Love From Worcester, Massachusetts

Esther Howland (American, 1828–1904), Valentine, 1847–1879, Collage of papers with embossment, gold leaf, chromolithograph, and letterpress,
courtesy Worcester Historical Museum

 Ask people what the city of Worcester is known for, and responses will likely run the gamut, from Harvey Ball’s yellow Smiley, to the city’s music scene, to its industrial roots. In the mid-19th century, the city also emerged as a manufacturing hub for commercial valentines, beginning with the entrepreneurial initiative of Esther Howland (1828-1904), the Mount Holyoke College-educated daughter of a local stationer.

      Howland is a storied figure, and verified accounts of her life can be difficult to extract from local lore. Various stories agree that she saw imported lace valentines from England in the 1840s, and through her father’s business, was able to fabricate her own valentines using imported lace, lithographed decals, and other products. The valentines that she assembled were intricate and quickly became popular.

Jotham W. Taft (American, 1816–1909), Valentine, about 1860s–1879,
collage of paperswith embossment, gold leaf, paint, and
chromolithograph, courtesy Worcester Historical Museum

      Howland was an innovative valentine-maker, who used paper “springs” to create three-dimensional layered valentines that she referred to as “lift-ups.” She also inserted colorful paper “wafers” under the lace top, to add pops of bright color. What is perhaps most remarkable is that Howland implemented an assembly system, in which the women who worked for her each tackled one task in the multi-step production of her elegant valentines. 

      Worcester proudly claims Howland as the first maker of commercial valentines in the area, although Grafton, Worcester’s next-door neighbor, boasts that their own commercial valentine-maker, Jotham W. Taft (1816-1909). Taft’s valentines can be more difficult to identify than Howland’s, because his Quaker parents disapproved of signing one’s own work. Howland and Taft’s accomplishments were roughly simultaneous, and in 1879, Howland formed the New England Valentine Company with Edward Taft, Jotham’s son.

New England Valentine Company (American, 1879–1881), Valentine, 1879–81,
collage of papers with embossment, gold leaf, chromolithograph,
and paint, Courtesy Worcester Historical Museum

Whitney Valentine Company (American, 1863–1942), Postcard Valentine, early 20^th century, relief print and halftone on paper, courtesy 
Worcester Historical Museum

    Another legendary Worcester valentine manufacturer was the Whitney Valentine Company, founded when George C. Whitney (1842-1915) joined his family’s stationary business in 1863. This family-run business grew by leaps and bounds in the late 19^th century, with Whitney buying out smaller greeting card manufacturers and their stock from around the east coast. In 1881, they absorbed Howland and Taft’s New England Valentine Company. The Whitney Company also began to print their own base designs (rather than assembling valentines from sourced materials as Howland and Taft had done), which greatly increased their scale of production. 20th-century Whitney valentines are recognizable through the style of children featured on them, which collectors refer to as “Campbell’s Soup Kids” due to their stylistic similarity to the advertising mascots designed by Grace Drayton in 1904, and they can be positively identified through the “Whitney Made” logo that was stamped on the back.

     In preparation for the exhibition LoveStories from the National Portrait Gallery, London (November 13, 2021 – March 13, 2022), the curatorial staff at the Worcester Art Museum realized that we wanted to incorporate this important local history into the gallery of great British portraits and famous love stories. While there are no Worcester valentines in the WAM’s collection, a generous loan from the Worcester Historical Museum allows us to host two rotations of historic valentines in a special case within the exhibition. There you will see beautiful examples of valentines by Howland, Taft, the New England Valentine Company, and the Whitney Valentine Company—love, from the Heart of the Commonwealth.

 By Olivia J. Stone, Curatorial Assistant

Sources

1. Kerr, Joan P. “The Amorous Art of Esther Howland.” American Heritage Magazine. February 1982.
2. Kreider, Katherine. Valentines With Values. Atglen, PA: Schiffer Publishing Ltd., 1996.
3. Lee, Ruth Webb. A History of Valentines. New York, NY and London: The Studio Publications, Inc. in association with Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1952.
4. Nutt, Charles. History of Worcester and Its People. Volume 3. New York, NY: Lewis Historical Publishing Company, 1919.

Special thanks for the expertise of the Worcester Historical Museum, especially Wendy Essery, Library and Archive Manager, and William D. Wallace, Executive Director, and for the teaching resources they so graciously provided.

Jack Gallagher Finds Himself at WAM

Tucked away in a corner of the Chinese jade gallery is a small, unassuming bowl decorated with a charming goldfish design. Covered Tea Bowl with Design of Swimming Goldfish (Chinese, 1821 – 1850) is elegant and expertly crafted, but there is a whimsy in the colors and design that make it feel relatable and almost contemporary. The stylized fish, the delicate texture of the scalloped waves that shimmer under the light, the soft teal contrasting with orange—it’s all so satisfying.

For me this little bowl represents an evolution in both my understanding of art and my relationship with the Museum. As a kid growing up in Worcester I mostly paid attention to the huge, dramatic paintings in the European galleries (basically the bigger the better!). Then in college at Holy Cross I had the opportunity to take art history courses that frequently held lectures at the Museum. These formative WAM visits helped me develop a roster of favorite artists, periods, and styles.

After college I began another phase in my relationship with the Museum when I was lucky enough to start working here. Beginning as a gallery attendant and spending so much more time in the Museum, I learned to appreciate works I might previously have rushed past. Ceramics, furniture, and other decorative arts that previously held little appeal suddenly became fascinating to me. Finding such a love for this little porcelain bowl, amongst so much else at WAM, has changed my perspective on how I appreciate art and experience museums.

View this image and others through the Worcester Art Museum Online Catalogue https://worcester.emuseum.com/objects/3653/covered-tea-bowl-with-design-of-swimming-goldfish

Pictured above: Covered Tea Bowl with Design of Swimming Goldfish, Chinese, Jingdezhen, in Jiangxi province, Daoguang period (1821 – 1850) of the Qing dynasty (1644 – 1911), porcelain with enamel decoration and incised ground over transparent glaze, Gift of Helen M. Fernald, 2008.51

Jack Gallagher lives in Worcester and is WAM’s Marketing Coordinator. He previously worked as a Gallery Attendant and Guest Services Representative.

Flight from France: The Final Journey 4/4

Previously in this WAM Update series, Dr. Richard Neumann and his wife, with the help of their guide "Mr. P." successfully smuggled themselves out of Nazi-occupied Paris and crossed the border into unoccupied Vichy France. However, they were soon arrested, and found to have entered the territory without official leave. They must await their trial to learn whether they will be handed over to the German authorities or allowed to continue into Spain.

Dr. Neumann and his art collection are the subject of WAM's ongoing exhibition, "What the Nazis Stole from Richard Neumann (and the Search to Get it Back)," on view through January 2022. This narrative was written by Dr. Neumann, and shared with the permission of his family.

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[With the help of Mr. P., the Neumanns were allowed to await their trial in the town of M., where a guest house was available. They had to regularly report to the police station in M., where their documents were held.]

The Neumanns' journey from Vienna, Austria to Havana, Cuba

 

Unfortunately Mr. P. also imparted the news that we had been robbed, and that the 22,000 French francs were missing from the briefcase. Luckily, the $200 was still there. We were appropriately horrified, but already so tired and worn out that we were glad to know that at least the dollar amount had been saved…

Now began for us a somewhat boring, but for our nerves a much needed rest and rehabilitation…

[The Neumanns requested permission to leave France, in light of their danger. The police ultimately declared they had to stay until after their trial was settled, and that at best they should expect a fine—at worst, being turned over to German authorities.] 

We awaited the 26th of September with great concern, at which time the court proceedings were to take place in the State capital. The trip […] would require a journey of two days. Fortunately, we had a visit from the policeman from the town where we were originally arrested, who had shown himself to be somewhat sympathetic to our situation. We explained our concerns to him, and told him that the local policeman insisted that we return once more after the judicial process, and that he would—depending on the ruling of the Court—then decide whether or not to issue the travel permit. Since we had meanwhile already missed connections with one ship, any further delay, even by a day, was extremely uncomfortable for us. Thus we were extremely happy when our friend declared himself ready to issue us a safe-conduct for travel, so that, in the event of our being freed by the court, we could immediately depart.

On the 24th we got under way to the Courthouse and took with us, just in case, the few belongings left to us. On the 26th, at noon in a beautiful old courthouse, the formal proceedings took place…

The very friendly and sympathetic judge posed just a single question, the answer to which was already on the tip of my tongue: “…did you feel endangered in Paris?...” Since I was able to reply in the affirmative, based on the German racial regulations, he declared—after a brief advisory discussion with his colleagues, and to our indescribable joy, since we had expected at least a fine—that we could go free on the grounds of unavoidable danger. Our safe-conduct permit was good until October 10th. On September 27th we finally arrived in B. where we recovered our luggage except for two pieces, which could not be immediately found, cleared our accounts with Mr. P. and after a short stay traveled onward to Toulouse.

[Once in Toulouse, Neumann sought permission to take the remaining $200 out of the country. On October 8th, he got the required proof from the National Bank of France, stating that he had received it at the official exchange rate.] 

The Italian ship "Conte Verde" brings Jewish refugees to Shanghai, 1938
(United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, courtesy of
National Archives and Records Administration, College Park)

 

…Since we now only had two days remaining on our safe-conduct, we could no longer await the promised delivery of our two missing pieces of luggage, so we asked our friends to send them along later, and left on October 9th for Barcelona. Passage through the customs control was relatively easy, but upon arrival in Barcelona we were advised that all the passenger ships were completely sold out until the following January. Through a coincidence we found a friend who had close connections with the founder of a shipping line, who took us to him, and there we were promised that, if the full fare to Havana were promptly remitted, we would receive the first available tickets. We telegraphed immediately to effect payment for the ship tickets, and traveled on to Bilbao. There we were told again that there were absolutely no tickets to be had.

In the meantime, a regulation was promulgated that the Transatlantic Shipping Company would no longer be permitted to transport non-Aryan persons. Our visa read “Visa without arrest,” [i.e. the Neumanns could pass through Spain but not take up residence] and we were threatened with the possibility that, if we did not make it on the next boat, we would be deported. The big question was: where to? France would naturally not allow us to enter, and again the German concentration camps threatened in the background.

At that point we asked ourselves whether the big adventure, the huge monetary sacrifice and all that effort would, at the last moment, all have been in vain. We now went daily to the shipping line offices and after two days we heard that those persons, whose tickets had already been paid for, could still be taken on board, and the definite prohibition (against non-Aryans) would only take effect on the following voyage. We were told, however, that our payment had not been made, nor were the tickets on hand.

Richard and Alice Neumann in the garden
of their house in Havana

The nerve-wracking situation continued until three days before the sailing date of the ship, when we were suddenly notified by telephone that the tickets had already been paid for in Havana on September 28th (the last day for acceptance of payment). We received two tourist class tickets, and finally left old Europe on November 10th, putting a temporary end to our Odyssey in Cuba.

--

Upon reaching Havana, Dr. Neumann and his wife were safe; once again, he found work in the textile industry and became a leading figure in the local art community, giving lectures on European and Cuban art to a wide audience. He was named honorary President of the “Patronato del Arte,” a group founded to create a modern art museum in Havana. This museum, the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes de La Habana (National Museum of Fine Arts of Havana, pictured below), was recognized by UNESCO, and is still a major cultural attraction today.

After the war, Dr. Neumann and Alice traveled to New York City, reuniting with their daughters.

The Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes de La Habana
(National Museum of Fine Arts of Havana)

Richard and Alice Neumann with their daughters
Dora and Lili, New York, early 1950s

Flight from France: Arrested! (3/4)

Today's WAM Update is part three of a series based on Dr. Richard Neumann's account of his journey escaping Nazi-occupied France in 1943. In the previous sections, he and his wife, Alice, left Paris and crossed France with the help of their guide, "Mr. P." They are now in the unoccupied territory of Vichy France, but the drive towards the Spanish border almost immediately goes wrong.

Dr. Neumann and his art collection are the subject of our ongoing exhibition, "What the Nazis Stole from Richard Neumann (and the Search to get it Back)," on view through January 2022. This narrative is shared with the permission of Dr. Neumann's family.

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After about 20 minutes, a rather old, not very trustworthy-looking automobile arrived, filled with the baskets of chickens, geese, etc. as well as with our hand luggage. The driver who now took over was unfriendly right from the start, cursing under his breath. It was clear that he undertook this drive very reluctantly.

German Luftwaffe soldiers at a Paris cafe, 1941
(German Federal Archives)

After six kilometers, he stopped in a larger town in front of a bakery, and declared that he could not drive any further until he had something to eat. We remained seated in the auto, impatient to hear something from our pilot, and above all, anxious to continue our drive toward our destination. As we were waiting, two local civilians came upon the driver—who was eating—and made angry accusations that he had refused to give them a ride earlier, and now had in fact taken two passengers on board.

At this moment, Mr. P. arrived at the auto […] Both the civilians spoke harshly to him, showing papers identifying themselves as members of the special border police, and asked for his documents. He was able to show that he was a French citizen, and also that his military discharge papers were in order. However, this did not satisfy them and they then also asked for our identification papers, from which they could see right away that we had crossed the border without “laissez-passer” (legal permission). Whereupon they declared us under arrest and I had to follow them to the Police Station, while my wife was allowed to stay with the automobile and our possessions.

Once at the police station, both of the Inspectors told me “…you will be turned over to the German Authorities…” I became very much afraid. All my protestations, that I was a Czech citizen, 62 years old, and had sufficient funds for my subsistence, were useless.

German soldiers and prisoners, July 1944
(German Federal Archive)

[…] I was taken back to the automobile, and my wife gave me 18,000 French francs, which I showed them. In her great fright, as I was led back to the police station, my wife took the money out of the briefcase and placed it in the travel-bag of Mr. P., without having the opportunity to tell him that she was doing so. Shortly thereafter, she was also taken to the police station and advised of what lay before her, e.g. “…being turned over to the German authorities, etc.” My wife, who had until now showed herself remarkably courageous and able, burst into tears.

All seemed to no avail and made absolutely no impression on the supervising policeman. We were officially processed, asked about a lot of irrelevant matters, and the writing of a long complaint was begun. I continually protested that we had been in an untenable and dangerous situation and as Czech citizens were deserving of special consideration. One of the policemen present seemed to not totally ignore my arguments, and tried to find among the various regulations a paragraph which might help us.

We were sitting on a light wooden bench without a back support, and as I rose in order to show the Police inspector my passport, the bench tipped over and my wife fell to the ground. This, as well as our totally distraught appearance, seemed finally to awaken some small amount of pity.

[After about 7 hours in custody, the police decided that in view of the facts Neumann argued above, the police decided to submit the case to a French tribunal, who would determine if they should be delivered to German authorities or permitted to leave. It was now about 5pm.] 

[…] After this decision about our future, we […] were given permission to look around for private quarters, with the obligation to present ourselves at the police station twice daily, and to not leave the vicinity.

Thereupon we went with the friendly police inspector on a search for a place to stay […] No room was to be found in the entire town and after a very long search the police inspector finally declared that he was not responsible for finding a room for us, and that, if we were unable to find a place, he would simply take us to jail. At this last moment, my wife addressed a woman who had been leaning out of her window and who appeared to be somewhat sympathetic, and asked if there was not anywhere that she could find a room for us. The woman softened, and while declaring that she had neither room nor bed available […] she could let us spend the night sitting on two chairs. We were glad even with this result, and advised the Police Station accordingly.

[They also found that during their time at the station, the automobile, their luggage, Mr. P. and the woman who had helped him had all boarded a train for the Neumanns’ intended destination in B. Mr. P. promised to return in the morning with news of their luggage and money.] 

Undated photograph of Richard and Alice Neumann,
taken in France

 

We were dead tired and hungry, but there was little to eat…a piece of cheese and a little bread was the substance of our dinner…and we then took possession of our night’s lodging on the two chairs in the kitchen of the good Frenchwoman, where it was at least somewhat dry and warm. Despite the frequent, and not altogether quiet passage of the other guests past our room, we fell asleep surprisingly quickly, tired and stressed as we were, and passed the night.

There could be no thought of washing, or other forms of toilet, and our appearance, covered as we were with layers of mud and dirt, wet and bedraggled gave no hint that we might be persons of culture and refinement.

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For the moment, the Neumanns were safe--but still before them still lay the tribunal, and the crossing into Spain. In addition, due to pressure from Germany, it was becoming increasingly difficult for "non-Aryans" to book passage on ships out of Europe. Learn the resolution of these difficulties in the final installment of this WAM Update series.

(German Federal Archive photographs licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Germany license.)

Bundesarchiv, Bild 101I-247-0775-38 / Langhaus / CC-BY-SA 3.0

Bundesarchiv, Bild 183-J27289 / Koll / CC-BY-SA 3.0

Flight from France: The Demarcation Line (2/4)

In 1943, Dr. Richard Neumann and his wife, Alice--already refugees from Nazi-occupied Austria--arranged to have themselves smuggled out of France. In part one of this narrative, we saw them make arrangements with a guide known as "Mr. P." to leave their temporary home in Paris and make their way south, bringing only a few pieces of luggage and some currency obtained by selling part of their art collection. In the next stage of their journey, they must cross the border from Nazi-occupied France into unoccupied Vichy France.

Dr. Neumann and his art collection are the focus of WAM's ongoing exhibition, "What the Nazis Stole from Richard Neumann (and the Search to Get it Back)," on view until January 2022. This narrative was written by Dr. Neumann, and shared with the permission of his family.

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The plan for the forthcoming border crossing made me very concerned, especially in light of the amount of French francs and foreign currency we carried, which in the event we fell into the hands of the Germans might result in our being severely punished not only for crossing the border illegally, but also as currency smugglers.

Richard and Alice Neumann's journey, from Vienna, Austria to Havana, Cuba

In any case, I wrapped the briefcase in which we had all our money in a plaid blanket, and gave this to our French guide, and hid as best I could from my wife the worry occasioned by the change in the program. In the farm, we were forbidden to go near a window, or even to venture into the open courtyard, because of the danger that someone might notice our presence. Meanwhile, a number of people assembled in the kitchen, one man with a dog, and several equipped with bicycles. The weather had, if anything, gotten worse, and it rained buckets. After a rest of about three-quarters of an hour, a genuine creeping patrol was organized. First went the man with the dog. Then the various bicyclists, at distances of about 500 feet apart. [Behind this group] went my wife and I. Finally, our guide brought up the rear. We were cautioned not to make the least noise, and to cross open areas where we might be seen bent over and as rapidly as possible.

We waded along behind bushes, in roadside gullies, through patches of forest, being always careful to wait until the person ahead of us gave a sign. […] After about twenty minutes, we were climbing a steep hill, when suddenly a dog’s loud barking could be heard from the top, and those ahead of us made wild signs to back up, whereupon we turned around as fast as possible. We ran as fast as we could down the hill, and I saw our guide throw my briefcase, wrapped in its blanket into a thick bush […] he led us, quite agitated, into a gully which was hidden from the forest, and there he had us lie silently in deep water and covered with dirt. […] We heard two shots, and the man with the dog never returned to us. Only later, after we were over the border, did we learn that he was stopped by a German sentry and arrested, and that thereby attention was diverted from us others.  

After three quarters of an hour, the old peasant woman was the first who dared to leave our hiding place, and gave a sign that the coast was clear. With one person less, our little group started to move again. We now made a detour, over very difficult terrain; we had to jump and scramble, and my wife had to be carried or lifted repeatedly over difficult passages by our guide. After a time we saw a road in the distance, which we approached carefully, taking every opportunity to remain in cover. Our guide reconnoitered the possibilities for crossing, and gave a sign to cross the road as rapidly as possible. About 600 to 1,000 feet beyond the road, as we went through a high cornfield, he told us “...the German line is now behind us, now we only have to cross the French border…”

German control post on the Demarcation Line, 1941
(German Federal Archives)

We made a small rest-stop between the two lines, the French and the German, because Mr. P. wanted to cross the French line only at noon, when he knew that the French sentries would be at lunch. From a distance, he showed us the French border station house, and our march to a guesthouse, which was already in the free French zone, was relatively trouble free. Here we ate a rather bad bowl of soup, which was nevertheless very welcome after a fast of 16 hours and a four hour-long march. 

We already felt we were saved, and—according to the arrangements by our pilot, who left us at this point—were to await the arrival of an automobile to take us to B., the object of our voyage…

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The Neumanns were not safe yet; still they needed to cross the southern border of France, and secure passage on a ship across the Atlantic. In the next installment, they begin this leg of the journey, only to immediately run into trouble with the local police...

(German Federal Archive image shared under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Germany license.)

Bundesarchiv, Bild 101I-017-1065-44A / Becker / CC-BY-SA 3.0

Flight from France: Escaping Paris (1/4)

Following the Nazi invasion of his city--Vienna, Austria--Dr. Richard Neumann, textile entrepreneur and art collector of Jewish descent, left his home and, with his wife, Alice, moved to Paris in 1938. They brought with them 38 paintings from their extensive art collection, fully expecting to return to Vienna once hostilities had ended.

Five years later, they were forced to flee Paris, as well, this time leaving behind nearly all of their possessions and money. Here is the story of their escape (part one of four), written by Dr. Neumann after his arrival in Cuba, detailing the harrowing journey, and the many dangers of occupied France. It is shared with the permission of his family.

Dr. Neumann and his art collection are the subject of WAM's ongoing exhibition, "What the Nazis Stole from Richard Neumann (and the Search to Get it Back)" on view through January 2022.

 --

Each day in Paris brought more alarming news. Arrests, deportations, confiscations of property gave no end of worry for the immigrants. Each day one or another of our many acquaintances disappeared without explanation. For a long time I refused to allow myself to think of leaving Paris, but now I had given in and begun to explore the possibilities. Very quickly, I discovered that obtaining official permission for a legal departure was impossible...

 

Richard Neumann, photographed in Vienna
before WWII

[The Neumanns eventually made arrangements with a young man, Mr. P., from the south of France, who promised to take them safely by automobile to the unoccupied territory in Vichy, France] 

He told us that we could send our large trunk to the address of his father in the unoccupied zone, but on no account to include any kind of valuables with it. As personal baggage he allowed us only small hand luggage.

We left on Friday evening from the Gare d’Austerlitz in Paris. The compartment was full, but we had numbered seats and the trip went quite normally. We had as much cash as possible with us, —which we obtained, unfortunately, partly through the below-market sale of some our valuable art objects—since we saw little opportunity to obtain any kind of funds in the foreseeable future. This amounted to 40,000 French francs and 200 US dollars.

Rue Marguerite, where Richard and Alice Neumann
lived, modern day

At quarter to four in the morning we arrived in A. We descended from the train, went to take a seat in the overfull waiting room and looked around to find Mr. P. (our young guide), who was nowhere to be seen. We became quite concerned, and I began to regret the entire undertaking. Nevertheless, after about 20 minutes Mr. P. arrived, accompanied by an elderly peasant woman. He called on us to follow him quickly, and led us over five sets of train tracks into the darkness of the railroad station, and then into a dark freight car into which he then dragged  […] a basket of chickens, a box containing rabbits, another basket with geese, vegetables, and other farm products.

To our question as to where, in fact, the automobile was, he gave the answer that it had been promised for “later.” The freight car was shifted, and a half hour later it began to move again, only to stop in about 20 minutes at a small station, where we descended. Now we had to wait in the darkness. The automobile was nowhere to be seen. Mr. P. left on his bicycle, and after a while he returned in the company of an old peasant driving a high, two-wheeled cart, pulled by a heavy horse. It was raining buckets, and was totally dark. The geese, ducks, chicken etc. were loaded on the wagon. My wife put on a headscarf; I put on a blue beret; the peasant woman went ahead on the bicycle and we must have given the impression of a farm family. The cart began to move, with Mr. P. at the rear of the procession. In terrible weather and deep in the night we now went, on awful cart paths into a large forest and were badly shaken up on the spring-less cart.

Nazi troops marching through Paris after the fall of the city
(AP Images)

After about an hour, during which it gradually became light, we saw in the distance a French gendarme. We stopped, and our friend P. rode over to him and became involved in a long conversation. It appeared that the Frenchman was sympathetic, but warned us not to go further on the road, since this would undoubtedly cause us to fall into the hands of the Germans. He himself closed his eyes, and we left the road and drove, in the slowest speed, directly through the forest and up an incline, stopping frequently to await the signal from the peasant woman who had gone ahead, to see if the coast was clear.

Finally we came, after a two and half-hour trip, to a high corner of the forest where there was a farmyard, into which we drove and descended. We were led into a large farm kitchen, where a fire burned and where a number of children were lying in beds, or stood around, and which was filled quite to capacity by us and our party.

We tried, totally soaked as we were, to dry out a little and then learned, as we again asked about the promised automobile, that it would not become available due to the shortage of gasoline. So it now seems that we would have to make the voyage on foot, quite contrary to plan. The conversations around us dealt mainly with successful or failed border crossings, and especially the latter were described in fulsome detail, with shootings, chases by police dogs, etc. recounted at length to lift everyone’s spirits.

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Still to come: the Neumanns must next make their way to the border between Nazi-occupied France and the unoccupied territory of Vichy France.

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A Beautiful Friendship

We have asked our Docents to share some of their favorite stories from their time at WAM, in honor of the Docent program's 50th anniversary! Today, Shelley Rodman tells the story of a friendship that began with a conversation in the WAM Galleries.

Sometimes, our most important contributions and memorable experiences as docents isn't about the art.

 

From left to right: Baby Abby, Caroline, Shelley, Tessa, and Tina

I was managing the Arms and Armor Art Cart. Caroline (to my left in this photo) came into the room and she had her baby in a front carrier. I couldn't see the baby's face, she was nuzzled into her mom. Caroline said she loved bringing her baby into the museum. She said that it is an inviting and quiet place where she can walk around, enjoy the art and her baby can rest or also enjoy being carried through the galleries.

Baby Abby woke up while we were talking and I recognized that she has Down syndrome. Before I could say anything, Caroline said, "This is my daughter Abby. She has Down syndrome."

I responded that my goddaughter, Tessa, (to my right in this photo), has Down syndrome and she is a well-rounded, independently-living and working young adult.

Caroline's eyes watered and she said, "You're the first person who has shared any good news for Abby's future." She so appreciated hearing more about my relationship with Tessa and about Tessa's education, travels, can-do attitude and great sense of humor. I said I would touch base with Tessa's mom, my dear friend Tina, and maybe we could arrange a meeting.

And here we all are, months later at the WAM cafe, celebrating Tina's birthday and the friendship that developed between Tina and Caroline, Tessa and Abby.

-- Shelley Rodman, WAM Docent
May 7, 2021

Battle Ready: Weapons and Tactics of the European Soldier

In the previous section of this two-part WAM Update, we learned how, beginning in the 14th century, European armies began to shift their focus from knights and heavy cavalry towards infantry and common-born soldiers. This led to changes in tactics, in the shape of fortifications, and in the organization of the army itself. In this section, we will look at the rapid rise of firearms, and the further changes they brought to both armor and fighting style, ultimately making cavalry obsolete.

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By the mid-16th century, the man-at-arms was rapidly adding pistols to his arsenal, often without the lance and in some cases adding an additional firearm, the carbine. These shorter barreled firearms were less accurate and thus needed to be used at close ranges. It was discovered that by increasing the thickness of the cuirass (breast and backplate) of the armor, it could be made proof against pistols and other light firearms. Thus it was that the heavily armored cavalry of the mid-16th century onwards became known as cuirassiers, in reference to their reinforced armor. 17th century cavalry continued to make shock attacks, with drawn swords followed up by pistols after the enemy line had been broken through.

Master "NEH", Puffer (wheel-lock pistol) for the Mounted Guards of Elector Christian I of Saxony (r. 1586-91),
German, Saxony, dated 1588. Steel with blueing, walnut, and horn. 5 lb, 2 oz (weight).
The John Woodman Higgins Armory Collection. 2014.47

Three-Quarter Armor for a Cuirassier, Southern German, Augsburg, 1620–1625.
Steel and brass with modern leather. 47lb. 1oz. (weight).
The John Woodman Higgins Armory Collection. 2014.1135

Not all cavalry were heavy types. Lighter cavalry had long existed, using light lances and less armor. By the late 15th century they came to be known as demi-lancers. As firearms were introduced, new types of light cavalry evolved creating a variety of new types whose roles would often overlap, blur and change definition as time passed. An example is the dragoon, whose role was originally as a mounted harquebusier, essentially a mounted infantryman who dismounted to fight, using the horse as rapid transport. However, dragoons quickly adapted to the role of using their firearms from the saddle and by the 18th century were essentially an unarmored form of cavalry using pistols, sabers, and carbines.

 

Wheel-Lock Carbine for the Personal Guard (Trabanten) of Wolf Dietrich von Raitenau,
Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg (r. 1587-1611), German/Suhl, about 1590.
Steel, brass, bone, iron, and wood. 4 lb, 3 oz (weight).
 The John Woodman Higgins Armory Collection. 2014.51

In the mid-16th century the army infantries typically had 2 soldiers with firearms (or shot) to every 5 pikemen. The shot, like archers previously, were primarily for ranged combat, supporting the pikes in their melee combat, which was seen as the primary role of infantry. Pikemen also defended the shot from assault by enemy pikemen and cavalry. This ratio gradually shifted as the lighter arquebus was replaced with the powerful musket. By 1600 the ratio had become 3 shot to every 1 pike. This was partially due to the large amount of siege warfare in the second half of the 16th century, where a man with a firearm was far more effective than one with a pike.

 
 

Matchlock Musket, Austrian, Wiener-Neustadt, about 1675. Steel, iron and wood. 15 lb 4 oz (weight).
The John Woodman Higgins Armory Collection. 2014.616

The 17th century would see the armor of the cuirassier gradually reduced to just a cuirass and helmet, with all other plate defenses removed to increase speed as the more powerful musket could more readily pierce even reinforced armors. Other forms of cavalry would abandon armor altogether. As the century progressed cavalry came to be used in more of a supporting role to the infantry, though still used to deliver the fatal blow to an enemy after they had been broken.

 
 

Italian Army on the March, European, early 17th century. Ink engraving on paper. Prints.
The John Woodman Higgins Armory Collection. 2014.594

As the ratio of shot to pike continued to shift in the former’s favor, so too changed the tactics. Instead of using large blocks of slow moving pikemen supported by shot, the new ratio required spreading out the shot in longer thinner lines to maximize firepower, as well as offering a smaller target. The formation was also more maneuverable, as the tactical units shifted from larger regiments of 2,000 men to smaller companies of 120. The pikemen adopted the same formation to spread the limited number of pikes facing the enemy and to continue to support the shot from melee attack. Additionally, the use of larger numbers of field artillery enhanced the overall firepower of the linear formation, giving it an emphatic punch. Cavalry were used to scout and sweep the flanks. The Battle of Breitenfeld, September 17, 1631 saw the Swedes use linear tactics to beat bulky Imperial pike squares; this would become a model for linear tactics that was used up to the First World War.

 

Engraved by Amos Doolittle (American, 1754–1832), Plan of Military Evolutions,
American, early 1800s. Engraving on cream wove paper. Prints.
Charles E. Goodspeed Collection. 1910.48.837

 

Philibert Louis Debucourt (French, 1755–1832), Cuirassier Prussien, about 1800.
Aquatint and watercolor on cream wove paper. Prints.
Mrs. Kingsmill Marrs Collection. 1926.1122

Isaac Cruikshank (Scottish, 1764–1811) after Woodward, The Soldier's Farewell, 1803.
Etching with watercolor on cream wove paper. Prints.
 Gift of Dr. Samuel B. Woodward. 1934.872 (Detail)

By the 18th century the musketeer had become the main fighting force of the armies of Europe, supported by artillery and cavalry; cuirassiers were now few in number. The flintlock musket would replace the matchlock while the socket bayonet, developed by the French, allowed musketeers to convert their weapons into spears. This enabled musketeers to shoot and effectively engage in melee, making the pikemen obsolete. However, Napoleon made great use of cuirassiers and brought them back into vogue in the 19th century, though cavalry would never again dominate the battlefield as it had in the Middle Ages. The 19th century saw the musket supplanted by the rifled musket and then cartridge fed rifles. Cuirassiers continued to serve on the battlefields of Europe through the First World War. In the 1930s, French cuirassier units would have their horses and armor replaced by tanks, effectively ending the age of armored horsemen.

Christian Sell (German, 1831–1883), Two Patriots, 1870s. Oil on panel. Paintings.
Gift of Mrs. Roger N. Heald. 1972.50

—By Neal Bourbeau, Programming Coordinator

April 30, 2021