Electricity, the Water Castle and the Grand Palais. But one of its most lasting contributions to international culture was simply called The Exhibit of American Negroes.

That display, composed of hundreds of photographs, charts, books, maps and diagrams, was organized by W.E.B. Du Bois, the writer, activist and sociologist; Thomas Calloway, a lawyer and activist; and Daniel A.P. Murray, an assistant librarian at the Library of Congress. They wanted to show the world — or at least the international visitors to the fair — that three decades and change after gaining their freedom, Black Americans were making vast intellectual and social gains. Their exhibit, within the Palace of Social Economy and Congresses, was to advocate for the preservation and positive representation of Black Americans, their literature, culture and history.

Du Bois curated some 550 photographs (click on blue “View all” hyperlink to see the thumbnails) into albums showing the diverse lives, patterns and personalities of African Americans, an important collection that is now preserved at the Library. There were formal portraits, snapshots, pictures of homes and streets and businesses. His intent with the photographs, as with the rest of the exhibit, was to combat the racist, stereotypical caricatures and scientific “evidence” that were being used to marginalize and discriminate against Black Americans.

Here are portraits he selected of three unidentified Black women at three different stages of life — adolescent, adult and senior. In each, you’ll notice that the subjects are carefully dressed to exemplify the best qualities of their respective ages. Du Bois carefully curated the compositions.

A girl pictured in the 1900 Paris Exposition. Photo: Thomas E. Askew. Prints and Photographs Division.

First, we have the promise of the future, a precocious girl reading a book or magazine. She’s in her Sunday best, seated at a desk covered in brocade and framed by small statues on her right and left. This is no barefoot waif running the streets, but a child of privilege, comfort and leisure. The elements of her pose — the gaze into middle distance, the serious expression, the hand and pointed finger at the side of her face — are clearly meant to show her in deep thought. This intelligence and critical thinking were qualities that most whites believed did not apply to Black adults in the era, much less to Black children. For Du Bois, who helped found the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People in 1909, these were the necessities upon which a new generation of Black achievement would be built.

In her youth and potential, the girl also embodies a symbol of freedom and new possibilities in a difficult era. The U.S. Supreme Court had ruled just four years earlier that “separate but equal” public accommodations were legal, thus solidifying segregation for generations. Further, it was not until the Voting Rights Act of 1965 that racial discrimination in voting would be prohibited and Black people would gain meaningful access to the ballot. This child would have been in her 70s by then.

The privilege she displays here did know bounds; outside the photographer’s studio, she might have been educated but not considered worthy of white respect; admired for her intelligence but given a very limited universe in which to pursue it.

A young woman poses in fashionable clothes. Photo: Unknown. Prints and Photographs Division.

Next, we have a beautiful young woman dressed in upscale fashion. In many of the portraits in this collection, women appear in fancy clothing, no doubt to exhibit the finer qualities in life, to show them as wealthy and sophisticated. Again, this was to cut against the stereotypes of the era, in which Black women were portrayed as maids, cooks or as sex objects.

Here, the fancy headpiece, feathers and nice lace dress suggest Parisian fashions. She, too, is caught in a thoughtful pose, looking off camera. She leans into a style of idealized femininity, of the “New Woman” prototype that illustrator Charles Gibson used in his popular and influential drawings. The “Gibson Girl” was what smart society deemed a well-rounded woman — educated, socially polished and well-mannered. She strove to embody elegance and charm.

This is just what our unknown young lady portrays, but as a Black woman. In 1900, this was a bold new ideal in itself.

An unidentified woman featured in the Paris Exposition photo albums of Du Bois. Photo: Unknown. Prints and Photographs Division.

Finally, we have a dignified woman in her later years. Like our other two subjects, she’s dressed fashionably. But here, there’s a matronly presence to the outfit — the buttoned-to-the-neck dress, the close-worn cap and the long sleeves — all meant to show practicality, poise and stability. Elders are notably represented in this collection, suggesting Du Bois’ respect for the older generation that had survived so much. If we assume this woman is 60, then she would have lived more than a third of her life during slavery, seeing (and perhaps enduring) many of its horrors.

It’s worth noting that the photographer draws attention to her countenance by only pulling her face into full focus. The girl had a book and props, the young woman had her dress and jewelry, but here we are being directed only to the subject’s face. I see a strength and a caring nature there. One has to wonder: What did it mean to her to have her photo taken? What did her life look like?

Given that there are few surviving photographs of people who had been enslaved, this image, like so many in this collection, lingers in the mind.

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Gerrymandering: The Origin Story

—This is a guest post by Mark Dimunation, the former chief of the Rare Book and Special Collections Division.

The term for the political tactic of manipulating boundaries of electoral districts for unfair political advantage derives its name from a prominent 19th-century political figure — and from a mythological salamander.

The term, originally written as “Gerry-mander,” first was used on March 26, 1812, in the Boston Gazette — a reaction to the redrawing of Massachusetts state senate election districts under Gov. Elbridge Gerry.

Though the redistricting was done at the behest of his Democratic-Republican Party, it was Gerry who signed the bill in 1812. As a result, he received the dubious honor of attribution, along with its negative connotations.

Gerry, in fact, found the proposal “highly disagreeable.” He lost the next election, but the redistricting was a success: His party retained control of the legislature.

One of the remapped, contorted districts in the Boston area was said to resemble the shape of a mythological salamander. The newly drawn state senate district in Essex County was lampooned in cartoons as a strange winged dragon, clutching at the region.

The person who coined the term gerrymander never has been identified. The artist who drew the political cartoon, however, was Elkanah Tisdale, a Boston-based artist and engraver who had the skills to cut the blocks for the original cartoon.

Gerry was a signer of the Declaration of Independence, a two-term member of the House of Representatives, governor of Massachusetts and U.S. vice president under James Madison. His name, however, was forever negatively linked to this form of political powerbroking by the cartoon shown above, which often appeared with the term gerrymander.

The Library’s Rare Book and Special Collections Division holds the original print of the image, and the Geography and Map Division holds Tisdale’s original woodblocks — preserving the origins of a political practice that continues over two centuries later.

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The Blackwell Family Tree Is … My Family Tree

This is a guest post by Mila Hill, a junior fellow in the Office of Communications.

When I started my summer fellowship at the Library, I knew that it would be a catalyst for professional development — but I never expected to learn so much about myself and my family.

One night, while scrolling through my friends’ Instagram stories, I noticed one had reposted an incredible family tree that would soon be on display at the Library’s new Treasures Gallery. The tree’s size and artistry alone made me want to know more, but I soon saw that the tree documented the Blackwell family. Now I was especially intrigued.

Blackwell is a family name on my mom’s side. An even better clue was the presence of tennis legend Arthur Ashe’s name. My family has always known that Ashe is our cousin, so his name, inscribed on a gold-painted leaf, confirmed that this wasn’t just any Blackwell family from Virginia: It was ours.

My direct connections to the tree are Minnie Blackwell and Thomas Reese, my great-grandparents. Minnie and Thomas had two children, Willie and my grandmother Dorothy. I’ve always known Minnie’s name because I’m named after my great-grandmothers: Minnie, Ida, Lazelle and Audrey. Their first initials spell my name, Mila. After conferring with my mom and grandma, I knew to look for my great-grandfather Thomas Reese as well.

The Library has great scans of the tree, so from my tiny phone screen I was quickly able to find my great-grandfather Thomas above the Ashe branch of the tree; he is listed with his parents, Carrie and Edward Reese.

Carrie and Edward Reese on the Blackwell’s Kinfolk Family Tree with their son Thomas. Artist: Wilfred T. Washington. History and Genealogy Section. 

Finding my family on the canvas was quite a shock. No one in my branch of the family knew of the tree’s existence, but we were all quick to embrace our newly discovered extended family. My mom has since reminded me that there can be only so many African American Blackwells in the Virginia countryside.

I was also emotional at the tangible connection that I’d been given to my family. The tree is accompanied by a book of family history going back to the 1730s. Knowing your ancestors’ names is one thing but seeing them on a piece of folk art, really knowing that they existed and mattered in the world, is entirely another.

To fully appreciate the tree, I think it’s necessary to appreciate Thelma Short Doswell, a renowned genealogist and my newfound cousin, who took on the massive project of making the tree. She did most of her research in the 1950s, when records could only be accessed in person at courthouses or at various record keepers across Virginia. She worked on this tree, and others made later with even more names, for more than 25 years. The tree is not just a memory of her life’s work but also of her life’s passion.

A mark of a good genealogist is the desire to understand the people beyond the names who are found in records. Thelma created the Blackwell’s Kinfolk Tree to show her family history using oral histories, slave records and other documents to get a fuller picture of the people whose names she found.

Thelma’s work and methods made me think harder about my ancestors and the lives they lived. I’ve always known that my family is descended from kidnapped, enslaved and displaced people. But it’s rare to know African American family history prior to 1865, when the Civil War ended and the 13th Amendment officially abolished slavery. Before then, enslaved families had been separated since they were forced onto slave ships, so much so it’s nearly impossible to track a family line back to their arrival in the United States. But because of Thelma’s incredible work, I know the names and stories of the women who created the Blackwell family.

Amar and her daughter Tab are those matriarchs. In 1735, Amar and Tab were among 188 Africans who sailed from the Gold Coast of Africa to the colony of Virginia. Upon their arrival, Amar and Tab were purchased in Yorktown, Virginia, and given the Blackwell surname.

The Blackwell family tree exhibit in the Treasures Gallery. Photo: Shawn Miller.

Learning Amar and Tab’s names, seeing the tree in all of its glory, and sharing it with my immediate family has been an incredible experience. Before seeing the tree in person, I didn’t fully understand how impressive it was. Its sheer size (9 feet tall and 6 feet wide) was enough to make me emotional. Another personal touch: My family history is on display in a major cultural institution, alongside Stan Lee and Steve Ditko’s first Spider-Man comic, the item that made me want to be a librarian.

My family history is also hanging alongside so many important items from across the Library’s collections and across thousands of years of history. It’s enough to make me feel like I’m important too. Now that I know so much more about where I come from, I feel so much more certain of my place in the world.

My family is my favorite thing in the world and this summer, my favorite thing has grown exponentially.

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James McBride Awarded the 2024 Prize for American Fiction

Librarian of Congress Carla Hayden announced this week that the Library is conferring the 2024 Prize for American Fiction on acclaimed author James McBride. He will accept the prize at the National Book Festival on Aug. 24.

One of the Library’s most presti­gious awards, the annual Prize for American Fiction honors a literary writer whose body of work is dis­tinguished not only for its mastery of the art, but also for its originality of thought and imagination.

“I’m honored to bestow the Library of Congress Prize for American Fiction on a writer as imaginative and knowing as James McBride,” Hayden said. “McBride knows the American soul deeply, reflecting our struggles and triumphs in his fiction, which so many readers have intimately connected with. I, also, am one of his enthusiastic readers.”

The award seeks to commend strong, unique, enduring voices that — throughout consistently accomplished careers — have told us something essential about the American experience.

“I wish my mom were still alive to know about this,” McBride said. “I’m delighted and honored. Does it mean I can use the Library? If so, I’m double thrilled.”

McBride is the author of the best­selling novel “Deacon King Kong”; “The Good Lord Bird,” winner of the 2013 National Book Award for Fiction; “The Color of Water”; “Song Yet Sung”; the story collection “Five-Carat Soul”; and the James Brown biography “Kill ’Em and Leave.”

His debut novel, “Miracle at St. Anna,” was turned into a 2008 film. In 2016, McBride was awarded the National Humanities Medal.

He is also a musician, a com­poser and a current distinguished writer-in-residence at New York University.

McBride’s most recent bestsell­ing novel, “The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store,” received the 2023 Kirkus Prize for Fiction and was named Barnes and Noble’s 2023 Book of the Year.

The National Book Festival will take place from 9 a.m. to 8 p.m. at the Walter E. Washington Convention Center in Washington, D.C. The theme is “Books Build Us Up.”

On Aug. 1, McBride will participate in a virtual interview with PBS Books as part of a series preview­ing 2024 festival authors.

McBride has appeared at multi­ple National Book Festivals in past years, most recently in 2020, when he spoke about his novel “Deacon King Kong.”

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Folklorist Sidney Robertson and Her “California Gold”

Sidney Robertson was one of the trailblazing American women of the 1930s and 1940s, the kind of life you’d associate with Martha Gellhorn, Dorothea Lange or Zora Neale Hurston.

Born into a wealthy California family (that lost its money in the 1929 stock market crash), she traveled Europe as a teen, spoke four languages, graduated from Stanford and played classical piano. She was a friend of John Steinbeck, took classes from Carl Jung and created a landmark folk music project. She got married and divorced. Working for various New Deal programs, she drove more than 300,000 miles crisscrossing 17 states while lugging hundreds of pounds of recording equipment, most of those miles alone with her dog and a sleeping bag.

All this before 40, all this before marrying the influential and innovative composer Henry Cowell and devoting the second half of her life to his career, when she became known as Sidney Robertson Cowell.

Her escapades and groundbreaking work is captured in “California Gold: Sidney Robertson and the WPA California Folk Music Project,” a new book by Catherine Hiebert Kerst, a former Library archivist who worked for years to catalogue and preserve Robertson’s work. It’s published by the University of California Press in association with the Library.

“It was so exciting to me because I had never heard of this woman’s work,” Kerst said in a recent interview, describing the moment in 1989 when she began work on the collection. “She was still alive when I started, living in upstate New York, and we corresponded back and forth. Her eyesight was going but she was still very sharp and that was incredibly helpful.”

The music Robertson collected while directing the California Folk Music Project from 1938 to 1940 for the Works Progress Administration is some 35 hours in 12 languages by 185 musicians. (The agency was renamed the Work Projects Administration during her tenure.) Her staff included nearly two dozen people, and they recorded in mostly the northern part of the state. They recorded Spanish and Portuguese settlers who had been there for ages and more recent immigrants from Iceland, Ireland, Italy, Hungary, Russia and others. She also recorded Dust Bowl migrants from the Midwest. The songs could be classified as sea shanties, fiddle dance music, communal singing or bawdy version of bar songs.

It was colorful work – she once heard a “horribly inflated pig used as a bagpipes by a Serb”) — and although she had been raised in a wealthy family, she delighted in finding her work in a very different part of the nation.

“One drinks a dozen varieties of coffee and wine in their (folk songs) pursuit, at the oddest hours and places, and in the oddest company,” she once wrote to a friend.

Sidney Robertson copying California Folk Music Project recordings at her offices in Berkeley, California, in 1939. The recordings were sent to the Library. No photographer listed. Prints and Photographs Division.

The recordings, made on acetate discs given to her by the Library for the project, have been preserved in what is now the American Folklife Center.

You can hear plenty of this online. Songs featured in the book are available on the Library’s website and via SoundCloud. The AFC features an online presentation of her career, including photographs, diagrams of various musical instruments and a StoryMap detailing her travels.

Her classical musical interests and progressive politics eventually led her to folk music and social work. Her federal career began in 1936 when she walked into the Library to ask “whether someone there could make clear to me what distinguished American folk song, from Spanish, Jewish or English, for instance.”

This led to work with the Resettlement Administration and, two years later, to her California work with another New Deal program, the WPA.

As a folklorist, she thought that America had its history written into the songs of working-class people and that immigrants formed a cornerstone of the national identity.

“America has her own boat songs and bandit songs, her Civil War songs and her love songs, stemming like the American race from many nationalities but after generations here stamped, in varying degrees, with the American mark.”

She also had pronounced ethical guidelines to treat her recording subjects as peers and partners. A stint early in her career working with influential folklorist John Lomax, whose recordings focused on Black people in the South, left her with mixed feelings. She regarded him as a “very warm, friendly, buffle-puffy of a man,” but was put off that when they worked with Blacks “he was acting as a plantation owner.”

At least she found Lomax to mostly be “very nice and extremely gentlemanly.” That was rarely the case with her male colleagues, as she was one of the rare women in the field in that era: “… this business of working with a lot of cross and worried men who dislike having a woman around or having to bother with her except In The Home (her capitalization) requires steady nerves, a thick skin and a sense of humor …”

She didn’t hesitate to put in the legwork herself. She lugged around a Presto recording machine, which used 12-inch acetate discs that recorded about five minutes per side. Recording sessions weren’t in studios, but in her subjects’ homes or local venues. She handled the recording machine, scribbled notes about the songs, took pictures and managed the singers and onlookers.

“She recorded popular tunes played by a band at a lively Mexican wedding, songs sung at a Hungarian New Year’s Eve party, and gold rush songs performed in noisy Tuolumne County bars,” Kerst writes. On another occasion, she noted that the recording was made on a dairy farm in “the milk house – occasional noises are due to milk running over cooling pipes.”

The WPA project, like the rest of the New Deal programs, was short-lived. The California work was done in under two years. After her marriage to Cowell in 1941, she made a few more folk music recordings – ranging from Appalachia to Nova Scotia to islands off the coast of Ireland – and published four albums from those works. She also collaborated with her husband on a book about Charles Ives, another influential composer.

Still, being married to such a famous man, particularly during the conservative turn of the country during the 1950s, meant that her star dimmed.

“She sort of became, and was very proud of being, ‘Mrs. Henry Cowell,’ ” Kerst says. “The ’50s were a time when forthright women were not supported for their forthrightness. I wish she had been able to get loose from that.”

The book is available in the Library of Congress Shop and via booksellers everywhere.

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My Job: Mineeya Miles

Mineeya Miles is a special assistant to the Health Services Division’s Wellness Program.

Tell us about your background. 

I grew up in Prince George’s County, Maryland. In May 2023, I graduated from Delaware State University with a Bachelor of Science degree in kinesiology. My education fueled my passion for health and fitness, leading me to obtain my personal training certification shortly after graduation.

During my time at Delaware State, I was actively involved in health and wellness initiatives, gaining invaluable hands-on experience that complemented my classroom learning.

I then worked at Sibley Memorial Hospital in Washington, D.C., as a medical office assistant, where I gained valuable experience in patient coordination, record management and support of medical staff. The position enhanced my administrative skills and provided me with a comprehensive understanding of health care operations.

What brought you to the library, and what do you do?

I joined the Health Services Division in August 2023 as the division’s Wellness Program specialist. I serve as the primary point of contact for the Wellness Center and lactation rooms in the Madison and Adams buildings.

My responsibilities include inspecting facilities and reporting and coordinating maintenance requirements and repairs to ensure the facilities are in optimal condition. I also plan and execute on-site and online programs focused on promoting wellness and health among the Library staff.

Through these initiatives, I aim to enhance the overall well-being of the Library’s community, supporting the health needs of employees and foster a healthier workplace environment.

What are some of your standout projects?

In the short time I have been at the Library, I’ve contributed to several projects. I developed a tracking method to monitor use of the Wellness Center and improve the experience of users. I also oversee the blood pressure screening systems in the Madison Building, at the Taylor Street annex and at the National Audio-Visual Conservation Center, providing monthly reports to the chief medical officer.

I recently planned and coordinated a heart health webinar, delivering cardiovascular health information through expert-led sessions. And as the lead coordinator for relocating equipment from the Wellness Center at the Taylor Street annex to the Adams Building to accommodate the move of the National Library Service for the Blind and Print Disabled to the Adams, I created a floor plan and am working on getting braille labeling for all of the wellness equipment.

I’ve also organized monthly lunchtime events in the Madison cafe to highlight health topics and health awareness months, and I helped to plan and coordinate this year’s Wellness Fair, in which over 200 participants engaged in wellness activities and health screenings.

What do you enjoy doing outside of work?

I enjoy traveling with friends and family to explore new places and cultures. Working out is another passion. Whether it’s hitting the gym, going for a run or trying out a new fitness class, I find it rejuvenating.

I also have a great love for seafood, and I enjoy discovering new seafood restaurants and savoring a variety of dishes. From fresh sushi to perfectly grilled fish, seafood is always a delightful culinary adventure for me.

What is something your coworkers may not know about you?

Before I majored in kinesiology in college, I was a biology major with aspirations to become a dermatologist. While my career path ultimately took a different direction, my passion for skin health and wellness never waned. I have a keen interest in researching herbal and natural foods, fruits and vegetables that promote clear and youthful skin, as well as a healthy gut.

Over the years, I have combined this knowledge with my background in kinesiology to develop my own probiotic juice and skincare routine. I enjoy experimenting with different ingredients and formulations to create products that are both effective and natural. These creations have become a hit among my friends and family, who often come to me for advice on maintaining healthy lifestyle options.

This blend of interests allows me to integrate my love for science and wellness in a unique and personal way. Sharing these homemade remedies and tips brings me joy, and it’s a rewarding way to stay connected with my original passion for dermatology while pursuing my current career.

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Saving the Sounds of History

In the dimly lit studio, just after the backing band starts, Mary Ford’s smooth voice cuts in: “Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone, Let’s pretend that we’re together, all alone.” The sound is so vibrant it’s easy to imagine yourself in the Quonset Hut Studio in Nashville, Tennessee, where Ford recorded “She’ll Have to Go” in 1962.

The sense of immediacy increases as record producer Jim Fogelsong interrupts: “Once again, please,” he says, ending Take 1. On Take 3: “Hold it a second. Joe, the bass is just a little bit too hard.” Take 8: “Mary … move in just a touch.”

In 2024, Ford’s voice emanates not from Nashville, however, but from a speaker in Culpeper, Virginia — one of six in a custom-designed multitracking studio at the Library of Congress’ National Audio-Visual Conservation Center (NAVCC).

Audio design engineers fabricated the studio to preserve the vast collection of guitar virtuoso and sound recording innovator Les Paul, a pioneer of multitracking.

In 1962, Paul and Ford were spouses, musical collaborators and major mid-20th-century hitmakers. Paul listened in the control room as Fogelsong guided Mary and the band through takes.

The new multitrack studio is NAVCC’s most technically complex audio studio to date. Its infrastructure enables engineers to capture and package multiple elements of a multitrack work for access in a library cataloging system — a new capability at the Library.

But the studio is not alone in number or sophistication.

“We have some of the best specifications you’re going to find,” Rob Friedrich, head of the Audio Preservation Lab, says of the 20 support rooms and audio preservation studios engineers operate on NAVCC’s sprawling campus in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The Library’s custom-designed multitracking studio. Photo: Shawn Miller.

He should know. He joined NAVCC in 2011 having won three Grammy Awards, including a Latin Grammy, as an audio engineer for the Telarc label. He now supervises a staff of specialists who transfer audio from fragile or obsolete formats to preservation-quality digital files.

Along with studios, Friedrich and his staff have developed an array of cutting-edge sound preservation labs at NAVCC, where they work hand-in-hand with curators, archivists and librarians to acquire, preserve and share America’s sound heritage.

Preserving the Library’s audio collection is no small feat: At nearly 4 million and growing, it is the nation’s largest. It spans experimental recordings etched into wax cylinders in the 1890s to the most recent achievements in digital sound recording.

A trip to NAVCC’s subterranean storage vaults — once used by the Federal Reserve to safeguard billions in cash — brings home the almost mind-boggling range of formats and genres.

“We have commercial albums and singles in every format — 78s, 45s, cassettes, reels, CDs. We have hundreds of thousands of radio broadcasts. Recordings of sound effects. Environmental recordings, you name it,” recorded sound curator Matt Barton says.

On ceiling-high shelves in one vault, CD box sets of the Beatles sit next to the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. There’s a music-box recording of “Amazing Grace.” Commercial LPs feature Billy Taylor, the Beach Boys and, for drag-car racing fans, “The Big Sounds of Drag.”

In another vault, master recordings of Andrés Segovia, Lawrence Welk and Bing Crosby are etched into 16-inch lacquer discs. Even after all of this time, they give off a scent, despite the chill. The vaults are kept at low temperature and humidity to slow down degradation of materials.

In other vaults, the NBC collection contains upward of 40,000 hours of radio broadcasts from 1935 to 1971. Master recordings in the Universal Music Group collection showcase Ella Fitzgerald, Bill Monroe and Jascha Heifetz, to name a few.

Often, before a collection proceeds to a studio for digitization, items have to be stabilized. In one lab, specialists wash lacquer discs, the most vulnerable of formats.

“They constantly undergo a chemical degradation process called exudation,” explains audio engineer Melissa Widzinski. It leaves a white haze that, over time, can cause irreparable damage.

To clean a disc, she places it on a turntable. Its arm has a small brush and cleaning fluid, applied as the disc revolves. A water rinse follows. Then, a tiny vacuum threads through each groove picking up moisture.

Next, the disc goes into a cabinet with shelves of perforated racks and a fan. The door closes, and the lacquer dries completely within minutes.

In another lab, preservationists use specialty ovens to bake tapes that have absorbed too much moisture from the air, causing their layers to separate. Once heated overnight, “it’s essentially like dehydrating them, pulling the moisture out,” Widzinski says.

In one unusual instance earlier this year, a tape had too little moisture, not too much.

A French radio performance of composer Gunther Schuller’s music arrived in the Audio Preservation Lab looking like — not audiotape. A hockey puck? A blob? No one could say for sure.

To rehydrate the solidified brown mass, audio engineer Bryan Hoffa placed just enough water in a round plastic bucket — the kind home-improvement stores sell — to cover the bottom. He wedged an empty reel inside the bucket above the water, topped the reel with a flange, then set the tape on the flange and closed the lid.

Within 24 hours, the water vapor had rehydrated the tape. When Hoffa plays the digitized file now, the sound resonates.

“This is the creative process,” Friedrich says of Hoffa’s seemingly simple yet carefully considered approach — he spent months doing research before treating the tape.

In other labs, optical-assisted technology extracts sound from wax cylinder recordings. In one space, a system dubbed IRENE uses a tiny ultra-high-resolution camera to image grooved discs that are too fragile or damaged to play with a stylus. Afterward, software translates the images to sound.

“There were some hundred Les Paul discs that we could not have transferred without IRENE,” Friedrich says.

Given the size of the Library’s sound recording collections, sound preservationists have to balance time-intensive methods with expanded research access.

To qualify, the tapes must be in good condition. “They don’t have to be baked or spliced or have any other kinds of repairs done to them,” Chroninger says.

In two studios, he operates up to eight decks simultaneously at two- to four-times normal cassette playback speed and can transfer the A and the B sides of tapes at the same time.

In another studio, 16 vintage reel-to-reel tape machines transfer 32 hours of recorded sound in a single hour. Friedrich jokes the room is his “magnum opus” for production speed.

As in Chroninger’s studios, tapes have to be good quality. Engineers just finished digitizing the enormous NBC collection. Years earlier, it was transferred from disc to tape at the Library, making it a known quantity.

The studio’s decades-old reel-to-reel machines operate as if they were new thanks to NAVCC’s “amazingly knowledgeable” maintenance specialists, Friedrich says.

Maintenance engineers have expertly restored all kinds of legacy playback equipment, including a 16-track player that captured some of Paul’s hits.

Now, his artistry lives on in high fidelity at the Library. And in the studio built to preserve it, other unique multitracks — music of Liza Minnelli, Max Roach, the Gershwins — can be preserved for future generations.

“It’s because of the Les Paul collection,” Friedrich says. “We’re in a position to do it now. We’ve never been able to do that before.”

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