computers

and
their
potential
applications
in
museums

a conference sponsored by
THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART

supported by
A GRANT FROM THE IBM CORPORATION

April 15, 16, 17, 1968

published for the Museum by

ARNO PRESS
New York, 1968
Copyright © 1968 by The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Library of Congress Card Catalog Number 68-58185

Manufactured in the United States of America

by Arno Press, Inc.

^
 FOREWORD*

I once held sway over a charming piece of property at Forty-

second Street and Sixth Avenue called Bryant Park. At that time it was

called one of the most dangerous parks in the country and we decided to

try to do something about making it safe by various recreational and

social programs and events. One of the things we did was install a com-

puter, one of those programmed to match you up with your soulmate. One

evening a personable young man approached the computer and said to it:

"I am twenty-five and surpassingly good-looking. I am worth several

million dollars," he went on, "dance like a dream, make love divinely.

I am in constant demand at the most recherché* dinner parties for my

devastating wit and crushing charm. I have been chosen, four years

running, the best dressed ..." whereupon the machine heaved itself around

and mugged him.

There are those among us who would feel, after the strange pro-

ceedings of the past three days, that we've all been mugged. And to cap

it, here we sit in final convocation, many of us scholars, bearers and

apologists of the humanistic tradition, breaking bread with the new tech-

nology.

This conference has been described as momentous, historically

critical, a turning point--and inevitable. But for some, the C. P. Snow

skeptics, the twenty papers delivered this week, from Mr. Furth's intro-

ductory paper on Monday—which incidentally fooled no one by likening the

*Speech entitled "Museums, Computers, and the Future" given by

Thomas P. F. Hoving at the dinner marking the close of the conference.

1679S2
computer to a kind of souped-up thinking-man's washing machine — to Mr.

Schoener's and Dr. Lee's remarks late this afternoon on the Electronic

Museum—for some these three days have had a disturbing, unsettling

effect.

An old friend of mine, someone with impeccable credentials in

traditional aesthetics, wandered out of curiosity into the Junior Museum

auditorium yesterday morning, got an earful of such things as data banks,

input, output, printout, software, hardware, and interface, and rushed to

tell me that I was selling out to the barbarians. He saw himself and me

and museums as Rome in the first century, clutching the glories of the

past to its bosom, dewy-eyed with nostalgia for the old days, uncertain

of the present, fearful of the future, listening to the horrible rattling

of the city gates, the incoherent din outside the walls of barbaric tribes

who had descended with raw, brutal vitality from the northern wastes.

And I was accused of being one of those who betrayed by opening the gates

to the hordes from Armonk and Poughkeepsie. I think what set him off was

a paper on the Analysis of Quantified Data in Numismatic Studies which

described the great Sultan Saladin as a "test variable."

Obviously we wouldn't have gathered together to dine this evening

if I and the Museum shared that gentleman's apprehensions. As a matter

of fact, we have welcomed you in, really, to civilize you. If this be a

Trojan Horse of Technology, I say wheel it in. I, for one, have been

willing to wheel it in for some time.

This Conference on Computers and Their Potential Applications in

Museums is really a sort of culmination in my own mind of some continuous

thinking on the subject that goes back to 1956 when I first read Norbert

Wiener's The Human Use of Human Beings. The title itself, incidentally,

vi
is immensely significant—the human use of human beings. It is a great

kind of humanistic motto, appropriate as perhaps no other, for our par-

ticular age. I had picked up the Wiener book in Milan during a stopover

in a long train trip from Sicily where I had spent several months on an

archaeological dig sorting potsherds, the lowly but extremely important

debris of history. It struck me then that perhaps computers were better

suited than the brain to deal with masses of fragmented material, to work

out difficult scholarly typologies and manuscript recensions, to help in

the study of iconography and iconology. I doubted that back at Princeton,

where I was a graduate student, they would take to the idea, and I was

certain that the scholarly community as a whole wouldn't. And they

didn't, not with any great enthusiasm, anyway. There they were, the Two

Cultures, the humanistic and the scientific, dug in at the heels and dis-

trustful of each other, and God prevent them from ever coming together.

There is, however, some basis for the incompatibility. There _is

a gap between technology and the humanities. Some of the intricate prob-

lems of our times can be analyzed instantaneously by computers. What to

do with these analyses is often quite another matter. It would seem that

technology is continually outstripping any advance in human wisdom, and

the gap, if anything, seems to widen. It is a key dilemma of our age.

I would remind us all that Vannevar Bush, one of our most brilliant scien-

tists, called his latest book, Science Is Not Enough. Well, I might

advance the observation that today the humanities are not enough either,

but that together with science, perhaps they would be enough. I don't

know of any alternative other than some sort of mutual accommodation.

And that, really, is the larger purpose behind this three-day conference.

vii
 It is in the nature of our times that the rate at which things

change ever accelerates, that evolution is compressed into revolution.

The times change too fast for many people, and since the change is largely

machine-dietated, it becomes machine-inflicted, relentless, irrevocable.

Technology, from air pollution to the sonic boom, is becoming

hazardous to our health, and this, too, I think, is at the heart of our

general antipathy to machines. The language has turned the word to

pejorative use. We talk about machine politics (about which I happen to

have some firsthand knowledge), of mechanized warfare, and of the "creep-

ing mechanization" of society, from digital dialing to numeral surnames,

which is supposed to be reducing us to a nation of ciphers.

There seems to be something horrifyingly dehumanizing about

numbers themselves. Butterfield 8, for example, stirs a poetic response

in us. 288 never can. To ascribe a number to something is to deperson-

alize it, the argument goes. But is it true? Consider the sensually

charged sequence 40-24-38. What can more swiftly flesh out one particular

image than those three numbers, which are after all merely a set of

coordinates to a curvilinear graph? The ancients had their ideal, a

moderate and sensible one; the 1920s, an era with a fixation on the

tubular, had its own, which must have been something like 29-29-29. I'd

hate to think what the Willendorf Venus measured, but in those numbers

some deep sociocultural insight must lurk, I'm sure. It is the Pythago-

rean concept that reality can be broken down into digits, into the quan-

tifiable. The question is, can we break down art into numbers? And that,

ladies and gentlemen, is the fascinating challenge to all this.

The ground-breaking work done so far is immensely exciting. I am

particularly familiar with two projects that are being done here in the
viii
house: Carl Dauterman's work with Sevres porcelain, and Virginia Burton's

research into ancient Egyptian pottery using an IBM 2250 graphic unit.

These are absolutely tantalizing in their possibilities. The exciting

thing they tell me is that after a while you want to push the new tech-

niques to newer and newer limits. New possibilities arise. Fresh avenues

of application appear.

As we attempt to use computers and apply them to problems, I

think that they will begin to impose a rigorous and perhaps a harsh

discipline upon us. They will require us to rethink some of our assump-

tions, re-examine some cherished presuppositions, sharpen our perception,

cleanse our terminology. William James, when he was finishing his great

treatise Principles of Psychology, wrote to his brother, "I have to forge

every sentence in the teeth of irreducible and stubborn facts." Because

computers deal in irreducible and stubborn facts, we will be forced to

look for facts, and in the search discover, I think, what may have been

overlooked, and experience the fresh perception, the intuitive flash, the

pyrotechnics that go off in our skulls when a discovery is made, a new

fact perceived, a relationship seen.

Many times during the proceedings of this week, it was repeated,

as if a litany, that the computer makes no decisions. It is neutral,

uncommitted, unconscious, inhumanly docile, and subhumanly dumb! Every-

thing, in other words, that man is not. That reassurance, to me, at

least, was cold comfort, because these machines are going to put us on

our toes as never before. That is why I find them so challenging. They

will compel us to understand the problem we want them to solve, compel us

to sift out the relevant facts from the irrelevant, and this is what the

exacting discipline of scholarship, the methodology of research, is all

ix
about.
 I know this as a fact of experience because I've been overseeing

a pilot project at The Cloisters, dealing with one of the most fascinating

objects in the collections—the Bury St. Edmunds cross. We know a great

deal about this object, its history, its iconography, its symbolism, the

religious and social climate of its time. In fact, more is known about

this object than any one person can assimilate unless he makes it an

exclusive lifetime project. With the invaluable help of Donald L. Bitzer

of the University of Illinois and his assistant Nancy Risser, and Sabrina

Longland, Research Assistant in the Medieval Department, we're trying to

program this vast wealth of information and see if we can get out of it

some kind of total profile of the object. It's a thrilling experiment.

The prospect of codifying all this information in a single unit, informa-

tion that can be instantly retrieved—this alone is worth all the effort

because it frees the scholar from some of the time-consuming and nonpro-

ductive mechanics of research.

It is a matter of pride to me personally, and to the Metropolitan

Museum as the great institution that it is, that this first conference to

explore the use of computers in the fine arts was held here. The Museum

Computer Network, started last year under the impetus of this museum and

the Museum of Modern Art has already grown, under its energetic Executive

Director, Everett Ellin, beyond its original fifteen member institutions

and now includes the Institute of Fine Arts in Chicago, and the National

Gallery in Washington, among others. There are three local project

studies under way, one dealing with drawings in New York collections,

another with pre-Columbian art, and the third with the works of Picasso.

Thanks to support from the New York State Council on the Arts, and from

the Old Dominion Foundation, the Museum Computer Network has gotten off
x
to a promising start. I'd like to comment here on the enthusiasm and

generous cooperation with which people have greeted this endeavor. I'm

thinking of Richard Koch and David Vance of the Museum of Modern Art, for

example; James Humphry and William Wilkinson here at the Metropolitan;

Professor Jack Heller of the Institute for Computer Research in the

Humanities at NYU, who freely and generously provided the technical

advice and guidance for Carl Dauterman's project and is doing the same

for Ernst Grube's work on Islamic miniatures. As for the conference

itself, we owe a lot to IBM, our cosponsor, and to the sensitive and

intelligent work of Edmund A. Bowles and his people at IBM.

The whole idea of a computer network is generating momentum, and

is forcing upon museums the necessity of joining forces, pooling talents,

individual resources, and strengths. Because, obviously, no one of us

can do it alone. It is forcing upon us the realization of our interde-

pendence. It may be, too, that the computer will provide a way out of

the most serious intellectual deadend of our time--overspecialization.

This black box may ultimately break down the walls of our respective

pigeonholes, and make possible for the first time in history a truly

encyclopedic, integrated, unified body of knowledge about man.

It is a fantastic vision, is it not?

Meanwhile, before we ever get within a million light years of

that Utopian never-never land, there will be a lot of those Jamesian,

stubborn, irreducible facts of life to contend with.

There are going to be problems and growing pains. One of them

already is money, the high and probably spiraling costs of maintenance

and upkeep. Another is technological change and the specter of obso-

lescence. Will all our systems be compatible, and will those developed
xi
in 1970 be compatible with what the year 2000 will bring? There are

infinite variables to juggle, and that most elusive of qualities, the

constant K to search for. Can we train the people to do the job, and will

there be anyone qualified to judge the results? And will we have the

restraint and intelligence not to go off on a mad, senseless orgy of

indiscriminate, nit-picking programming?

We have to be dauntless but realistic about the difficulties that

surely lie ahead. There always will be difficulties. But this, after

all, is the salt that gives life its savor.

xii
 CONTENTS

Foreword by Thomas P. F. Hoving y

Introduction to the Work of the Conference by Edmund A. Bowles xv

DOCUMENTARY APPLICATIONS

Introductory remarks by James Humphry III, Chairman 3

Data Processing for Information Storage and Retrieval by
Stephen E. Fürth 5
Computer Input Form for Art Works: Problems and Possibilities
by Kenneth C. Lindsay 19
A Prototype Computerized System for Archaeological Collections
by Dee Green 39
The Analysis of Museum Systems by Robert Chenhall* 59
Inventorying Ethnological Collections in Museums by Alex F.
Ricciardelli* 81
STYLISTIC ANALYSIS BY COMPUTER
Introductory remarks by Joseph V. Noble, Chairman 101
On Some Reciprocal Requirements of Scholars and Computers in
the Fine Arts and Archaeology by Jean-Claude Gardin* . . . 103
The Use of Computers in the Analysis of Textile Data: Specif-
ically, Archaeological Fabrics from Peru by Junius B. Bird* 127
The Quantitative Analysis of Numismatic Data by Jeanette Wakin 147
Sevres Incised Marks and the Computer by Carl C. Dauterman* . 177
The Museum Computer and the Analysis of Artistic Content by
William J. Paisley 195

VISUAL APPLICATIONS

Introductory remarks by Virginia Burton, Chairman 219

An Example of Computer Graphic Tools for Executing Aesthetic
Decisions by Janice Lourie* 221
Computer Methods for the Processing, Classifying and Matching
or Profiles and Other Irregular Curves by Herbert Freeman* 237
Applications of Computer Graphics in Museums by Leslie Mezei 259
Computer Graphics as a Medium of Artistic Expression by
J.C.R. Licklider* 273

COMPUTERIZED MUSEUM NETWORKS

Introductory remarks by William D. Wilkinson, Chairman . . . 305
The Value of a Computerized Data Bank as an Adjunct to a
Museum Card Catalogue by Jack Heller 307
Information Systems and the Humanities: A New Renaissance by
Everett Ellin* 323

NEW APPROACHES IN MUSEUM EDUCATION

Introductory remarks by Harry Parker III, Chairman 347
The Computer: A Flexible Guide to an Art Museum by Donald L.
Bitzer 349
The Electronic Museum and Information Distribution by Allon
Schoener 359
The Future of the Museum as a Learning Environment by Robert
S. Lee 367
The Concept of Environmental Management by Serge Boutourline 389
Conference Participants 401
*Discussion follows
 INTRODUCTION TO THE WORK OF THE CONFERENCE

by

Edmund A. Bowles

IBM

On behalf of IBM, let me say how privileged we feel in being able

both to support and participate in this, the first conference on computer

applications in museums. It is gratifying indeed to see so many pres-

tigious institutions represented here, and at the same time so many

important scholars in the museum field. If I may be permitted a personal

aside, this conference is particularly exciting to me, both as a former

student of the late Erwin Panofsky, and as a long-time member of the

American Association of Museums. I hope that, whatever the direction, I

may continue to serve you as a catalyst, or interface, between the museum

profession and the world of computers.

Perhaps this is the proper occasion to anticipate a question and

comment on the growing use of the computer in the humanistic -- or, as

some prefer to say, the nonnumerical -- disciplines and IBM's own

involvement therein. It may come as a surprise to some of you, at least,

to learn that the machine has entered the garden, and in many fields,

for certain types of problems, the use of the computer has already become

a well-established if not indispensable tool.

 It was in anticipation of this that several years ago we funded

and helped to organize a series of regional conferences at universities

throughout the country aimed at exploring, evaluating, and communicating

the role and potential of the computer as a tool in a number of key dis-

ciplines defined loosely as the humanities. This soon led to a number of

other specific programs aimed at encouraging and supporting the use of

data-processing techniques in a number of different fields and in a

variety of ways. I mention this not to advertise IBM but to point out

that the humanities, libraries, and museums have been, and are, areas of

genuine and immediate concern to us. Thus, this present conference is

but a logical step in our continuing relationship with the academic and

cultural community writ large.

Now a few words concerning the organization of the conference.

It has been our hope and intention to present a broad survey of computer

applications under several rather broad headings, which, taken in total,

offer the principal areas of museum activities touched -- or about to be

touched -- by the computer. Some of the papers commissioned will be more

general in nature, conceptual, far-ranging, and taking a long look into

the future. Others will report on specific projects relating to computer

applications, being more analytical and specific. An examination of the

agenda will reveal one omission -- an intentional one -- namely, a paper

on so-called housekeeping operations such as business procedures, merchan-

dising, membership, and development. Since most of these have already

been subjected to computerization within other academic or business con-

texts, it was felt that there was little need to spend precious hours

examining time-tested routines.

xvi
 Consequently, the conference will concentrate on those aspects

within the museum environment that bear on the collections and their

study and on education. Documentary Applications, the substance of the

first session, will loom large in any automated system because the infor-

mation storage and retrieval capabilities and potentialities of computers

far exceed the rather limited capacities of the human brain. Indeed, it

is fair to say that it is the machine's ability to process large quan-

tities of data that is at the heart of the application of computer tech-

niques in fields such as archaeology and art history. In this connection

I would suggest that one of the most important advantages of the computer

is that quite literally for the first time it frees the researcher from

having to limit severely his data base within the capacity of hand tabu-

lation. Thus, for example, an entire collection of artifacts may be

examined -- not merely for one trait, but for many stylistic characteris-

tics or variables, together with their manifold interrelationships.

The second session, devoted to stylistic analysis by computer,

should serve to delineate a new dimension of museum scholarship. Much

has already been done of a pioneering nature utilizing computer tech-

niques in the analysis of textual material. While defining the charac-

teristics of, and making inferences from, any given written, pictorial,

or musical material is hardly novel, computerizing this approach assists

scholars in the comprehensive and objective analysis of artistic content;

indeed, these new techniques are often called content analysis. In place

of ad_ hoc impressionistic ways of observing frequencies of occurrences of

content variables (such as words, symbols or concepts and images), com-

puterized content analysis substitutes controlled observation and the

systematic, counting of variables. In the opinion of some researchers

this application holds the greatest potential for computer research.

xvii
 Tomorrow afternoon we of IBM will have the pleasure of playing

host to you in a series of demonstrations and films of computer hardware

and applications. We have arranged for your viewing a graphic terminal

attached to a computer. There are many pieces of hardware you might

profitably see, but this one is sure to pique your curiosity and suggest

many potential applications. I hope you will bear with us in that, owing

to limitations of both space and time, it may not be possible for every-

one to see this device, but we will do our best. Concurrently, and

directly across the hall, a microrecords system will be demonstrated as

many times as there is a quorum. This should surely be of interest to a

field which, above all others, deals with the visual image as its stock-

in-trade. While you are waiting for these two scheduled demonstrations,

three short color films, two of them by Charles Eames, will be shown in

this auditorium. They are artistic, instructive, stimulating, and enter-

taining. I hope you will want to see them.

The first of the third day's sessions will deal with visual

applications from two points of view, the scholarly and the artistic.

The ability to associate textual material with certain visual elements

at a console, directly in front of a scholar who has access to a reper-

tory of computer routines for manipulating his data, is no longer a dream

but a reality. It would be improper of me to anticipate our speakers or

give away the demonstrations, so I will merely say that the visual ter-

minal allows the researcher to record, process, and analyze data, as well

as to retrieve, alter, and store again both graphic and statistical and

descriptive information.

xviii
 Computerized Museum Networks, the next item on the conference

agenda, has already received a fair amount of attention, both within the

profession itself and in the press. This is only proper, for the concept

is one of major significance and potential to the museum community as a

whole. Only when the curator, the academic scholar, the registrar, and

the exhibit designer, for example, have at ready access data banks in

machine-readable form of museum holdings, bibliographies, and photo col-

lections throughout the country -- if not the world -- will the "museum

without walls," to borrow a phrase, become a reality. It is appropriate,

I think, that the impetus for this concept is centered right here in New

York, and that its proponents are with us at this conference.

Finally, we come to the session on New Approaches in Museum Edu-

cation. I am as fascinated by, and curious about, this part of the con-

ference as I am sure you are. As one only on the periphery of these

aspects, I am in no position to summarize -- or surmise -- the content of

the papers to be presented here. Permit me, then, by way of conclusion

to use the theme of this session as a point of departure.

It should be obvious to us all that the museums in this country

are going through a period of rapid change and redefinition. They are

beginning to play -- and they must play -- a more vital role in the com-

munities they serve. At the same time, museums are becoming educational

centers with a vast range of programs and facilities to bring their arti-

facts, with their accumulated knowledge, within the ambience of those

they purport to serve. Thus, if the museum is to become a true learning

environment in the complete sense of the term, the computer, as but one

of the available technologies, must surely find its place in this new

physiognomy.
xix
 This conference is beginning auspiciously at a time of year asso-

ciated traditionally with rebirth. One might suggest that the institu-

tion of the museum is experiencing a rebirth of its own, and that the com-

puter may well become in time one of the instruments of this renascence.

Perhaps, indeed, we are witnessing the change from cabinet to computer;

from the museum as repository and scholarly retreat to the museum as

instrument of total accessibility and involvement with the artifacts of

man, playing a vital role in education and cultural enlightenment. If

this is so, then we here havp a stake in insuring that the computer play

a constructive and benevolent role in this rebirth.

documentary applications
 DOCUMENTARY APPLICATIONS

Introductory remarks by chairman of session:

James Humphry III

Metropolitan Museum

This opening session of our conference has to do with the all-

important documentary aspects. I am sure you all appreciate that the

basic requirements for the proper application of computers to art and art

history involve the preparation of copy or tabulating of information for

machine readability -- input, if you will -- for the great variety of

output for the scholar in his studies of subjects or disciplines repre-

sented by any of the museum's collections.

After each of the papers is presented there will be an opportunity

for questions and discussion.

 DATA PROCESSING FOR INFORMATION STORAGE AND RETRIEVAL

by

Stephen E. Fürth

Information Systems Marketing, IBM

In discussing systems for the storage and retrieval of informa-

tion we must determine what kind of information is to be stored and for

what purposes it should be retrieved. Information can be divided into

accountable and nonaccountable. Accountable information deals with quan-

tities; nonaccountable information usually consists of properties of

things or people.

Systems dealing with accountable information must reflect

changes in quantities caused by external events. Typical of such systems

are:

budgets

inventories of things or people

The purpose of these systems is to retrieve data for further processing

in connection with the operations of a business (Figure 1 ) .

Nonaccountable information may be data expressing some measure

associated with a property of a thing, as, for instance:

article - price

material - weight

or information expressing an assignment or attribute of a person, such

as:
 name - man number

name - credit rating

or information designed to determine whether a given item is similar to

or included in a list or collection of items.

We will concern ourselves with systems handling nonaccountable

information designed to discover if:

1. a given item is included in a list of items (Figure 2)

This can usually be accomplished by look-up in an ordered list, but fre-

quently the listed item consists of an enumeration of component parts,

and it becomes necessary to determine whether a given component part is

included in any item on the list.

2. a given item is similar to another (Figure 3)

These systems may store formatted information such as is found

in test reports, personnel records, medical records, weather reports,

etc., or free-style statements such as messages or reports, whose format

cannot be controlled. Such systems must use devices to overcome varia-

tions in the use of language and require the use of dictionaries and

thesauri. Access to material of this type cannot readily be solved by

the use of classification or subject headings.

Nonaccountable information may be quantitative data or documents

containing text and images. Quantitative data are usually recorded in a

format that unambiguously identifies each element, while text is unfor-

matted and the meaning of one of its elements is usually dependent on

context.

The reason for existence for a library or information center is

to provide access to information itself or to furnish references to

documents or objects. The volume of information and the need to create

6
multiple access points for every item suggest the use of some of the

tools that modern technology provides (Figure 4 ) .

The emphasis in the preceding sentence is on the word tool. The

purpose of a tool is to facilitate man's work, to extend his capabiltiy.

People manipulate tools, such as a hammer or a washing machine. The type

of equipment that may serve the needs of the librarian or museum curator

may be more complex than other, more familiar devices, and because it

does many things automatically, may appear to have the ability to "think,"

to make decisions, etc. The fact is that the more automatic the equip-

ment, the more detailed the instructions have to be, provided it is to

accomplish the desired results. These instructions, in the case of com-

puters called a program, result from a detailed analysis of the functions

the library or information must perform. This analysis must be performed

by people who know what is being done today and what should be done. The

result of such an analysis is a system design that will determine the

type of equipment to be used, and also will have to be translated into a

program to operate the equipment. Forms will have to be designed to feed

the information to the system -- the input. Other forms will have to be

decided on for the computer to furnish information to the users -- the

output.

Many of us do not know what computers are, because comparatively

few of us see them, use them, or work with them. It may surprise you,

but the washing machine is a computer in its own right. It has the same

basic elements of operation. Let's explore the similarities between the

two and get a basic idea of what the computer can do. The basic simi-

larity between a washing machine and a computer is their input, proces-

sing, and output (Figure 5 ) .

 For the washing machine, the input is dirty clothes plus soap,

the processing is their washing, and the output is the same clothes --

clean.

For the computer, input consists of a program and data. Proces-

sing is when the computer uses the program to operate on the data -- to

solve an equation, for example. Output is the solution to the equation,

or to whatever problem was programmed (Figure 6 ) .

What do we mean by programmed?

Your washing machine may have several cycles from which to

choose. You can wash delicate fabrics in a gentle cold-water cycle, you

can wash cotton fabrics in a stronger warm-water cycle, and you can get

strong, durable fabrics clean in a heavy-duty hot-water cycle. These

cycles are no more than the programs of your washing machine. Cycle one

-- call it program One -- gives you cold water, easy washing action,

three rinses, no deep rinse, and a spin. Program Two gives you warm

water, hard washing action, three rinses, a deep rinse and a long spin.

And so on. When you wash your clothes, you simply specify the program

you want. You do this by turning a knob or pushing a button.

Let's say you have a computer with eight programs. Program One

will add a number three times, multiply it twice, and subtract it twice.

Program Two will add a number six times, multiply it three times, sub-

tract it four times, and divide it once. When you have some numbers you

wish to add, subtract, multiply, or divide, you simply specify the program

you want. You might put the numbers into your computer from a special

typewriter, and designate the program you want by turning a knob or push-

ing a button.
 Eight programs for your washing machine may be ample, but only

eight programs for your computer are far too few. What would happen if

we allowed our programs more flexibility (Figure 7)?

Let's redesign the washing machine and see what happens. We can

now choose the water temperature separately, the number of rinses, the

precise way any action will occur, and moreover, choose the sequence in

which the actions will occur. You might instruct your washing machine

to rinse 101 times, or you could start your washing program with three

long spins. This flexibility would allow you to instruct the machine to

do precisely what you want it to do to get your clothes clean (Figure 8).

And so it is with your computer. You can instruct your machine

to do any number of actions in any sequence you wish, to solve any prob-

lem you wish. A combination of these instructions is what we call a

program.

But you could accomplish all these actions manually, so why a

computer? There are four major reasons:

First, speed. For instance, let's say it takes you ten seconds

to add two four-digit numbers. In that time, a medium-size computer can

add a million four-digit numbers. To put it another way, to do all the

adding a computer can do in ten seconds would take you more than a hun-

dred days, and that's allowing no time for sleeping, eating, or pencil

sharpening.

The second reason is accuracy. Consider your checking account.

Imagine balancing 10,000 checking accounts in only ten seconds -- without

one mistake, not even one penny in error. That's what the computer can

do, and it performs with unerring accuracy second after second, hour

after hour,
9
 The third reason is the discipline it implies. To solve a prob-

lem with a computer you must, first, understand the problem, and, second,

program the computer to give you the right answer. Understanding a prob-

lem is one thing, but understanding it to the depth of detail and insight

required to program the computer is a completely different matter.

By setting the dial on your washing machine to heavy-duty cycle

you can get a wide variety of laundry clean. However, you could get any

one type of laundry cleaner if you could specify exact water tempera-

tures, exact length of wash cycle, speed of agitator, and so on. But you

would have to know much more about the laundry -- and its conditions --

to take advantage of the full potential of the washing machine's great

flexibility (Figure 9 ) .

The fourth reason is versatility. A computer can do much more

than just add, subtract, multiply, and divide. It's a little like a

washing machine that can wash the clothes, sort them out, iron them,

and put them away for you, too. Similarly a computer, by using instruc-

tions, can sort data, straighten data out, and store it away for you.

Instructions allow the computer to compare two numbers -- to

find out if one is larger than, smaller than, or equal to the other. By

comparing, it can sort. It can arrange a list of numbers in a given

order into another list of any other order. It does this with a sort

program.

A computer also uses "branching" instructions. These are used

to jump around in a program. Think of a program as a list of orders

(that's exactly what a program is). Suppose you do not want all the

orders in sequence but would prefer Order 15 to come after Order 10.

10
You specify this with a branch, or transfer, instruction (Figure 10).

Are the clothes clean?

If not, branch to Rewash Program
If so, continue
Are the clothes dry?
If not, branch to Drying Program
If so, continue
Are clothes ironed?
If so, branch to Put-Away Program
If not, should clothes be ironed?
If so, branch to Iron Program
If not, branch to Put-Away Program

Another group of computer instructions is used for input/output opera-

tions. How efficient your washing machine would be if you could write

a program for it like this.

Now let's look at the output operations.

Put-Away Program
Put pillowcases in the linen closet
Put handkerchiefs in bureau drawer -- top left
Put shirts in closet (to the right of pants)
Put crib sheets in baby's room
Put Grandma's quilt in the attic
Put green towels in the blue bathroom
Put blue towels in the green bathroom
Put any stones, marbles, string, etc., from
children's pants in the trash

Any data in the computer can be printed on a form, punched in

cards, written on magnetic tape, shown on a TV-like display, or sent out

of the computer in any of several other forms (Figure 11). Punched cards

and magnetic tape are popular means of storage for data kept outside the

computer. But the computer also needs storage space inside to work with.

Fur a program to run, it must be inside the computer. This internal

storage is usually called the computer memory. Data is read into the

memory from punched cards or magnetic tape (or another external storage

device), processed, and then written out on cards or tape (or some other

medium). And this is the computer cycle: input, processing, output.

11
 In order for the computer to process information the data must

be in a form that can be "read" by the computer. The input devices that

are available today can be grouped into two broad classes:

a. Off-line devices: devices that prepare a medium which can

be read by a computer (Figure 12), such as:

1. Keypunch, which produces punched cards (Figure 13)

2. Paper-tape punches, which produce paper tape (Figure 14)
3. Keyboards, which record on magnetic tape (Figure 15)
4. Optical scanning devices, which can read marks placed in
specified positions on sheets of paper and product punched
cards (Figure 16)
5. Optical character-recognition devices capable of reading
special type fonts and produce magnetic tape as output.
There are even readers that can read a limited number of
handwritten characters (Figure 17).

b. On-line devices: devices connected by cable or telephone

wire directly to the computer (Figure 18), such as:

1. Typewriters (Figure 19)

2. Display consoles with keyboards (Figure 20)

The purpose of the system under consideration here is to store

data or text in such a manner that we can perform the general functions

mentioned earlier of:

1. Discovering if a given item is included in a list of items
(Figure 21)
2. Discovering if a given item is similar to another (Figure 22)

It is obvious that the size of the file and the fact that it is

constantly growing would not permit it to be stored in the main storage

of the computer, but that the data would have to be brought into this

very fast, limited capacity storage unit from auxiliary storage devices,

which, while slower in the rate in which one can get access to any piece

of information, can store large amounts of data. Such storage media

are:
1. Reels of magnetic tape
2. Discs
3. Data cells containing strips of magnetic tape
12
These media are erasable, that is, information can be deleted and

added under the control of the computer program. The reels of tape,

discs, or cells are demountable so that a facility which has only one

reading device, i.e., one tape unit or one disc drive, would have unlim-

ited capacity to store information, on one reel of tape after another or

one disc after another, but the computer could get access to only that

information that is mounted on the reading device at any one time. We,

therefore, will have access only to that portion of the total file that

is currently mounted on a reading device. To have equal access to all

portions of the file multiple reading devices will be required.

The speed of access to any item within that portion of the file

that is available for search at a given time depends on the storage

medium and the organization of the information stored. If the storage

medium is magnetic tape (Figure 23) -- which is comparable to the ancient

scroll -- the search has to proceed on an item-per-item basis. We speak

of a serial search, and the optimum speed of search would depend on the

speed at which the magnetic tape can be read. Because the computer can

process information much faster than tape can be read, it is possible to

process many questions in one pass of the tape, that is, we accumulate

questions until we have a batch to process in one pass of the data file.

We, therefore, speak of processing in the batch mode. The answers to

queries would be printed out and forwarded to the inquirers.

When we use discs or data cells (Figure 24), devices that permit

direct access to any item, comparable to turning to a page in a book, the

serial approach to searching may no longer be the best. It may be desir-

able to create indexes to the file permitting access to it not only by

the key on which it is ordered, such as employee number or call number,

13
but by those major elements that are most frequently asked for: author,

subject, etc. The use of indexes will immediately reduce the number of

items that have to be inspected by the program to determine inclusion in

or exclusion from further processing.

Working in this mode, it is possible to have queries submitted to

the system from remote points by the input devices mentioned above, on-

line via telephone wire, and for responses to be transmitted back the same

way. Several inquiries can be handled in a manner that to the user

appears to be simultaneous -- because of the speed of the computer -- but

is in fact accomplished by "time-sharing" the computer.

The output from the system can be to a terminal, it can be typed

or displayed, it can be printed on a high-speed printer capable of

printing up to 1100 lines per minute, or it can be recorded on microfilm.

While these remarks have been directed primarily at the use of

computers to retrieve information from a large file, it must be mentioned

that in the environment we are discussing here computers would be used

automatically to index material from titles, abstracts, or full text. One

particularly effective illustration of the ability of the computer is the

preparation of indexes such as Keyword-In-Context (KWIC) indexes. Another

use of the computer is in selective dissemination of information about

items as they are being accessioned. By storing profiles of interest of

people in the computer the text, abstract, or the index terms of incoming

items can be matched. Match criteria can be personalized. If there is

a match between an item profile and an interest profile, the computer

will prepare a notice.

14
 Other areas related to information storage, dissemination, and

retrieval could be discussed, but the foregoing covers most of the essen-

tial basic points about this powerful tool that modern technology has

offered us.

15
 FIGURES O N E - EIGHT

Accountable Non-Accountable

L 0i,i, aH H H V H f
1 """" things or people

Budget Article/Price
inventory Material/Weight

Wm *

fi 'f iJHHi "

____• mí Í
 FIGURES NINE-SIXTEEN

13

BRANCH or
TRANSFER INSTRUCTION

w*"»

10 14

11 15

OFF-LINE
1 CARD
•HBk PAPER TAPE
KEYBOARD • MAGNETIC TAPE

OPTICAL
MARK SENSED ^ MARK
SHEET •y SENSING *f fl H CARD
' READER

M ' MAGNETIC TAPE

12 16
 FIGURES SEVENTEEN-TWENTY-FOUR

17 21

18 22

19 23

20 24
 COMPUTER INPUT FORM FOR ART WORKS:

PROBLEMS AND POSSIBILITIES

by

Kenneth C. Lindsay

State University of New York at Binghamton

The computer looms on the horizon of art history like a new girl

in town. Although word of her arrival has been out for a few years, we

in the field of art -- because of our natural modesty, basic conserva-

tism, and slimness of pocketbook -- have covered our eyes with our hands

when she passed. Lately, however, more than a few eyes have leered out

between fingers at her mini-skirted consoles. Who is this mechanical

Sylvia and shat is she?

Discovered by business and the military, she matured magnifi-

cently during the past thirty years. She became both fast and expensive.

Endlessly obedient, never tiring, quick as lightning yet mistake-free,

this glittering girl friend soon made all local types appear homespun.

Among such local types we in art history count as faithful friends

libraries, museum catalogues, the Art Index, Pigler, Reau, Bartsch, the

Frick Archives, the Index of Christian Art, and the Decimal Index to the

Art of the Lowlands.

The computer looks attractive indeed when we think of these home-

spun friends, on the one hand, and realize on the other hand, the vast-

ness of our archival troubles. Librarians can scarcely keep up with the
19
orgy of publication. Scholars have real difficulty keeping abreast of

the information published in the field of their specialties. The prob-

lems of museums are serious and bound to increase. As giant collecting

centers, museums are expected to harbor and display the art that once

filled the palaces, churches, temples, and private collections of seven

civilizations. Museum basements and warehouses groan and their staffs

are turned into harassed bookkeepers, condemned to fall further and

further behind. Scholars suffer from the agony of libraries and museums,

for it is in such places they must work and expect cooperation.

There is no gainsaying the archival crisis of our times. If we

continue with our standard ways and means, the crisis will grow. The

computer, the cool cat of the McLuhan age, begins to look like the only

way out.

The great pressures imposed upon libraries and museums aside,

what other reasons are there which impel us to develop a storage and

retrieval system for art historical information? Reasons are not hard

to come by. The very act of making a large archive of the world's art

would force us to find out what we have and where it is located. This

information, in large or small amounts, would then be rapidly available

to anyone. Depending upon the way we gathered the original data and

programmed the computer, the machine could, by link searching, cut and

arrange our material into an almost infinite number of helpful patterns.

This capability would both assist and stimulate research. Electronic

equipment, with its connecting tissues of wire and air waves, has demo-

cratic implications. It can diminish the privilege of geographical

location by providing for the researcher in Alaska or Akron an archival

richness equal to what his colleague in the large city enjoys. The old

20
sales-pitch argument about saving time could also be resuscitated here.

Students and scholars would have more time to think creatively as the

machine relieves them from routine tasks. Finally, we can imagine the

immense value of highly sophisticated interdisciplinary hookups of

information in the future.

How should we begin? I see no discredit in positing ideal

systems and giving free range to our imagination at this virginal stage

of our computer thinking. Indeed such long-range thinking is an obli-

gation, a responsibility. If the mind and the moral imagination have

any value at all, it is better to start this way than to plunge in prag-

matically with small parochial attempts that bumble along. Such

attempts could possibly condemn us to wastefulness or impose embarrassing

commitments upon the future (the present political dilemma in southeast

Asia exemplifies the defectiveness of such a rule-of-thumb approach).

However, our ability to imagine ideal systems and establish policy must

be balanced by both the practicalities of the present and our capacity

to predict the realities of the future.

One way to bring an ideal system down to reality is to ask our-

selves three questions. Once the program for the system is outlined,

who will make it, who will use it, and who will maintain it?

The makers of a system consist of cataloguers and keypunchers.

Keypunchers offer no special problem. They are typists who type cata-

logued information onto IBM cards so that the machine can be fed in

machine style. Errors are not a problem because the keypunching

industry tolerates no more than two errors per thousand key strikes.

Moreover, there are ways in which certain errors can be discovered and

rectified.
21
 Cataloguers are a more complicated and rare breed. They are

responsible for recording information about the art work onto work

sheets (which are then given to the keypunchers). Depending upon the

desired sophistication of data, they will find information from the art

work itself, from records, and from published data. None of this is

easy, not even simple things like measurements. It will be necessary

for the cataloguer to make subjective judgments. If he wishes to employ

published records, he must be able to read foreign journals with dis-

crimination. Where will we find an abundance of qualified cataloguers

to do the job?

We might trim our sails way down and predicate our system on the

lowest level of cataloguer-help, working on the simplest kind of infor-

mation. The sacrifice of leveling down may be critical, however,

because the precision and quantity of output information is directly

proportional to the complexity of input information. At what point will

cutting down complexity and precision jeopardize the value of the com-

puter to us?

The second question, "Who will use the archive?," is prompted

by a slogan found on the walls of many computer centers. It reads,

"Your formula for failure is to try to please everybody." Can we set

up one machine system that will give the high school art teacher, the

art merchant, the small museum, and the scholar answers commensurate

with their needs and with their ability to make judicious requests? It

seems doubtful. Yet this question may be answered when we know to what

extent our system can incorporate a machine request dialogue system that

will refine and narrow down the request. For example, if a user fool-

ishly requested data on landscape, the machine could be taught to

22
answer, "Yes, I have information on hundreds of thousands of landscapes

and if I give it all to you, you will blow your computer budget for the

month. Do you want landscapes within a certain time span or by a cer-

tain artist?"

The third question of maintaining or updating information is

often overlooked by projectors of systems. This is a mistake, because

maintenance is part of the total responsibility, and the point will

become as real as the future. What army of specialists will purge the

system after a catastrophe such as the Second World War or the flood in

Florence? Who will read all the new books and journals so that the

machine can be kept modern?

Keeping these questions in mind, we may now proceed in our

attack upon the ideal by scrutinizing specific problems of input. I

attempt this against my better judgment because I have always argued

2
against abortive unilateralism. No one person can construct the fully

usable system. Working parameters should be defined by a hard-working

consortium of experts, a group consisting of leading art historians in

all of the major fields, personnel from both large and small museums,

art librarians, slide and photo librarians, computer systems analysts,

copyright lawyers, and business management specialists. Thus my efforts

here must be understood as heuristic.

The art historical systems of Panofsky and Ackerman offer a good

starting point for the discussion because they diagnose levels of mean-
3
ing. Figure 1 presents Ackerman's system and Figure 2 compares the two

systems synoptically and relates them to computer input. The right-hand

column of Figure 2 indicates which part of the two systems are applicable

to cataloguing and computer input. The "Yes" for the first part and the
23
 FIGURE ONE ACKERMAN

Range of
Objectification spectrum individual- Information
Levels of our statement ization theory

I. Empirical by comparing against -^ Least Less information

convencional standards individual- because it has
Work of art as object; of measurement ized the most easily
record of physical Operates communicable
properties (size, shape, with message
materials, condition); r extrinsic
technique character-
istics of
art
II. Analytic II. by comparing two or
more works of art J
Formal and symbolic
structure
(conventional character)

IIa. (Connoisseurship)

Style of individual
artists

I I I . I n t u i t i v e or valuative III. by experiencing -- Process of Most More information

not tabulating — articulating individual- because it has
Work of art as a unique the impact of the the unique- ized the more complex
object (total import) total art work ness of and individual-
individual ized message
works
 FIGURE TWO

PANOFSKY and ACKERMAN COMPARED DATA for

COMPUTER INPUT?

I. Empirical Yes

I. Pr imary

A. Factual -v

B. Expressional

(C. Pseudo-formal)

II. Analytic Partially

> A. Formal
conventions

B. Symbolic
conventions

II. Secondary

III. Intrinsic III. Intuitive No

(synthetic) (synthetic)

A d d i t i o n a l Data needed for

COMPUTER INPUT

1. Control numbers
(internal & external)

2. Dates

3. Place of origin

4. Present location

5. Patron's name

6. Uncertainty registrations

7. Special information

25
FIGURE THREE POSSIBLE DATA ITEMS FOR COMPUTER INPUT :
information bank

II III IV

Uncertainty levels
W. Column Signficance Specific or alternatives

1. Whereas It being the case Computer control item

number

2. Whereas A Acquisition number Local control

Photograph data

3. What size Size of object Dimensions (height,

width, depth, weight,
etc.)

4. What What kind of object Genre and medium yes

5. When When was it made Date, span of dates, yes

and periods

6. Who and Who made it Artist; artist's yes

where country

7. Which Specifically, which Name; title; part of yes

8. Whom for Who commissioned it Patron yes

9. Whence From what place Place of object's yes

origin

10. Whither To what place Present location of yes

object

11. Withhold Private information Cost, donor, insurance, ?

etc.

12. Whereto To what end Meaning; purpose yes

(Panofsky I & II
Ackerman II)

Bookkeeping information

Cataloguer; sources; date of entry; date of update

26
"No" for the third part should be self-evident. It is in the middle

section that truly problematic questions arise. Below, to the right,

I have listed additional data factors brought up by neither system.

Some of them are simply library-type necessities, others are points of

information predicated either by the nature of the computer or by a

fetish for comprehensiveness. As such, they are debatable.

Figure 3 takes the next step and lists the possible data input

items that could be useful in our ideal computer system. Column I is

a somewhat playful arrangement of categories in terms of "W" words.

Column II interprets what the "W" words mean generally. Column III

indicates what this all means for art history. Column IV introduces

the factor of uncertainty, necessitated by the nature of our data and

the difficulties imposed upon the observer in objectifying his observa-

tions. We must neither forget the enigmas and confusions that shroud

the perishable art object nor the way in which man, by copying with the

obscuration of time, has left the impress of his fallibility upon his

data.

Let us examine several of the twelve input categories.

1. Computer control item number. Every item introduced into the Infor-

mation Bank must have a number of registry. A field range of ten

4
could accommodate a total of one less than ten billion objects. I

do not think this excessive, since New York City alone contains an

estimated one million art works (not counting architecture). If a

Photo Image Bank file is eventually established, the image can be

requested by this number alone, once our need for it has been

established by the data in the information file.

27
2. Local control. Here the possessor of the art object registers three

pieces of information: the acquisition number, the black-and-white

photograph number, and the color photograph number. Accommodation

should be made for registration of detail photographs. The three

fields consist of 12, 9, and 9 spaces respectively. For lost works

or works which exist in image copy only, a special reference could

be made by flagging the computer to a particular source printed out

in another entry location.

3. Dimensions. Here height, width, depth, weight, and so on are regis-

tered. Let us assume the metric system and detail needs for the

four measurements listed above. Four fields of 9 are needed, and

height might appear thus:

Height

m cm mm

021 13 10

This would read 21 meters, 13 centimeters, and 1 millimeter high,

or 21.131 meters. Extra dimensions for frames and outer measure-

ments of prints, when needed, could be registered in carry-over

cards. Additional dimensions needed for architecture, vases, swords,

jewelry, and the like can be determined as needed.

4. Genre and medium. This category will register the type of the art

work and the material out of which it is made. Under genre we would

list types such as landscape, seascape, portrait, multiple portrait,

mythological, and so on, with a second division to accommodate fur-

ther refinements (for example, "diptych/multiple portrait"). Both

registrations should include uncertainty levels. The field, when

coded, would need 8 units. For the medium area we could expand the
28
 seventeen items used by the Index of Christian Art to include tech-

niques beyond the scope of that famous project. One second division

could be tolerated for alternative interpretations with uncertainty

levels available for both. Thus, the cataloguer could register

"etching" but also give "drypoint" as the alternative if his uncer-

tainty rating and skill justified making a second choice. Various

stages and editions of prints are taken care of in the coded listing

of media. The field here would also be 8.

5. Date, span of dates, and periods. Chronology is part of the struc-

ture of art history. We must know what was done, when. For some

recent objects we traffic with dates; for objects made by ancient

civilization, where dates are vague, we traffic with periods (for

example, Ubaid, Old Elamite, Luristan, of the Ancient Near East).

Both ways can and probably should be used. But we are confronted

with numerous questions. B.C. must be distinguished from A.D.

Should we clutter up the computer space by incorporating works prior

to 10,000 B.C.? What do we do with uncertainty? That is, should

we say we know the date for a fact or that we guess at it, or should

we give levels to our guesses? If we choose the second alternative,

how do we make these levels computer-manageable by developing time

spans for doubt? How do we take care of an object whose making was

begun in A.D. 1145 and completed in 1250 or 1865? Or how do we

accommodate an object that could have been made between 1895 and

1901?

From this point on I will discontinue making tentative defini-

tions of field lengths, for such details may bewilder nonspecialists

and are too approximate anyway to have any real value.

29
6. Artist; artist's country. Just because American names have been

reduced to a fairly standard form that makes the construction of an

alphabetized telephone directory a simple task, we cannot assume the

same case will prevail in calling up artists in our computer system.

Names are tricky, and the machine does not respond well to the

vagaries that tricks introduce. We have to know ahead of time if

we are calling the artist "Leonardo da Vinci" (Thieme-Becker) or

"Vinci, Leonardo da" (Blné'zit). Will it be Chao Méng-fu (T-B) or

Chao Meng-Fou (B)? If we happen to use Chao's posthumous titles

Wen-min or Wei-kung, or his byname Tzu-ang, there should be a guar-

antee that the computer will know we mean Chao. Solving these prob-

lems is not an insuperable task. We could simply take the Thieme-

Becker listing of several hundred thousand artists' names, update

and rectify this list where needed, and then assign a code to each

name. Whatever the solution may be, preagreement is needed if we

plan to use the computer effectively.

Registration of country is another practical cataloguing require-

ment. Researchers often want to know how a certain topic or theme

was treated by the artists of a specific country. This cataloguing

requirement seems simple until one realizes that some artists change

their domicile and citizenship, and that countries emerge or dis-

appear or have changing borders. Is Whistler to be counted an

English artist? Is Kandinsky Russian, German, or French? Multiple

subfields allowing for alternates would solve some of these problems,

Thus, Michelangelo could be designated "Italian," with a subheading

"Florentine."

30
 Of the remaining six input categories, numbers eight, nine, ten,

and eleven offer no special problems. Item seven -- the name, title, or

part of an object -- although more complicated, could be worked out

without too much difficulty and therefore can also be bypassed. However,

item twelve -- meaning or purpose -- must be touched upon because it

contains the material for formal and iconographical investigations.

I doubt if we can do anything with the formal structures of art

works. The language of describing formal conventions is, in my judgment,

too imprecise and subjective to be adequately submitted to a computer-

ized bank of art historical information. Certainly there is a loss

here, but once the computer has accomplished its task by situating a

problem factually and iconographically, the researcher can subject the

problem to the sharp focus of his own formal analysis.

Panofsky's factual, expressional, and secondary meanings are,

as Figure 2 illustrates, related to Ackerman's symbolic conventions.

What things do we see in an art work, what is the quality or mood of

these things, and how are they related to one another as events or

stories? These questions are often difficult to answer. We will be

uncertain how exhaustive our factual description should be and which

synonym we should use for naming things. We will have to ponder the

degree of specificity if we want the system to accommodate requests of

various depth.

To be practical, it will not do if cataloguers use the words

war, battle, fight, skirmish, or siege imprecisely when describing a

picture unless we establish exhaustive cross-references. Such cross-

referencing, clumsy though it may be, is needed at both the input and

the request level to compensate for imprecision. The vocabulary of both

the indexer and the searcher must coincide if the computer is to work.
 For another example, consider the instrumentalist in Vermeer's

The Concert (Gardner Museum). The judgment necessary to describe her

costume, age, class, and mood is something to reckon with. The descrip-

tion of the woman's instrument can be simple or complex. We could index

it as "musical instrument," or we could go down a whole hierarchy of

specification: keyboard instrument, plucking keyboard instrument, harp-

sichord, Ruckers harpsichord, and so on, trusting that cataloguers of

related paintings in foreign countries with their various usages

(clavecin, Flügel, cembalo, cymbel, clavicordo, and so on), will come

forth with results that would relate to ours. Unfortunately, the com-

puter is not sympathetic to this kind of trusting. We cannot expect the

machine to compensate for our confusions in tongue and expertise unless

we program it to so do.

Of course we could obviate these difficulties by agreeing in the

first place how specific practical considerations will allow us to be.

After all, the computer cannot be expected to do the whole job. It is

enough, we could argue, that the researcher interested in examining

seventeenth-century images of harpsichords be told which pictures con-

tain musical instruments. Obtaining this information, the rest is up to

him: he can reject pictures showing flutes and organs and concentrate

on those showing something resembling a harpsichord. This sounds like

an easy solution until we ask ourselves who will make the judgment for

cutoff points of specificity in the multitude of extant fields.

Similar problems arise when we proceed to the level of symbolic

conventions. For the sake of argument, let us accept the Decimal Index

of the Art of the Low Countries (DIAL) as a computer-usable classifica-

tion scheme. If the researcher is interested in pictorial

32
representations of snakes in the seventeenth century he will consult the

index and find "snake(s), see also serpent." Under these headings he

will be directed to pictures showing Aaron's staff changed into a ser-

pent, Jupiter as a serpent, Cadmus and Harmonía changed into a snake,

to name a few, but he will not be directed to depictions of the Fall of

Man (which contain serpents) or other types of pictures in which snakes

are included.

Who can judge today if snakes will become important tomorrow?

Behind this jest resides an issue of real pertinence. The experience of

the past determines the subject headings of our classification systems.

Once these systems are frozen by the research disposition of the present,

we will be unable to extract the additional information contained in the

data which future inclinations might drive us to want. As no one can

read the future this incredibly expensive computer enterprise might well

be, on this score, foredoomed.

Figure 4 gives an idea of what a cataloguer's input worksheet

could like like. Each horizontal band represents the space capability

of one IBM card. If economic factors permitted, these cards could go

beyond the three shown and actual text comment could be entered for

later printout if needed.

Layouts similar to this are in use. Their designs, predicated

by machine needs, ignore the human need of clear visual gestalt. If the

requirements of the machine are adapted to effective graphic design,

input mistakes will be reduced. Likewise, the human factor must be

given priority at the information-request end by using a simple arrange-

ment of push buttons and color-differentiated areas arranged in a hier-

archy responsive to request needs.

33
f- C«CÏ'*iO'0l s >«00C*O«- I n t i O O N 00 t> o *- tN *"> ^ W - O N W ^ O f - N f ' ) ^ i c o N c o c x o p - c y n t ' O ' O r**a> <* o •— c< r> ^ »O -O N t t O O P - CN n t t f ) « N, too« o • - O t D ^ i O -O K 00 (
W) in V) >0 «GIOIOSO ^ > S ) ' O ' 0 ' O 0 ^ ) , O K N N N N N hshsl-sr
o o o o o o o o o » — r ,— .— .— ,- •- p- •- o. CN CN CN CN cseNCHtNCicxneoeo

m color
sr 2T
control a c q u i s i t i o n number photo number p h o t o number height width depth weight genre
one

+++ -H- -H-

c
o
o îTdate date
n C o ~
1 t 3 ++ iS
E E begun ..compi period artist patron o r i g i n of present
genre D
two from., .to object location
0) «I ° «
either. .or
E E
-H- H-t-t- -H-+ -t-M- M i l l I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I | I I I I
11 12
private meaning
information

etc.
I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I M I I I I I I I I I I I

e t c . , if n e e d e d

FIGURE FOUR TRIAL FIELD LAYOUT

 In conclusion, five brief assessments:

1. The time for dreaming or for viewing matters simplistically is over.

Yet during the hard work that may follow, the ideal of the dream

must not be lost.

2. If the computer game is to be played in the future, we must estab-

lish the basic rules now. One of the basic rules is a universally

applicable input system.

3. By its very nature the computer demands the one characteristic in

which we who study art have not distinguished ourselves -- coopera-

tion. The computer will either bring us together or affirm our

fanatical independence.

4. Nothing notable will be done without massive and private financial

support, effective organization, and the enthusiasm of our leading

scholars.

5. A total computer system in art is an exciting yet alien concept,

just as is our distant future.

35
 NOTES

1. While this argument sounds attractive to us, we have to realize that

society -- which must pay for expensive computer systems -- may not
share this concern for our time. Our enterprises do not have the
earning power of industry, the status of science, or the drama of
defense.

2. This was the main point in my paper, "Computers and Art: A Recom-
mendation for an International Center of the Visual Arts," delivered
at the conference, The Computer and Research in the Humanities, held
at Chapel Hill, March, 1967.

3. Erwin Panofsky's "Introductory," published in his Studies in

Iconology: Humanistic Themes in the Art of the Renaissance, (1939);
and James S. Ackerman's "The Historian as Critic," published in
Art and Archaeology (1963). Panofsky's schema for the study of
meaning in art is so well known it needs no introduction. Tooled
to the interests of the Warburg approach, it has been used with
immense profit by scholars prepared to cope with its erudite
demands and discipline. The peril of misusing the system has not
gone unnoticed, and even the system itself has been criticized for
imposing its intellectual bias upon the nature and production of
art, for leveling value, and for depreciating the stylistic and the
connoisseur approaches. The system works most sympathetically for
the area that stimulated its creation -- the Renaissance. It falls
short when applied to landscape painting, abstract art, and the art
of exotic times and lands.

Ackerman's system -- presented here in my synoptic adaptation of

his text (Figure 1) -- is relatively new and not yet as well known
as it should be. My table hardly reflects Ackerman's subtle
description of the varied factors that influence every step we make
to objectify our statements. He explains how a cataloguer's bias
may unconsciously prompt him to misread unclear clues so as to suit
his predisposition -- even on the level of the empirical. For
example, an estimation of an unclear watermark on the paper of a
drawing thought to be precious may be nudged into clarity in order
to support the preferred conclusion.

Ackerman's category of the Empirical is not found in Panofsky's

system -- although, to be sure, the scholars of the Warburg Institute
were most attentive to such matters. The Analytic section, while
related to both the Primary and Secondary of Panofsky's scheme, is
given a different emphasis.

Ackerman employs a linguistic approach that analyzes the basic

elements of form and symbols and then shows how these elements are
structured into complex combinations that can be read as units with-
out understanding, or read in total context as a language. The
approach is more modern and far-reaching than Panofsky's. Even
nonobjective art is congenial to its scrutiny. Also helpful is
36
 Ackerman's special treatment of Connoisseurship. The third level of
each system is closely related, and both are called by their authors
"Synthetic."

4. In calculating field needs I have used a simple numeric system. The

alphanumeric system would be better as it is more economical (the
alphabet gives sixteen more possibilities per space than does zero
to nine), and it lends itself to more accurate usage (the phone
number RA 9-4503 is easier to remember than 729-4503). The optimum
gestalt of numbers and letters should be worked out by psychologists
specializing in these matters.

5. The DIAL system of classification, explained in booklets that accom-

pany the photographs, was worked out by Dr. H. van de Waal, profes-
sor of Art History at Leyden University. See Philipp Fehl's review
in the Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 21 (1962), p. 86.

6. See, for example, the Shelf Item Transmittal form used by the music
library of Harpur College (SUNY at Binghamton) for producing its
Automated Music and Score Catalogue. The gentlemen who planned this
catalogue, especially Mr. Alfred Lynn, have been most helpful to me
during the preparation of this paper.

37
 A PROTOTYPE COMPUTERIZED SYSTEM FOR ARCHAEOLOGICAL COLLECTIONS

by

Dee F. Green

Weber State College

Facing up to the problem of what to do with our abundance of

collections is, I take it, a major reason for this conference. I need

not, therefore, elaborate this point but only pause to call attention to

the particularly critical situation with regard to archaeological col-

lections. As you are all aware, the archaeologist is far less discrim-

inating in what he collects than is the ethnologist or art collector,

and museums who indulge in archaeological projects usually wind up with

vast quantities of broken potsherds and other material, which, after

brief analysis are consigned to the lower out-of-the-way regions. As an

archaeologist, I would be the last to plead for a stop to collecting

artifacts through proper archaeological survey and excavation. But

before the artifacts are finally stored away, I think there is a great

deal more that can be done to improve analysis, and I am going to pro-

pose a system to facilitate this.

It seems to me that museums face two problems with archaeologi-

cal materials. First, there is the general problem of control over a

collection. This is essentially an internal problem to the museum, con-

sisting of such information as where the specimens reside, their poten-

tial for display purposes, and similar kinds of record keeping. The
39
second problem is that of control over the research potential of a

collection. Just how much primary research data about an artifact or

collection of artifacts should or can be made available to a scholar?

I cannot answer this question because the answer obviously varies from

museum to museum, depending on institutional resources. Nevertheless, I

believe all would agree that museums exist not just to display things

but to function as repositories of primary data for use by the scholarly

community.

Some work has already been done on these problems of archaeo-

logical collection control not only by me but by others such as Robert

Chenhall at Arizona State. Chenhall's system (1967) is a modification

of a classificatory procedure first propounded by Taylor in 1948.

Chenhall's model can be represented thus:

A. Identifying and Relational Attributes

1. Catalogue Number
2. Provenience
3. Date
4. Quantity
5. Apparently Significant Associations

B. Descriptive Attributes

1. Apparent Function or Use

2. Form
3. Material
4. Technique of Manufacture
5. Surface Treatment and Design
6. Dimensions

While the scheme is good as far as it goes, it has two serious

weaknesses for museums. First, under category A a museum needs more

information than the model provides, for example: storage location,

condition of artifact, suitability for display, special handling, etc.

This is no criticism of Chenhall, since he did not have museum problems

40
specifically in mind when the model was constructed. The second weak-

ness is, in my opinion, more serious. His system is designed for

general-purpose analysis of any artifact, and over this we part company.

I favor greater detail in the attribute analysis with systems designed

for specific classes of artifacts rather than a system for all arti-

facts, not that I discourage comparisons between groups or classes of

artifacts. But, I believe that analysis must begin on a lower level,

that is, with classes of artifacts such as pottery, or projectile points,

and then move to higher comparative levels. In order for this procedure

to succeed, a specific system for each class of artifact is needed.

Important steps in this direction have been taken by Gardin

(1967), especially with regard to artifacts from the Old World. His

ceramic code is much more detailed with regard to shape, due in part to

more complicated vessel forms in the Old World. His contributions to

iconographie, architectural, and metal tool analysis are under develop-

ment and experimentation, with results anxiously awaited. While Gardin

has not designed his system specifically for museums, it does more

closely approach my own efforts than that of Chenhall with regard to

attribute detail.

My system calls for the creation of two data files by museums.

The first, based on the museum's own catalogue and internal control pro-

cedures, would be used by the museum staff for its various purposes and

as a general reference file by scholars. I do not propose that any

overall system for this area be adopted around the country. Rather,

museums should adopt reasonable and fairly uncomplicated systems focused

on the administrative and secretarial needs of the collection. Anyone

armed with a copy of the system and knowledge of data processing

41
techniques can soon make it work for him. The primary function here is

to exercise the necessary internal control and provide the researcher

with a key to the detailed data to be found in the second file.

This second file, which is the focus of my remarks, is in real-

ity a new frontier for museums. Because of the analysis time involved

in describing artifact attributes in the detail called for by my scheme,

I do not anticipate a wholesale adoption. On the other hand, archaeolo-

gists really interested in asking more questions of their data, and

museums committed to providing outstanding research information, must

sooner or later awake to the fact that only through data processing

techniques are we likely to accomplish this. In his Alkali Ridge report

(1946) Brew made the plea for the creation of more and more artifact

analysis categories by archaeologists. In the period since he wrote

this the need has not diminished, and I suspect there is not a collec-

tion yet which has had all the important information drained out of it.

This is not finding fault with archaeologists. After all, one can spend

only so much time sorting sherds or other artifacts from pile to pile

and making observations about them. With the advent of the modern elec-

tronic computer, however, the sorting, resorting, and widespread compari-

sons of which we all would like to do more are now practical.

Formation of a Primary Attribute Research System

The first step in the formation of a system to analyze artifact

attributes is the creation of a coding procedure. Above all, any code

must be open-ended in order to allow for expansion or contraction,

depending on the attributes one can observe. For example, there is no

need for the category Greatest Body Diameter when one is analyzing
42
broken pottery. On the other hand, such a category may be very useful

if one is dealing with a collection of whole vessels. A second consid-

eration is that of numeric versus descriptive coding. In the past most

codes constructed for use in archaeology have been of the numeric kind;

that is, a number was used to represent an attribute: 1,, sand temper;

2., crushed sherd temper; 3., shell temper, and so on. Numeric codes

have the advantage of compactness, especially where one is entering data

on punch cards. Their great disadvantage, however, is that one must be

very thoroughly educated to the code in order to remember what the num-

bers in all those columns represent. If one is dealing with several

codes for the various artifacts, confusion obviously compounds. Further-

more, it is discouraging for anyone other than the writer of the code or

an intensive user to have to learn the system.

Descriptor codes that use words such as sand temper, crushed

sherd temper, and shell temper, rather than numbers, provide the user

with easily identifiable categories but with uncontrollable bulk when

using punch cards. The choice of code, then, depends partly on the fac-

tors just mentioned plus the configuration of computer equipment avail-

able to the user. Increased use of typewriter-style remote terminals

for input will probably increase the use of descriptor-type codes.

Although descriptor codes complicate the programming operations, this is

usually not an insurmountable burden if one has access to a good

programmer. The systems illustrated combine both numeric and descriptor

coding so that either system may be used.

A sec end and much thornier problem develops when one sits down

to decide just which attributes should be recorded. Observing only

those for which there are immediate problems at hand involves the risk
43
of having to go through the whole collection again in order to observe

something that one missed the first time through, something that became

important only later in the analysis. On the other hand, there is no

point in recording attributes that are of no value and may never be

used. The problem arises over the definition of an attribute of no

value. Of no value to whom? And of no value when? I am not satisfied

with the suggestion that one should observe only those attributes that

one finds archaeologists using in modern field reports, except perhaps

as an excuse to cut down the number of observations one may make. Nor

am I convinced that we fully understand all the attributes of value,

although we certainly recognize many of them. On the other hand one can

compound to unwieldy proportions the number of attributes observed.

Frankly, I do not have the answers to this problem, and my attribute

lists probably err in both directions.

Before I present information on three codes already developed,

I should like to thank Janet Scott, Carol Scott Price, and James E.

Price, all former students at the University of Missouri who were

instrumental in the development of these codes. I should also point out

that the present system does not yet include codes for every potential

class of artifact. The Projectile Point Code is still under develop-

ment, as are codes for such categories as chipped stone tools other than

projectiles (this code may wind up combined with the former), ground and

pecked stone tools, figurines, miscellaneous ceramic items, wooden imple-

ments, and so forth.

My intention is to publish a handbook incorporating the detailed

codes as soon as we can get them finished and criticized. Of the three

codes (Ceramic, Basketry, and Bone Tool) to be presented below only one,
44
the Ceramic Code, has actually been tried out on a collection. It was

formulated in its early stages by Ray T. Matheny (1963) and Lawrence

Anderson (1963) at Brigham Young University on a model abstracted from

Anna Shepard's Ceramics for the Archaeologist (1961). It was used with

some reservations by Matheny on a sherd collection from Aguacatal,

Campeche, Mexico. I then modified it for the analysis of a whole-

vessel collection from the Lower Mississippi Valley at the University of

Arkansas Museum (see Green and McGimsey, 1965). The version presented

here (Figures 1-6) is a refinement of the Arkansas code for use on

either sherd or whole-vessel collections. A code for European pottery

has been published by Gardin (1962).

In its complete form the Ceramic Code can be contained on four

punch cards with ample room for adding new attributes especially on card

two. Card one contains descriptive attributes for either sherds or

whole pots. Some of these attributes are shown on the left-hand side

of the illustration (Figure 1 ) . Card two contains measurement data,

most of which is applicable only to whole vessels. Cards three and four

contain design information. The next several illustrations show various

detailed portions of the code, including the format used (Figure 2) and

such items as the Type Name List of ceramics from the Lower Mississippi

Valley vessel shape classifications (Figure 3 ) , geometric classifica-

tions (Figures 4,5), and rim and lip profile chart (Figure 6 ) .

There is no reason why a particular collection should use all

four cards. In fact most sherd collections can probably be studied

without card two. Nor is there anything sacred in arrangement of the

attributes on the cards. I have used seven spaces for catalogue number

out of convenience to systems with which I have worked, and I have

45
 FIGURE ONE PRIMARY ATTRIBUTE RESEARCH SYSTEM
FOR ARCHEOLOGICAL COLLECTIONS

A DATA PROCESSING HANDBOOK

By Dee F . Green

Ceramic Code O u t l i n e

Card 1 Work Punch Card 2 Work Punch

Card Card Card Card

Serial Number (1) 1-7 Serial Number (1) 1-7

Type Name (2) 8-9 Wall Thickness (43) 8-10

Use or Function (3) 10- 11 Orifice Diameter (44) 11-13

Rim and Lip Class (4) 12- 13 Neck Diameter (45) 14-16

Handles (5) 14- 15 Throat Diameter (46) 17-19

Other Appendages (6) 16- 17 Body Diameter (47) 20-22

Effigy (7) 18- 19 Support Height (48) 23-25

Eccentric Vessels (8) 20- 21 Shoulder Height (49) 26-28

Base Class (9) 22 Body Height (50) 29-31

Structural Class (10) 23- 24 Distance Throat to

Orifice (51) 30-32
Geometric Class of
Body side view (ID 25 Distance Minimal
Diameter to Orifice (52) 33-35
Geometric Class of
Body top-view (12) 26 Diameter at Base
Equater (53) 36-38
Geometric Class of fleck (13]27
Vessel Weight (54) 39-41
Exterior Surface
Hardness (14) 28 Vessel Volume (55) 42-44

Interior Surface
Hardness (15) 29

Exterior Smoothness (16) 30

Interior Smoothness (17) 31

Exterior Luster, Ev enness (18) 32

Interior Luster, Ev enness (19) 33

 FIGURE TWO DETAIL CERAMIC CODE

(1) (4)

Serial Number 1-7 Rim and Lip Class 12-13

0000000-999999999 00-99

00 - Unknown

(2) 01 - See Chart (Figure 6)

Type Name 8-9

00-99 (5)
00 - Unknown Handles 14-15

01 - See Type Name List (Figure 3) Digit 1 Kind

0-9

(3) 0 - Unkn own

Use or Function 10-11 1 - Lug

00-99 2 - Basket

00 - Unknown 3 - Loop

01 - Water Carrying 4 - Strap

02 - Water Storage 5 - Effigy

03 - Food Preparation 6 - Ribbon

04 - Food Cooking 7 -

05 - Ceremonial General 8 -

06 - Ceremonial Grave 9 - Combinations

07 - Digie 2 Placement

08 - 0-3

09 - 0 - Unknown
10 - 1 - Vertical

2 - Horizontal
 FIGURE THREE TYPE NAME LIST

00 - Unknown 23 - Kent Incised

01 - Árcela Incised 24 - Larte Red Filmed

02 - Avenue Polychrome 25 - Leland Incised

03 - Bell Plain 26 - Manachac Incised

04 - Bluff Creek Punctated 27 - Manly Punctated

05 Bowie Plain 28 - Marksville Incised

06 - Campbell Incised 29 - Marksville Plain

07 - Campbell Applique 30 - Marksville Red Filmed

08 - Campbell Punctated 31 - Marksville Stamped

09 - Carson Red-on-Buff 32 - Mazique Incised

10 - Chevalier Stamped 33 - Mound Place Incised

11 - Churupa Punctated 34 - Mulberry Creek Cord-marked

12 - Coles Creek Incised 35 - Neeley's Ferry Plain

13 - Cowhide Stamped 36 - Old Town Red

14 - Dupree Incised 37 - Oliver Incised

15 - Evansville Punctated 38 - Owens Punctated

16 - Fatherland Incised 39 - Parkin Punctated

17 - Fortune Noded 40 - Plaquemine Brushed

18 - French Fort Incised 41 - Ranch Incised

19 - Greenhouse Incised 42 - Rhodes Incised

20 - Hardy Incised 43 - Stokes Bayou Incised

21 - Hull Engraved 44 - Tchefuncte Plain

22 - Indian Bay Stamped 45 - Vernon Paul Applique

48
 unrestricted vessels

simple contours

composite contours

Q
inflected contours complex contours

simple and dependent restricted vessels

simple contours composite contours

inflected contours complex contours

independent restricted vessels

composite contours inflected contours

complex contours

FIGURE FOUR SHAPE CLASSIFICATION AND VESSEL CONTOURS

 <:
/ \
spheroid
e> wfe>
vertical ellipsoid 2

^----•»s

horizontal ellipsoid 3
^J Ö
inverted ovaloid 4

^ >,
upright ovaloid 5

cylinder
V w J

hyperboloid 7

cone
Q O ^
FIGURE FIVE GEOMETRIC CLASSIFICATION
 Ol 08 15 22 29

02 09 16 23 30

03 10 17 24 31

04 11 18 25 32

05 12 19 26 33

06 13 20 27 34

07 14 21 28 35

FIGURE SIX RIM and LIP PROFILE CHART

51
placed them in the first columns because I prefer to work with them

there rather than on the right-hand side. What is important is not so

much the order of arrangement as the convenience of arrangement for a

particular type of collection and its problems. If the researcher is

careful to specify where and in what shape his data is found, it can be

changed into another format as needed for comparisons between collec-

tions. It is a very simple matter to write a program that will move

data from column to column and from card to card. In formulating this

system I have in mind only a working model, not a set of rigid boun-

daries .

Some comments are in order regarding the use of the Ceramic

Code. First of all, we have discovered that where several individuals

are doing the coding it is best to divide up the attributes rather than

the pots. This is not so critical with items such as measurement, but

it is critical with color designations. If a single individual does the

color there is greater probability that vessels vary nearly the same

color will be so designated, especially if the finer destinctions pos-

sible with the Munsell Guide are used. Another useful device not illus-

trated is a multiple factor for sherds; that is, many sherds in a col-

lection can be described with exactly the same set of attributes. Where

this occurs, columns 79 and 80 of punch card one are reserved for the

purpose. Rather than make a card for each sherd, the total number is

simply punched in those columns.

If the numeric code is being used, an additional step in the

coding process is usually introduced. This is the recording of the

numeric designations on a work card from which the keypunching and veri-

fying are done. This extra step is an additional source of possible

52
error and it must be closely supervised and double checked. If one is

fortunate enough to possess a terminal in his laboratory, the data can

be entered directly as observed. For this purpose IBM has a machine

called the 1092 Programmed Keyboard; although I have not used it myself,

it appears to be excellent for this type of work. Plastic overlays con-

taining the options available (in our case the various ceramic attri-

butes), are placed over the keyboard. The various keys can then be

depressed as choices about attributes are made. An outstanding feature

of this machine is that it allows for immediate correction. If you have

made an error or you change your mind before the data is sent, a correc-

tion key allows you to make a new selection. When you are satisfied

that all the observations have been made correctly, the data is sent all

at once and you can go on to a new overlay or a new artifact. Used in

tandemn, these devices allow you to put such constants as serial number

in one machine and a variety of data in the second. New hardware of

this type with proper software support is going to revolutionize the

archaeological laboratory.

Returning to our specific codes, the following two illustrations

represent a few of the attribute categories in our Basketry and Bone

Tool codes (Figures 7,8). Detailed breakdowns are similar in format to

those already illustrated for Ceramics. Besides the numeric and verbal

breakdowns, we are providing an illustration for basketry starting (Fig-

ure 9 ) .

Since this is a prototype code meant for discussion and criti-

cism I shall be most happy to entertain suggestions and questions. In

addition I have copies of some of the codes if anyone is interested in

looking at them in greater detail than I have been able to illustrate.

53
FIGURE SEVEN SELECTED LIST OF ATTRIBUTES
FROM BONE TOOL CODE

1. Serial Number

2. Type Name

3. Use or Function

4. Geometric Shape of Tool

5. O u t l i n e Shape of Tool

6. Geometric Shape of Tool Edges

7. C r o s s - S e c t i o n

8. Type of Animal used

9. Type of Bone used

10. Finish

11. Decoration

12. Length

13. Widest Width

14. Narrowest Width

15. Special Characteristics for Fishooks

16. Special Characteristics for Harpoons

17. Special Characteristics for Masks and Images

18. Special Characteristics for Whistles and Flutes

54
FIGURE EIGHT SELECTED LIST OF ATTRIBUTES
FROM BASKETRY CODE

1. Serial Number

2. Use or Function

3. Structural Class

4. Geometric Class

5. Orifice Diameter

6. Body Diameter

7. Throat Diameter

8. Diameter of Standard

9. Diameter of Thread

10. Weight

11. Volume

12. Primary Weave

13. Type of Finish

14. Ply of Basket

15. False Embroidery Motif

16. General Form of Decoration

17. Arrangement of Motif

18. Spacing of Structural Elements

55
 tied stratified lashed woven

single
m- JX
a
-o
standard
7iK -/Q=CX
d 3
c
o i i

a
bunch
III ^
-a standard
1
a b-i-fir -
TTTT-PH 12 13 14

-tifltif-
flat
start ils mm -s-
ilTìfìT- <S>\X-
b
i l I i i -j;-j;-j;-srJ?J(- V'/if-J! « « «
b 16 S-Ji-
15 17 «««18 19 20 21
O 17A
"O o >r

8»
c
o linear L.|_LIJ_IJ
start -/-/-/-/-/-/- fJJJ.U
•a b 'V>v/
cu
4) 23 24 24A 25 27 28
26
o
start
from
>41^1JKLi>
edge
29 30 31 31 A 32 33 34 35

G
^ )
36 37 38 39

FIGURE N I N E BASKETRY S T A R T I N G
 Bibliography

Anderson, Lawrence 0., 1963. A Pilot Study in the Application of Elec-

tronic Computers in the Analysis of Ceramics Part I: Classification
Code and Mechanics. Paper read before the 28th Annual Meeting of
the Society for American Archaeology. Boulder.

Brew, John Otis, 1946. Archaeology of Alkali Ridge, Southeastern Utah.

Papers of the Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology,
Harvard University, Vol. 21, Cambridge.

Chenhall, Robert F., 1967. The Description of Archaeological Data in

Computer Language, American Antiquity, Vol. 32, No. 2, pp. 161-167.
Salt Lake City.

Gardin, Jean-Claude, 1962. Projet de code pour l'analyse des formes de

Poteries. Centre d'analyse Documentaire pour 1'archaeologie.

Gardin, Jean-Claude, 1967. Methods for the Descriptive Analysis of

Archaeological Material. American Antiquity, Vol. 32, No. 1,
pp. 13-30. Salt Lake City.

Green, Dee F. and Charles R. McGimsey, 1965. A Computer Analysis of

Eastern Arkansas Ceramics. Paper read before the 30th Annual
Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology. Urbana.

Matheny, Ray T., 1963. A Pilot Study in the Application of Electronic

Computers in the Analysis of Ceramics Part II: Results. Paper read
before the 28th Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeo-
logy. Boulder.

Shepard, Anna 0., 1961. Ceramics for the Archaeologist. Publication

609. Carnegie Institution of Washington. Washington D.C.

Taylor, Walter W., 1948. A Study of Archaeology. American Anthropolo-

gist Memoir 69, Vol. 50, No. 3, Part 2. Menasha.

57
 THE ANALYSIS OF MUSEUM SYSTEMS

by

Robert G. Chenhall

Arizone State University

INFORMATION RETRIEVAL AND SYSTEMS ANALYSIS

In this symposium, at least in the section on documentary

applications, we are considering two different kinds of activities, and

the relationship of these two activities to the records-management prob-

lems of museums. The first is, perhaps, implicit in the title of the

conference. In a word-association game, for example, the phrase "Com-

puters and their Potential Applications in Museums" would probably

elicit a response such as "Data Storage and Retrieval" or "Information

Retrieval" from most educated people. The second type of activity,

which I shall call "systems analysis," is not as obvious as the first,

but it is certainly of equal importance; perhaps, as we shall see, of

even greater importance than information retrieval per se.

Information retrieval is essentially a communication network.

Its ultimate purpose has been stated as the attempt "to help Man make

fullest use of the knowledge he discovers and records" (Becker and Hayes

1963: 15). Because libraries are the principal repositories of the

knowledge man has discovered and recorded, investigations of information

retrieval techniques have been closely associated with the library

59
sciences. However, this is not a necessary association, and we should

consider the concepts of information retrieval as having at least poten-

tial application to photographs, to magnetic tapes, and to any other

class of objects that convey some materialized representation of man's

knowledge. The association of information retrieval with museums of all

types is, therefore, quite logical.

The technique or methodology of information retrieval involves

the process of recovering information-bearing symbols from their storage

places in response to requests from prospective users of the information

(Meadow 1967: 3 ) . The concern is not with the meaning or the semantic

content of the information stored or recovered, though certainly one

objective has to be the development of systems that will not unduly

inhibit the free flow of this semantic content. Instead, the primary

concern of information retrieval is the technical problems associated

with the physical transmission of meaningful information, not the con-

tent or meaning of the information transmitted.

Systems analysis, on the other hand, is vitally concerned with

what is communicated through information retrieval techniques, as well

as with why this communication takes place and what is accomplished by

it.

Information retrieval involves the technical aspects of record

and file organization -- data management, as it is often called. It

means developing a knowledge of subjects such as natural languages,

coding techniques, the logical progression of record structures, record

sequencing, record positioning, branching, and chaining techniques.

Beyond this, if the system is to be computer oriented -- and today we

should assume this as at least a possibility, present or future --

60
additional knowledge is required in the area of computer record handling,

especially methods of merging, sorting, file searching, and file main-

tenance.

Systems analysis is a little harder to define in such specific

terms, for it involves the consideration of goals and purposes rather

than the technical means of achieving those goals.

These two types of activities are interdependent, and both are

important. They complement each other. However, in this paper I empha-

size systems analysis, for in the kinds of organizations with which most

of us are associated, the consideration of why we are doing what we are

doing is too often overlooked. In fact, outside of business and the

military and space enterprises, very few organizations ever stop to con-

sider, systematically, what it is they are trying to accomplish through

their communications. It is in this consideration that systems analysis

or systems engineering can play a significant role.

Systems analysis is not a universal panacea any more than the

computer is a magical black box that will accomplish anything we may

wish for. A recent editorial in Science magazine, for example (Boffey

1967), describes some of the problems encountered in applying systems

engineering techniques to nonmilitary governmental activities. The con-

clusion is stated, only half humorously, that the technique, perhaps,

is fine, but where can the United States Government find some more

McNamaras to make it work the way it did at Ford and in the Pentagon?

Whatever else may be said of it, however, systems analysis does inject a

measure of logic into the consideration of objectives; and, where it has

been used, it has produced results that, overall, were more effective

than any less well organized subjective techniques.

61
 The idea of systems analysis in business and elsewhere (see

Optner 1960: 3-19 for a clear exposition of the basic principles) arose

from the comparison of human or man-machine systems with that broad

class of highly structured physical systems which we encounter in such

places as a radio, a television set, a telephone network, or an oil

refinery. Each of these physical phenomena has certain characteristics

in common with each of the others: known inputs, certain resultant out-

puts, an activity or processor that produces reliable output from the

known inputs, and feedback and control mechanisms that adjust the inputs

automatically any time the output fails to measure up to expectations.

These physical systems are also called closed systems, because they are

relatively free from variation or disturbance and because they work more

or less automatically. In addition, they are highly structured.

If we use the same model and compare these physical systems with

nonphysical, incompletely structured, human or man-machine systems such

as a transportation network, a factory, or a city, we find that the lat-

ter class of systems have somewhat different manifestations of these

five operational characteristics, but that the properties are the same.

For example:

Property Physical Systems Man-Machine Systems

1. Input Invariant; no disturbance Variable; many disturbances

2. Output Predictable; statistically Unpredictable; statistically

stable unstable

3. Processor Machine-like Man or man-machine combination

4. Control Reliability close to 100% Wide range of reliability

5. Feedback Self-organizing Outputs are not automatically
reintroduced to improve
performance

62
 A convenient way of looking at the functional relationships that

exist among the five properties of any system can be borrowed from the

way a computer system is organized (Figure 1 ) . In any system, these

five properties of input, output, central processor, control, and feed-

back exist. A computer is not a strictly physical system, of course,

even though it contains many subsystems that do operate in a physical,

structured manner. A complete computer system, however, is a man-machine

system, incompletely structured by our definition, as anyone who has

ever worked with one can readily attest. A recent experience with an

industrial computer installation illustrates this very clearly. Only

after the first output was obtained, and the runs produced accounting

entries that were not in balance (which, of course, is unthinkable) did

the human feedback system go to work to set up better controls over the

input -- in this case, not data input, but program input.

control

1
in put T • p r o c e s sor ~^ output

feed back

FIGURE ONE

Computers, as physical systems, today are highly reliable; com-

puters, as man-machine systems are becoming more reliable as we learn

more and more about how to set up our controls and feedback to adjust

input quickly and dependably. Whether we are looking at a closed

63
physical system within a computer, a partially structured, man-machine

computer operation, a missile in flight, dependent upon that computer

for the determination of its direction (the computer operation here

becomes a subsystem), a factory producing nose cones for the missile

(another subsystem), or a museum, the structure of the model is the

same. Each of these is a complex of systems and subsystems with

input(s), output(s), a processor, control, and feedback, all more or

less controlled and reliable.

ANALYSIS OF MUSEUM SYSTEMS

Now let us look at the museum as a system, in the same way that

we might look at a missile, a business, or any other enterprise, through

the eyes of a systems engineer. The first logical question to ask is,

what are the outputs? Always start with the output, since this estab-

lishes the purpose for which the system exists; and, always start with

the largest system first, for the subsystems will not be meaningful

except in the context of the overall objectives of the larger system.

The functional relationships in the museum might be expressed

in the modular form of Figure 2. The outputs will vary from one museum

to another, but those are at least a few of the possibilities. Some

museums exist primarily to serve a viewing public. Others are research

oriented, either research conducted by the local staff of the museum or

as a service to scholars all over the country, perhaps both. Some

museums also have clearly defined educational objectives. These or

other purposes, perhaps in combination, are the reasons why the organi-

zation exists. The important thing is to start with an honest

64
 control

legal requirements
policies, o r g a n i z a t i o n , plan of operation

input
processor
I output
labor — viewing public
t b
supplies W museum operation — research
w — teaching
capital

f e e d back
attendance
use of f a c i l i t i e s
continued financial support

FIGURE TWO

assessment of these underlying objectives. Whom are we trying to serve,

and in what way?

The other properties shown in this diagram are readily apparent.

Note that here the museum operation is the system under study, and that

its place in the module is as the processor. Controls are of two types:

external, such as legal requirements and, perhaps, a charter established

by a governing body; and internal -- the controls established by manage-

ment to monitor the way in which operations are conducted. Capital may

be considered broadly as comprising both funded capital and donations in

the form of either objects or money for acquisitions.

Feedback exists in any system. The only question is whether or

not the feedback mechanism works to adjust the action of the processor

before a major disruption occurs. For example, if attendance or facil-

ity use falls off, do you know what segment of your public is involved

65
so that you can investigate and take corrective action quickly? This,

in turn, raises a further question: should you have a subsystem to

determine who uses the facilities and why? By the time financial sup-

port begins to drop the situation is already serious, but this is

nevertheless the ultimate sanction of your users and definitely a part

of the feedback idea.

The problem of the systems engineer is to design each system

and subsystem so as to take advantage of all system elements; to create

feedback mechanisms that compensate as automatically as possible.

AN EXAMPLE: THE MUSEUM AT ARIZONA STATE UNIVERSITY

What has been said so far is not specific enough. To be opera-

tional, this generalized picture of a museum system will have to be

restated, first, as a particular museum containing some specific segment

of "Man's knowledge"; and, second, as the sum of its most important

subsystems. To illustrate these principles, let us take the Anthro-

pology Museum at Arizona State University and a subsystem that is common

to most, if not all museums: the Accession Record and Cataloguing

System. This happens to be an information system that several students

developed under my direction, following somewhat the techniques outlined

above.

The Museum at Arizona State is an integral part of the Depart-

ment of Anthropology. It has a relatively small display area at

present, but houses a nice collection of archaeological objects, from

the Southwest and elsewhere, a fairly large collection of material cul-

ture items from all over the world, and an excellent photographic record

66
of t h e w o r l d ' s s o c i e t i e s and customs. The t h r e e primary f u n c t i o n s of

the museum a r e :

1. To t r a i n s t u d e n t s in museum t e c h n i q u e s ( a l l displays are the

result of t h i s training);

2. To p r o v i d e r e s o u r c e m a t e r i a l s for f a c u l t y use in the c l a s s r o o m ;

and

3. To p r o v i d e comparative r e s e a r c h d a t a for b o t h g r a d u a t e students

and f a c u l t y members.

S e r v i c e to a viewing p u b l i c i s d e f i n i t e l y a secondary objective.

These o u t p u t s of the o v e r a l l system might be d i s p l a y e d as in F i g u r e 3 .

training students
museum
- • <( teaching aids
operat ions
research materials

FIGURE THREE

In order for the museum to be a meaningful and effective system

in terms of these functions, it was necessary to analyze several of the

subsystems involved and to design these as integral parts of the larger

museum operation. In Figure 4, we see two of the most important of

these subsystems and their relationship to each other and to the larger

system. The Information Subsystem answers the question, "Can I, with

reasonable effort, determine whether we have anything that might be sig-

nificant to my problem?" The Storage Subsystem answers the question,

"If I do think something might be important, can I find it? Is it

available? Is it accessible?"

67
 other information storage
subsystems subsystem subsystem

feed back
I _J

FIGURE FOUR MUSEUM OPERATION

Note that the feedback mechanism shown here does not work just

within each subsystem. Rather, it is an overall thing, significant only

for the total museum operation, and in terms of the question: are the

primary functions (the outputs) accomplished -- that is, are the faculty

and students actually using the facilities in the ways that they were

intended to be used?

We cannot discuss here all of the subsystems that are a part of

the total museum operation. In an actual situation, each of these must

be considered and analyzed separately, as if it were an independent sys-

tem, with outputs that serve specifically delineated functions in the

total or larger museum system, and with inputs, a processor, and con-

trols necessary to accomplish the desired outputs. As an example of

this analysis process, let us take just the Information Subsystem at

Arizona State University. This will serve our purpose adequately and,

in addition, it will get us back to our related activity of information

retrieval and the unifying theme of this conference: namely, computers.

Incidently, the system that resulted from this analysis is computer

68
oriented. Furthermore, it is designed to take advantage of the tremen-

dous potentialities we see in a computer-microfilm interface. The

entire system is not completed yet, but the computer programs necessary

to the functioning of the Information Subsystem are operative.

To begin with, it was necessary to evaluate the Information Sub-

system in terms of its outputs. What did we want to accomplish here,

and what information would the users of the system probably expect from

it? One of two general approaches was possible:

1. Output could be expressed as just that information which might be

necessary in order to readily locate objects -- that is, output of the

Information Subsystem might be tied directly, with one-for-one corres-

pondence, to the input of the Storage Subsystem; or

2. Output could be expressed in terms of the final output of the

overall museum operation. This would be necessary, for example, where

one of the prime functions of the museum was to service information

requests from remote locations. The Information Subsystem, in cases

such as this, cannot merely point to the location of the object and tell

the user to go look at it.

At Arizona State University, the needs are all local and the

output of the Information Subsystem is nothing more complex than a cata-

logue number and a brief description of the object. However, note that

that catalogue number must also provide ready access to the physical

location of the object, photograph or file -- that is, it must be tied

to the Storage Subsystem for the overall operation to perform satisfac-

torily.

The next consideration was input. How would the users of the

museum be most likely to approach the Information System? Here we were

69
fortunate in that we are serving only anthropologists. When anthro-

pologists are either examining or looking for a materialized representa-

tion of man's activities, they will almost always think in terms of one

of the following four conceptual frames of reference or a relationship

existing between two or more of these frames of reference:

1. A particular kind of object -- that is, an object created to ful-

fill some particular function: a sandal, an ax, an atlatl;

2. An object associated with a particular society or culture;

3. An object created from a particular material by a certain method

of manufacture -- for example, an object of vesicular besalt, ground or

pecked, as opposed to an object of obsidian, pressure flaked; or

4. An object from a particular location (the provenience). Because

of these more or less dependable needs in an anthropology museum, it was

possible to design as input to the Information System an accession card

limited to eleven elements of information:

1. Category

2. Class

3. Culture

4. Material and method of manufacture

5. Provenience

6. Catalogue number and brief description

7. Value

8. Donor and d a t e of donation

9. Photographic cross-reference

10. Condition

11. Comments

70
 The selection of these data elements cannot be described in

detail here. Both the framework for the descriptive categories and the

logic of their selection have been discussed in other publications

(Chenhall 1967; 1968). The first two elements -- category and class --

are a broad-term or generalized taxonomie unit and a narrow-term or

more limited taxonomie unit for describing the apparent function or use

intended for the object by the artisan who created it. For example,

within the category (broad term) of "container," there would be the

class (narrow term) of "bowl"; within the category of "clothing," there

would be the class of "sandal." This might be called a two-level

subject-heading system for indexing function or use. It is similar,

structurally, to the subject-heading system used by the Association for

Computing Machinery (ACM) for classifying computer topics (Finerman and

Revens 1963). The other descriptive elements -- culture, material,

provenience, and catalogue number -- are largely self-explanatory.

The third matter for consideration, after general decisions were

reached on the output and inputs to the Information System, was the

nature of the processor. How should these inputs be organized, con-

trolled, and stored or filed so as to produce most efficiently the out-

puts required by the users of the system? Numerous alternatives were

available here, but the processor that was finally decided upon works

thus:

1. When a new accession is received, a typed 4 x 6-inch card is pre-

pared, setting forth the eleven elements of input data. For the descrip-

tive information, a thesaurus is used. This is to some extent peculiar

to our own needs but is patterned after the dictionary Ricciardelli and

his associates developed in connection with their Pilot Program to

71
Devise a Means of Cataloguing Ethnological Collections (Ricciardelli

n.d.; also 1967).

2. From these accession cards, the first six elements -- category,

class, culture, material and method of manufacture, provenience, cata-

logue number and brief description -- are keypunched for entry into a

computer-prepared index.

3. Approximately once every six months, the new items that have been

keypunched are run on a card-to-tape routine and then merged into a

master tape file. The master tape file is then sorted into four dif-

ferent hierarchical arrangements with a tape output from each sort.

Each of these is run as a computer printout, and the four listings

together become the new index to be used until another is prepared.

These are the hierarchical sequences of these listings, with the major

fields first in each case:

a. The first is prepared in the sequence in which I have shown

the data here, with categories first and within each category, the

subsidiary classes; within each class, materials and methods of

manufacture; within that, the provenience of each object; and,

finally, the catalogue number and a brief description.

b. The second sequence is with a primary sort by culture; and

within that, by category, class, material and method of manufacture,

provenience, catalogue number and description.

c. The third sort is by material first, and within that by

category, class, culture, provenience, and catalogue number.

d. The fourth sort is by provenience first, and then by category,

class, culture, material and method of manufacture, and catalogue

number.
72
 Systems flow sheets, showing in simplified form the files and

programs associated with the file maintenance operation and the sorting

and printing of the index listings, will be found in Figures 5 and 6.

At one time serious consideration was given to the feasibility

of servicing individual requests for information by going into the tape

file and retrieving whatever might appear to be appropriate, with output

in the form of computer listings. There are a number of practical prob-

lems involved in trying to do this: cost, accessibility of the computer,

the technical knowledge that must be on hand, and perhaps others; but

even aside from these problems, we finally decided that this was not the

best way to meet our particular needs. Instead, we now conceive of the

computer, not as a book of needed information, but only as the index to

the book. The entries and the listings may in some cases answer the

questions being asked, especially if the study is mainly concerned with

counts and correlations. However, more often the entries serve only as

pointers to guide the individual to the objects or photographs or docu-

ments that will most probably serve his needs.

I have mentioned the potentialities of a computer-microfilm

interface. This is the next phase of our program, not a present reality.

However, we are most excited about the possibilities for several

reasons. (1) Most people do not realize this, but it is considerably

cheaper to maintain a page of information on a microfilm frame than it

is to file a comparable quantity of written data on a magnetic tape.

(2) In our field of research, some of the data has displayed a great

reluctance to being codified in mach ine-language form. To be able to

use photographs, maps, diagrams, and, in fact, field notes of all kinds

in their original form would be a distinct advantage, even though it

73
 new
accessions

new
accession
list

sort by
accession number
and card code

new
master
list

FIGURE FIVE FILE MAINTENANCE FLOW DIAGRAM

 sort
index list A
sequence
b c d e f

sort
sequence index list B
c a b d e f

sort
sequence index I ist C
d a b c e f

sort
sequence index list D
e a b c d f

FIGURE SIX FLOW DIAGRAM FOR SORTING& PRINTING INDEX LISTINGS

a category
b class
c culture
d material and method of manufacture
e provenience
f catalogue number and brief description
might also be somewhat embarrassing to have all of our rough notes

available to our colleagues. (3) Finally (the most convincing argument

for microfilm), with equipment that is available today, it is possible

to select any single frame from a file of over one million, and to pro-

duce a photocopy of that frame, all in less than fifteen seconds (Lally

1968).

What we envision is something like this for our museum at

Arizona State University:

1. An individual goes first to the index -- a series of bound,

tabulated listings, one for each of the hierarchical arrangements of

descriptor categories -- to find what we may have on the subject at hand.

2. From any entry in the index, he can determine some of the

attributes of any object we have, and he can take off the catalogue num-

ber of any object, photograph, or document that might be appropriate.

3. Depending on what is wanted, he can then either

a. Obtain a photocopy of the object; or

b. Readily locate the object itself for examination or

to check it out, perhaps, for classroom use.

It doesn't all work this way yet, and it is still too early for

the feedback system to tell us whether or not the information system is

truly effective in terms of the purposes set forth as the outputs of the

total museum operation. However, we are most optimistic.

As far as computers are concerned, this is definitely a "low

key" operation. There is nothing of the conversational mode of data

processing or problem solving on the computer. But in terms of the par-

ticular needs -- the outputs -- of this museum system, the level of com-

puter operation selected seems to be the best answer. I like to think

76
that this answer was reached as a direct result of the methods of sys-

tems analysis that were employed. Perhaps we would have reached the

same conclusions by other means, but at least we have the assurance of

knowing that logic and objectivity were applied to the decision-making

process in the soundest manner possible.

In addition to my work in the museum at Arizona State Univer-

sity, I am presently in the beginning phases of a systems analysis for

another museum. Here we will follow the same principles of analysis,

and, at least to some extent, we will probably end up with a similar

information subsystem. However, the outputs of this museum operation

are considerably different from those at A.S.U. This is almost

exclusively a research oriented situation, and it will have the addi-

tional requirement of having to serve requests from remote locations.

This places the information subsystem in an entirely new dimension. The

important thing to notice, though, is that once again we are: (1) start-

ing with the outputs; and (2) starting with the largest or highest-level

system in our analysis and integrating the subsystems into this larger

system.

CONCLUSIONS

Integration in subsystem design is the key concept of systems

analysis (Optner 1960: 17-19). Integration of systems postulates the

trade-off between the functional requirements of a subsystem with its

immediately related subsystems. Integration in this sense also means

the intercompatibility of subsystem design. Each subsystem becomes a

black box when viewed by the systems engineer. Using the data at his

command, the systems analyst observes the subsystem operation, looking

77
at inputs, outputs, and the processing device (the black box) to

determine whether or not each subsystem is making the desired contribu-

tion to the overall system (museum) requirements.

Systems analysis is built on the premise that there are strik-

ing similarities between the way physical systems and human or man-

machine systems function. The principles of systems engineering sug-

gest that we can learn something about the way any system should operate

by using as a tool the analogy to a logically designed electronic sys-

tem. In a loosely structured, man-machine system such as a museum; the

analyst is not dealing with the machine-like reliability of a highly

structured, closed physical system. Because of this, he has inputs that

are more numerous, more varied, and have more disturbances; numerous

outputs that are frequently unpredictable, or at least statistically

unstable; and a processor that is more loosely defined than that of the

experimenter working under laboratory conditions. However, the prin-

ciples are the same.

The ultimate usefulness of systems analysis is that it provides

a much-needed, objective frame of reference. It is not the entire

answer, of course, but it is a good way of approaching the information

retrieval problem in any museum, small or large.

78
 REFERENCES

Becker, Joseph; and Robert M. Hayes, 1963. Information Storage and

Retrieval: Tools, Elements, Theories. New York, John Wiley & Sons,
Inc.

Boffey, Philip M., 1967. Systems Analysis: No Panacea for Nation's

Domestic Problems. Science, 158: 1028-1030.

Chenhall, Robert G., 1967. The Description of Archaeological Data in

Computer Language. American Antiquity, 32: 161-167.

Chanhall, Robert G., 1968. The Logic of Models Used for Processing
Archaeological Data on Computers. Proceedings of the 1966 Interna-
tional Symposium on Mathematical and Computational Methods in the
Social Sciences. International Computation Center, Rome.

Finerman, Aron, and Lee Revens, 1963. Revision of the Classification

System. Computing Reviews, Association for Computing Machinery, 4:
309-311.

Lally, William, 1968. Comments made at the Fifth Annual Microfilm

Seminar. Reported in Data Systems News, 9: 3 (February 12, 1968).

Meadow, Charles T., 1967. The Analysis of Information Systems: A Pro-

grammer's Introduction to Information Retrieval. New York, John
Wiley & Sons, Inc.

Optner, Stanford L., 1960. Systems Analysis for Business Management.

Englewood Cliffs, N.J., Prentice-Hall, Inc.

Ricciardelli, Alex F., 1967. A Pilot Study for Inventorying Ethnologi-

cal Collections. Norman, Oklahoma, The University of Oklahoma.

Ricciardelli, Alex F., n.d. A Pilot Program to Devise a Means of Cata-

loguing Ethnological Collections. Unpublished manuscript.

79
 D i s c u s s i o n following paper by Robert Chenhall

Miss V i k i Tamaradze [Campus Computer Network UCLA]: Mr. Chenhall,

what does i t c o s t t o p r o c e s s one u s e r ' s request?

Mr. Chenhall: In the p a r t i c u l a r system j u s t d e s c r i b e d ?

Miss Tamaradze: Money i s no problem?

Mr. Chenhall: No, d o n ' t say t h a t . Money i s always a problem,

j u s t as i t i s in any museum. We d o n ' t p r o c e s s a one-user r e q u e s t . This

i s why I say money i s a problem. That i s why we p e r i o d i c a l l y develop a

new index to a l l of the a c q u i s i t i o n s of the museum.

Miss Tamaradze: Suppose you r e c e i v e d a r e q u e s t from another u n i -

v e r s i t y on what you have a v a i l a b l e , s a y , on Hohokum m a t e r i a l . How much

would i t c o s t you t o p r o c e s s i t ?

Mr. Chenhall: Depending upon how r e c e n t l y we have prepared a new

index - - which could be any time from l a s t week t o s i x months ago - - it

could c o s t as l i t t l e a s , I ' l l say, $1.25 or $1.50 for us t o send one of

our working s t u d e n t s i n t o the museum t o look up in our index what we

have in t h e s e p a r t i c u l a r c a t e g o r i e s . Now i f t h i s has t o be e n t i r e l y cur-

r e n t , of c o u r s e , we then w i l l have t o go through the a c c e s s i o n r e c o r d s

s i n c e t h e time of p r e p a r i n g our l a s t p r i n t i n g . This i s t i m e - o r i e n t e d , in

t h a t sense.

Miss Tamaradze: And do you pass the charge on t o the person who

requests this?

Mr. Chenhall: No, we do n o t , not t h i s kind of a c h a r g e , because

t h i s i s simply a s e r v i c e t h a t we supply.

80
 INVENTORYING ETHNOLOGICAL COLLECTIONS IN MUSEUMS

by

Alex F. Ricciardelli

University of Oklahoma

My hopes and those of other museum people for a data bank on

collections have not been dashed. They have, however, been tempered by

some interesting (but practical) and challenging (but grubby) hard work.

There is no other way to express it.

I think my giving you a picture of some of the compelling prob-

lems that required solution before a data bank could come into being

will enable you to anticipate those peculiar to your own studies, and

you will, I hope, have an idea of the kinds of problems -- and chal-

lenges -- that you will want to consider.

By way of background let me first tell you about the pilot study

we have conducted over the past three years. In 1965 we received a

grant from the National Science Foundation for a pilot study to devise

a way to inventory ethnological collections. We hoped this would even-

tually prove feasible on a nationwide basis. Oklahoma was chosen as the

site of the study.

By last summer we had created a data bank containing information

on the ethnological collections of most of the museums in the state.

This file is now at the Stovall Museum of the University of Oklahoma,

headquarters for the pilot study. Information on the collections of

81
twenty-three museums is stored in the data bank. We hope to complete

the inventory this summer of the few remaining state museums. Twenty

thousand specimens were inventoried. For each specimen we tried to

enter these data: object, material, identification technique, function,

culture, Outline of World Culture Code, earliest date, catalog number,

accession date, specific locale, collector, donor, inventory date, and

remarks.

But first we asked ourselves what could be accomplished by this

data bank. Of what use would it be? Would it realize the hopes of

museum directors and other personnel for, on the one hand, a more effi-

cient operation? On the other hand, would it serve the people who use

the museum in any meaningful way? Would it provide a means by which

educators could reveal a new world to their students? Would it provide

a useful tool for scholars by helping them to locate specimens quickly

when otherwise the task might take months, even years? These, then,

were the challenges.

Secondly, there were the practical considerations. What kind of

information did we need to serve the purposes we envisioned for the data

bank? How detailed should that information be? How would we actually

do the inventory? Who would do it? Would the information be uniform?

Would the other museums in the state cooperate with us? And, most

important, how could we maintain a data bank on an ongoing basis?

These were but some of the challenges and practical considera-

tions that had to be taken into account. I can give you only a brief

and superficial look at them, but I hope they will be helpful.

The data I listed a moment ago (locale, collector, function, and

so forth) are now in machine-ready form for each of our twenty thousand
82
specimens. Currently we are putting the information into the computer

and deriving from it an index, listing the type of item, the culture,

and the owner museum for each specimen. The resultant printout will be

reproduced and disbributed to interested persons and should provide a

handy guide to the holdings of Oklahoma's museums. We are also experi-

menting with a computerized program written by Dr. James Sweeney of the

Merrick Computer Center of the University of Oklahoma. We hope this

will enable us to use that data more effectively.

In asking ourselves what a data bank could accomplish, we con-

sidered it first as a potentially useful tool for the scholar in locat-

ing specimens of interest to his work. We made an educated guess that

about 1,660,000 ethnological specimens are in some 550 museums in the

United States. Approximately 940,000, or roughly 57 per cent, are in

five museums. The rest are housed in the other 545 museums. And here

is where we thought the data bank could provide an extremely useful ser-

vice. The scholar as a matter of course investigates the collections of

the great museums. But the collections of the many smaller museums --

containing 43 per cent of all ethnological specimens -- may be crucial

to his research. Yet, because the collections of the smaller museums

are generally unknown to him, he suffers an information gap. You might

even call it a chasm. A nationwide inventory program, especially one

that begins with the smaller museums, could provide a valuable research

source.

How can we get more exciting exhibit and education programs

within museums? The data bank we have created for the Oklahoma museums

revealed that our strongest holdings were for the Indians of the South-

ern Plains. This was to be expected. But we also discovered that if we

83
considered our holdings collectively we could find useful exhibit

materials from other parts of the world. No one museum was rich in

African materials, for example. Not until the Gilcrease Museum recently

acquired the Akeley collection did we have more than 160 items from

Africa -- and these were scattered in several museums across the state.

Collectively, they make an effective exhibit. It took the inventory to

discover them. And the data bank will make possible other equally

effective exhibits.

Let me now turn to some of the practical considerations encoun-

tered in doing the inventory. The first question to be faced is the

kind of information to be collected for the data bank. In order to cope

with this problem realistically we began our pilot study with a working

conference of fifteen representatives from anthropology, people who were

for the most part involved in one way or another with museum research.

The format of information categories I described earlier is the one

essentially agreed upon at the conference. As far as information nor-

mally found in museum files is concerned, one can add little else.

The next question was, with what degree of specificity should

the entries within the various categories be made? That is, how much

detail should be entered for the object category? Should we specify

moccasin, hat, coat, skirt -- or should we simply enter clothing. Or,

for material, should we specify the particular basketry technique —

for example, coiled or twined - - o r should we simply say basketry? It

was agreed at the time of the conference that the fewer classification

systems imposed on the data the better, and it was decided that, for the

most part, the inventory process should be used to generate the diction-

aries.
84
 In practice, we discovered that a middle course was desirable.

That is, by taking specific terms and also classifying them into broader

categories we could generate more flexible searches. Hence, we could

record both the specific item of clothing and the generic term, clothing.

If someone wished to locate all the items of clothing of a particular

group this could be achieved by the inventory. We anticipate that our

dictionaries will be refined as we get feedback from scholars in the

usefulness of the file.

Once we decided the type of information desirable for the date

bank we faced the problem of actually doing the inventory. In practice

we had to settle for somewhat less than we had hoped for. The state of

the catalogue systems in many museums simply will not provide for a

simple transcription of information from card to computer format. Many

museums do not have all their collections catalogued. In fact, one

major museum in Oklahoma did not have any of its ethnological collec-

tions of more than three thousand items catalogued. We had to do the

inventory from the specimens themselves. This meant that information

which could not be detected from inspection -- collector, donor,

specific locale -- could not be obtained. Also, the inventoriers were

not expert in identification of materials and all types of techniques,

so that this type of information was also limited.

Where catalogue card systems exist, you will find that the for-

mat will differ from one museum to another and will give varying degrees

of information. The system or the degree of completeness of information

on cards may even differ within the same museum. The catalogue cards

may represent the product of haphazard and inconsistent entry systems

accumulating over a period of years. Finally, some of the information

85
entered on the cards may be erroneous. Anyone who has worked with

museum collections can certainly verify this. What we settled for was a

minimum of culture and object entries. Any information we could get was

acceptable.

No real way to overcome some of these problems exists. Those

who inventory cannot be researchers. If the entry on a card is errone-

ous, erroneous information will be entered into the data bank. It can

be hoped that, as scholars utilize the collections, the information feed-

back will lead to corrections in the data bank.

The personnel to be used for the inventory is another factor.

It took us approximately ten minutes to inventory each specimen. This

includes the time necessary to keypunch the data on IBM cards. If we

use the figure I mentioned earlier of 1,660,000 ethnological specimens

in United States museums, this means a total of 276,666 man-hours would

be required to inventory the museums of the country, using the system we

worked out.

Obviously, it would not be feasible to use professional people

to perform the inventory. On our project we employed undergraduate and

graduate students in anthropology as well as some people not in school

who had a background in anthropology. Use of some type of student

assistance would appear to be the most practical way of accomplishing an

extensive inventory. The University of Missouri Department of Anthro-

pology is about to launch a study that will give more insight into

training problems that may not have been uncovered in the Oklahoma pro-

ject.

86
 At this point, we feel that training a team to canvass the

museums in a given area would be most effective. It is impractical and

unrealistic to ask each museum to inventory its own collections. Many

museums cannot spare the personnel to perform the task and furthermore,

since the inventory procedure requires some training, it would probably

be less expensive to train a team at one institution rather than to

instruct the personnel in each museum. And with this procedure the

inventory would also be assured of greater uniformity.

The next problem is how to insure this uniformity. Many ethno-

logical items are constructed from a variety of materials. A number of

manufacturing techniques may be used to produce the final item. Speci-

mens come into the collections in varying degrees of completeness. An

item may be used for a variety of purposes. Without any instructions on

how to handle these problems, it is inevitable that different inven-

toriers will arrive at different decisions on the amount of information

to be recorded for the specimen. Accordingly, we compiled a fairly

detailed set of instructions for the inventory team. This came to

twenty-three pages, in fact. Though at first it may appear a complex

and overwhelming amount of information for an inventoriers to master, we

found they were able to absorb it within a few days.

In the course of the study we also conducted a few experiments

to see how uniform our results were. Each member of the team was given

the same set of forty catalogue cards from our museum file. The manner

in which they inventoried the specimens was then compared. Of the forty

cards inventoried there were only two for which complete agreement was

obtained.

87
 This is not as serious as it may seem, however, nor is it sur-

prising in view of the variables involved. We must accept the fact that

interpretation of ethnological information on cards or from specimens

themselves presents virtually insurmountable problems. Inventoriers

will always differ in their opinions as to whether certain information

is significant enough to be entered. This seems especially true for the

number of materials to be entered and the techniques. What we did find,

however, is that they were consistent in entering the major materials

and techniques. The inconsistencies were found in secondary materials

and techniques, features of embellishment, accessory parts, and the like.

No matter how many rules are formulated or how much detail is

spelled out, there will always be some areas of uncertainty and ques-

tions as to whether some kinds of information come under the rules. It

is significant, however, that the major and most important kinds of

information were consistently entered by all inventories.

The plan of the project was first to inventory the collections

at the Stovall Museum, numbering some four thousand specimens. We used

this period to work up the instruction booklet and to conduct various

experiments on the best ways of doing an inventory.

After this period we began the second phase of our pilot project.

This was to inventory a selected number of museums around the state. On

the whole, we received good cooperation, especially after we convinced

them that in the course of the inventory program we could provide them

with some tangible benefits, that is, help provide additional documenta-

tion for their specimens, give advice on museum catalogue systems, and

even provide some information on preservation techniques. In addition,

88
many found that a copy of our inventory was of benefit. Those museums

that had no catalogue of their collections were in effect provided with

one.

The picture, however, was not entirely rosy. There was some

initial suspicion as to our motives. Were we there to appropriate their

collections? A visit by the project director helped to quiet most of

the apprehension. But the public-relations aspect is of some delicacy

and must be handled with forethought, especially when you are dealing

with small museums without a professional staff.

Perhaps of more concern to some was the fear that the inventory

process would disrupt their collections in some way or would result in

bad publicity because their storage or catalogue system was not in good

shape. The inventoriers were especially instructed to be speedy, care-

ful, and courteous.

In some instances where we found the catalogue card system ade-

quate and the number of cards voluminous, we photocopied them and did

the transcribing of information back at our museum laboratory. This

enabled us to leave the host museum quickly and meant a saving in expen-

diture for meals and lodging. However, we must accept the fact that

public relations will remain an important aspect of any inventory, and

we may even be forced to face the fact that some museums may not be

willing to cooperate.

Any data bank must be maintained on an up-to-date basis if it

is to prove viable. Museums are continually acquisitioning new speci-

mens. For example, in the year since our inventory was completed in the

Stovall Museum, we have acquired 250 new specimens. Also, museums are

89
continually lending, trading, and also losing parts of their collec-

tions, one way or another. It is therefore essential that an ongoing

inventory program be maintained.

We are now in the process of attempting such a program on a

statewide basis in Oklahoma. Forms are being sent to each museum and,

if they are properly filled out and returned periodically, we can enter

or delete the pertinent information from the bank. If this system does

not work out successfully, we have considered the alternative of sending

out a team once a year to inventory the new acquisitions.

In addition to keeping the program up to date, we are hoping to

continue our project with a series of capability studies. Some of the

questions we are concerned with are: Has adequate information been com-

piled? Is the form appropriate to meet anticipated needs? Is the data

versatile enough to meet the needs of researchers and museum personnel?

We hope to arrive at answers to these questions by inviting

those interested in the data bank to pose actual search questions. We

will want to know not only how the scholars use the information but how

important they feel it is. This approach will provide the project with

a more realistic inspection of the information system, and it will test

the effectiveness of the compiled dictionaries. We will analyze the

requests to see what degree of information scholars would like to have

when searching for needed specimens.

The creation of a viable data bank must involve substantial

preparation and follow-through procedures. It is imperative that museum

personnel and others consider many of these problems now, since it is

clear that many museums are considering the use of computers. Many are

already creating data banks for their respective institutions. If we

90
wish to have nationwide or regionwide data banks, it can be extremely

valuable to have some collaboration beforehand so that the files of the

respective museums can be merged into one union file. The information

from small museums, those which cannot afford the cost of such inven-

tories, can be brought into the data bank effectively. Only thus can

we realize the many hopes we had when this project was begun.

91
 Discussion following paper by Alex Ricciardelli

Miss Schumm: I am a transportation consultant and my problem is

this: I am continually confronted with the lack of information, because

I have no means of communication between the curator and myself. The

curator visualizes an exhibition, he knows exactly the nature of the

objects, the medium, the sizes, but I cannot get this information and

make it concrete in order to be able to state whether the material should

be transported by air, ship, or rail. Now if I were to get the informa-

tion shown on the data sheet prepared by Mr. Lindsay, which shows the

height, width, depth, weight, value, and other description of the mate-

rial, I would be in a position to give precise directions as to packing,

storage, and the forms of transportation.

I would estimate that today the cost of insurance and packing for

all forms of transportation and anything pertaining to the consolidation

of shipments and so forth is $50 million in the United States. It would

seem to me that if I could estimate savings of three or four million

dollars the first year this system was put into effect, it would be worth

considering.

The Chairman: Do you want to take it, Mr. Ricciardelli? It

involves all of us.

Mr. Ricciardelli: For one thing, I think that what we had in

mind was primarily a system which would first help locate things. As I

said, we had a conference of people who were involved in museum research

and their overriding concern was with the location of these things. We

didn't have a transportation expert.

There are some museums that do include the dimensions on objects,

but I think you have just got to look at how much the system is going to
cost. So far, nobody has suggested who is going to pay the tab for all

of this. Perhaps we can satisfy everybody.

Miss Barbara LaSalle [Registrar, Brooklyn Museum]: I have worked

in several small museums, similar to the ones you have worked in in Okla-

homa, where a lot of the people are not skilled but just love museum work,

or they are old-timers who may know one field but not everything else.

I wonder whether the same operation that you finally found successful,

having a trained team go to each one of these places, is not acceptable

even to some of the museums here in New York, where it would be economical

if they were going to catalogue paintings, say, in New York State.

Wouldn't it be smarter to send a trained, skilled team in, rather than to

accept the present catalogue system that a lot of museums have?

Mr. Ricciardelli: I agree with you, and the point is you may

come up with more uniform results as well.

The Chairman: Are there other questions:

Miss LaSalle: Mr. Lindsay, if you feed a lot of information

into a bank, such as what you know of the origin of a piece, where it

came from, and who the rightful owners were, aren't you opening the door

to a lot of very wild possibilities? You have a museum that for years

had a painting and is not quite sure how it got into the collection, and

they aren't about to give it up. If somebody donates something to the

museum, and the institutions wonders whether it is a fake or not, the

minute that stuff gets into a computer system, how are you going to guard

the information against inquiries, say, from the Tax Department, or legal

representatives of rightful owners, or the artist who challenges whether

the work is authentic, if he is still around -- that kind of thing? This

matter of how to reserve information that is within the data bank -- what

do you propose? 93
 Mr. Lindsay: You have a very serious point, there. It would

have to be recognized. I suppose that is what Category 11 was put down

there for -- private information. I think that each house, each museum,

has information which is interesting only to itself and should be kept

only within that house. Now when that museum makes its contract on a

given piece by putting private information in a certain category, before

that information then goes out, say, to a major data bank, you simply

program your computer to punch that section. This can be done. Anything

you want kept within the house can be flagged for that purpose.

Mr. Chenhall: May I speak to this? You may or may not be aware

that the Federal Communications Commission is also very concerned with

just this matter of privacy, particularly as it relates to the whole

concept of computer utilities. When you talk of a bank of information,

even within one field, you are talking of a computer utility. There are

ways in which the time-sharing networks that have been developed by

several companies have to protect the items that are confidential data.

I am talking now not just in terms of museums or art works or any of the

rest of it. I am talking in terms of business utilities.

There are means of coding the data, coding the individual who is

calling for information from that utility, and complex intercodes, and so

one, so that they have done a fair job, so far, of maintaining the

secrecy of any information which is to be maintained on a confidential

basis. But this is a major problem of the entire computer industry, not

just in our field of museums. It can be answered, however, and is being

answered.

Miss Linda Leonard: I am an undergraduate at Brandeis University,

working with computer sciences, and with art history. I want to address

94
my comments to Mr. Lindsay.

As I look over your trial field layout chart, I have been working

on a prototype. I used a primary data file similar to yours, in which I

had numerical coding for the cross-referencing. But I found it very use-

ful to have a secondary file in which the control numbers correspond to

those in this field, and which would include alphabetic information for

eventual output. In this, you can include items relative to the history

of the article and special instructions for handling, and things like

that.

Mr. Lindsay: That sounds extremely interesting. You did not

want to get too much into the situation where almost everything is coded,

and comes out coded, because that is difficult to read and it throws

people off. They don't dig that. In other words, it may be coded when

it goes into the machine. The machine can be programmed to decode when

it comes out so that it is quite readable and more like a book.

Miss Leonard: But I could also have additional things that would

not be necessary for the cross-referencing part of the program, but could

be outputted, as additional information to the user.

Mr. Chenhall: General descriptive information.

Miss Leonard: Yes, and historical material.

Mr. Lindsay: I would hope that, because of the economics

involved, a person who wanted to ask a question could simply put his

finger on the push-button and say he wants, for example, all paintings in

the early part of the sixteenth century -- better make it specific, 1500

to 1550 -- in Florence with the Madonna. Whatever else you may have with

the Madonna, just ask for that and that is all he gets. The rest he

wouldn't get because he wouldn't need it.

95
 Miss Leonard: What are you choosing to be in the input?

Mr. Lindsay: The output would be exactly how you phrase your

question. You give a question and you will get an output, the answer

that you asked for, and, one hopes, no more.

Miss Leonard: In other words, you would get a listing of the

acquisition of those pieces and where they are?

Mr. Lindsay: If you want that. You may not be interested in the

acquisition of it. Maybe you are; if you are, you push that button so

that in your output you will get acquisition.

Miss Leonard: Specify the certain types of class that you want,

as you just pointed out, and then do the research and sort procedures.

It would narrow down to output only through the relevant pieces, but then

with respect to these relevant pieces, you would be getting your descrip-

tion of the piece, the location, as well as the additional information.

This additional information is in a secondary file, and it is not neces-

sary to move it around. It is not necessary, as you are working, to

perform the operation other than merely outputting?

Mr. Lindsay: I don't think so.

The Chairman: Are there some more questions?

Miss Frances Johnson: I am from Toronto. I am interested in the

application of this to museums that are still in the planning stages —

a new museum which should be thinking ahead toward the possibility of

these systems being part of its everyday work.

The Chairman: Did I get your question right? You are talking

about new institutions which are considering, for the first time, com-

puters?

96
 Miss Johnson: Museums which have no collections as yet; in

other words, still in the planning stage. What we are dealing with here

are museums that are already established. Is it too soon to ask this

question?

Mr. Green: No. Hire a consultant and do it. Don't even hesitate.

The Chairman: Since there seem to be no further questions, I

will congratulate the panel, not only for giving us a very excellent

presentation, but for doing it with dispatch.

97
stylistic analysis
by computer
 STYLISTIC ANALYSIS BY COMPUTER

Introductory remarks by chairman of session:

Joseph V. Noble

Metropolitan Museum

Good morning, early risers -- for the second day of a conference

is always the hardest day to get people started. We are glad you are

here. We think this is a momentous occasion, considering that this is

the first conference ever held specifically on the application and use of

computers in museum work.

Yesterday's papers, I think, laid the groundwork very well for

what we have in store for you this morning. Our subject is "Stylistic

Analysis by Computer," and perhaps in a daydream we all hope at some point

that we will have a computer that you will be able to wheel a painting in

front of, the computer will send out its ultrasilent, infrared presensors,

and print out the results that, "Yes, indeed it is a Rembrandt, late

period, two years before he died, based on a drawing in a collection in

the British Museum," or, in an alternate manner, if an object is placed

in front of this magic computer, we will dream about the computer which

looks at it, makes one short test, sends 1,600 volts directly through the

object, vaporizes it in a blinding flash of blue flame, and issues a

printout, "Regrettably, a forgery. It has been liquidated for the good

of the cause." Today, computers are not anywhere near this magical

instrument, and perhaps it is just as well that they never do get that

powerful. 101
 Our speakers are going to describe how they have applied in an

advanced manner for today, rudimentary procedures in stylistic analysis,

using the hardware, the mechanisms, the instrumentation, that is currently

available. The computer itself does not do the stylistic analysis. This

has been based largely on the very clever thinking of the scholar who has

fragmented the problem, who has analyzed the problem, who has derived

various points from the material under study. The material has been fed

into the computer, allowing the computer to do the thing it does best:

the statistical tabulations, the printouts, the comparisons of the

averages and the norms, and the deviance. Afterward, the scholar makes

his decisions, based on the computer's work.

Our papers have been arranged so that we start with one speaking

about the reciprocal requirements of scholars and computers. Then we go

into various case histories of how they have been used in stylistic

analysis, and finally we come to a paper which, at the end of it, goes

off into the wild blue yonder, perhaps ten years, fifteen years, into the

future.

102
 ON SOME RECIPROCAL REQUIREMENTS OF SCHOLARS AND

COMPUTERS IN THE FINE ARTS AND ARCHAEOLOGY

by

J.-C. Gardin

Centre D'Analyse Documentaire pour L'Archeologie, Marseille

For the purpose of the present discussion, only one kind of com-

puter application will be considered: namely, the construction and use

of catalogues in the widest sense (lists of accessions in museums,

inventories of particular collections, specialized archaeological cor-

pora, etc.). The reason for this restriction is twofold: (a) the range

of potential computer uses in this field is already very large, and

adding one more survey (Gardin 1965a; Cowgill 1967) within the limits

of a short paper would bring no new light on the subject; (b) conversely,

by taking up one specific kind of computer use and studying it in depth,

one may hope to gain insight on the real issues involved, beyond popular

representations of the machine as positive or negative magic, which are

still common among archaeologists and art specialists. From this stand-

point, it seems reasonable to concentrate on a truly basic form of

intellectual work in the profession, and examine both the conditions and

the consequences of its potential transfer to computers.

103
1. The role of catalogues, present and future

Much of the scholar's activity, in studying the products of

material culture (utilitarian and/or artistic) consists in ordering them

according to different criteria: morphological, chronological, geo-

graphical, etc. One such order, for instance, is that of a museum cata-

logue, in which individual items (artifacts, paintings, sculptures,

etc.) are listed and occasionally described in more or less detail, fol-

lowing a sequence of features such as date, origin, categories (or sub-

jects, types, etc.). Similarly, an archaeological corpus is a list of

items arranged in a given pattern, which is intended to provide a con-

venient order for collecting the data (arrangement by museums, sites,

etc.), consulting the file (arrangement by functional categories),

demonstrating historical or other relations (chronological seriations,

stylistic groupings), etc. There is little question of the need for

catalogues in this broad sense among specialists, or of the difficulties

that arise from the growing volume of data that have to be taken into

account as knowledge progresses, both in extension and in depth, in any

particular subfield of archaeology or art history. Those difficulties

can be summarized under one heading, which is the handling of large

information files through the traditional means of printed publications.

Until recently, the mere fact of gathering scattered data within the

bounds of a single volume or series was felt to provide an answer to the

retrieval problem: even if indexes were lacking, or were poorly

designed, it was open to the reader to browse through the text -- or

more likely through the illustrations -- in order to collect any objec-

tive evidence that he might require at a given stage of research. This

procedure tends to collapse, however, when the size of the catalogue

104
becomes such that no one in his wits is likely to use it in that way any

more. (Examples are easy to provide: Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum, for

Greek vases of the classical period, Inventoria Archaeologica, for arti-

facts of the Bronze and Iron Age in Europe, in either of which the con-

tinuing accumulation of the data, together with the persistent lack of

indexes worthy of the name, finally disparages the utility of the whole

project.)

The traditional remedies are well known: each scholar is

expected to "process" published catalogues, as well as unpublished mate-

rial, in order to build up his own information file, using whatever

selection and ordering criteria suit him. Insofar as this indexing

process concerns material data that are perceived and recorded in simi-

lar ways by different individuals, it involves a duplication of effort

which the overpraised virtues of egocentric filing do not suffice to

vindicate. Moreover, one may question whether there is no limit to the

price "angry young scholars" to come will be willing to pay, in terms of

days and years devoted to data-gathering and filing in a limited life-

time, as opposed to more rewarding activities of other kinds, spiritual

or mundane. Whatever the case may be, an alternative approach is now

conceivable, one that aims at restoring some balance in the management

of intellectual talents. In its most extreme version, this new approach

might be characterized as the substitution of public data banks of a

highly refined nature for the combination of printed catalogues and

private files that constitute the present information structure (Fig-

ures la, lb). A data bank, as defined in other fields, is but an

extension of this catalogue concept, with two additional features: the

predominance of indexes over other forms of data presentation (lists,

105
FIGURE ONE A ARCHAEOLOGICAL DATA PROCESSING IN PRACTICE
a s t a t c r e p r e s e n t a t i o n of c u r r e n t ( A ) and p r o p o s e d ( B ) usage

riWr\ In a g i v e n p e r i o d , d i f f e r e n t s c h o l a r s c a r r y o u t i n d e p e n d e n t analyses
of t h e s a m e d a t a , f o r i n d i v i d u a l s t o r a g e in s e p a r a t e and sometimes
guarded f i l e s .

R The proposed a l t e r n a t i v e is that the same analyses should be c a r r i e d

out only once ( i d e a l l y ) , a n d s t o r e d in a unique f i l e open to public
use . 106
 FIGURE O N E B A R C H A E O L O G I C A L D A T A P R O C E S S I N G I N PRACTICE :
a dynamic represen ta t a t ion of current ( A ) and proposed ( B ) usage

y y s' S
i 2
O O

O o

I n f o r m a t i o n goes through an endless cycle of analysis and synthesis, e a c h scholar isolating d a t a which have been
assembled by others and reassembling them in a new presentation, which in turn is to be broken into pieces, etc.

L»
D The proposed a l t e r n a t i v e is t h a t f a c t u a l d a t a should be kept in a n a l y t i c a l f o r m w i t h i n the d a t a b a n k ; synthesis
can then be u n d e r t a k e n more r e a d i l y , f i l i n g being each time l i m i t e d to a d d i t i o n a l d a t a .
classifications, typologies, etc.), and the continuity of the filing

process, as contrasted with the discontinuous natureof present informa-

tion tools, both in time (see the more or less random succession of

printed catalogues in any given area) and in space (see the completely

random distribution of information in any specific topic among

scattered and uncommunicable private files). In fact, a data bank might

well be defined by those two features alone, as a permanent index built

up and updated by individual scholars for the benefit of others, in a

given field of knowledge. A popular representation of this concept is

the computer store that is continuously enlarged as new data become

available, while providing at any time -- ideally -- the most complete

answers to the most precise questions. The computer is undoubtedly a

convenient tool for a data bank, but it is by no means the only one.

Other kinds of machines exist, and more are likely to appear in the

future, to carry out the sorting operations that play the essential part

in this picture. One should not, however, be concerned so much with the

technological as with the intellectual problems involved in the new con-

cept, which provide a most interesting challenge to archaeologists and

and art specialists alike, irrespective of individual feelings about the

relative attractiveness of mankind and automata.

2. Data banks: theoretical issues

Whether they originate as museum catalogues, excavation reports,

monographs, or other circumstantial surveys of any given range, data

banks have one unique purpose, which is to provide scholars with a tool

for retrieving and ordering factual evidence in the most flexible

fashion, according to individual habits or requirements. By retrieving

108
is meant the compilation of the more elementary series that are the con-

cern of archaeologists and art historians as a step toward intellectual

constructions of a higher order: in a set of objects characterized

individually by a number of distinctive features (pertaining to origin,

function, form, technique, etc.), the problem is to establish parallels

(series, groups, etc.) on the basis of countless selections of particu-

lar features, single or combined. As for ordering the data, it consists

in further arrangements of several such series, which then constitute

the raw material or the end product of elaborate classification pro-

cedures, embracing a larger body of objects. The more interesting

issues in the design and use of data banks lie in the theoretical

requirements that are imposed at both stages: linguistic requirements

on the one hand, for efficient retrieval, and mathematical requirements

on the other, for productive arrangements of the data.

2.1. Semiological requirements: descriptive codes

One need not demonstrate that the efficiency of information

storage and retrieval procedures is in direct relation with the quality

of the input, from a linguistic, or more generally semiological stand-

point. Any flaw in the formulation of the data, as regards meaning and

reference, is likely to have adverse effects on the reliability of sort-

ings, in either of two ways: irrelevant, that is noncomparable data may

be "recalled" in the course of a search, when the stored description is

ambiguous (if there are terms with more than one meaning, or too broad

a meaning, etc.); conversely, relevant data may be "missed" if the

stored description is inconsistent (if there are several terms for the

same referent), or incomplete (if there are unobserved features).

109
Innumerable studies have been published on this subject in the last ten

years, with reference to the handling of scientific information in gen-

eral, irrespective of the field or discipline concerned; and the concept

of ad hoc "information languages" has emerged as a convenient tool for

expressing scientific data, whether observed directly or through an

existing literature, for storage and retrieval purposes (Coyaud, 1966).

This is not the place to go into the technicalities of the subject, such

as the controversy between natural language versus information language

processing, or the conversion procedures from one to the other, or even

the relation of different information languages to standard models, etc.

(see, for instance, Cros et al. 1964). Suffice it to state two points

that stand out against this general background and are relevant to our

subject. One is the a priori necessity of information languages as a

methodological tool for the setting up of data banks in any field,

archaeology and the fine arts included. The other concerns a formal

characteristic that most such languages have in common, and which can

therefore be considered as a prerequisite of information processing in

our own area: that is, the substitution of analytical expressions made

up of well-defined terms that can be combined in a wide variety of ways

to the more rigid and often ambiguous formulations inherent in natural

language, as it is currently used in the specialized literature. Let us

consider analytical systems of that kind as "codes" for the description

of physical objects in the broadest sense, with a view to data storage

and retrieval. A number of such codes have already been devised for

markedly different categories of objects: stone artifacts (Krieger and

Weyer 1964), projectile points (Binford 1963), metal tools and weapons

in general (Christophe and Deshayes 1964), ceramics, iconographical

110
documents, architecture (list in Gardin 1967: 18), etc. An interesting

point is that they already show enough similarities, from a structural

standpoint, to authorize metalinguistic generalizations that may help in

the design of new codes in the future (see, for instance, the recurrence

of "orientation," "segmentation," and "differentiation" rules in the

various codes discussed by Gardin 1967). On the other hand, develop-

ments in that direction will inevitably raise a number of theoretical

issues which the profession would be ill-advised to postpone further.

One of them is the alternative between two possible kinds of descriptive

codes, from an epistemological standpoint: either mere lists of

unrelated physical features selected according to empirical criteria of

precision and adequacy, for retrieval purposes only; or more ambitious

arrangements of structural features, obtained through discovery pro-

cedures in a given cultural context. Discussions have not been lacking

on the respective merits of the two approaches, under different names:

universal lists of observed traits versus culture-bound arrangements in

types, or again observation of "etic" versus "emic" units, as Pike pro-

posed to contrast them (1955; see also Gardin 1965b, 1967; Cowgill 1967),

etc. Without prejudging the issue, one may safely suggest that both

kinds of units or codes will have to be taken into account in setting up

the more advanced data banks, for two converse reasons. On the one

hand, scientific constructs such as types, styles, models, etc., seldom

meet everyone's desires simultaneously, or in time, so that one should

refrain from founding the description and organization of a file on such

shifting grounds; conversely, many scholars find it difficult, if not

improper, to discard synthetical concepts altogether, however partial or

temporary their acceptance may be. Both viewpoints are well grounded,
111
and in fact easy to reconcile through some semiological refinements that

need not be developed here.

A second alternative, related though not identical to the for-

mer, concerns the opposition between universal versus compatible codes:

should one strive to agree upon a unique set of standardized features

for the description of a given category of objects or monuments (prehis-

toric pottery, medieval churches, etc.), or should one consent to some

diversity in the selection, scope, and denomination of descriptive vari-

ables, provided all the resulting codes conform to a common framework

for the sake of mutual conversions? This, again, is a general issue

that has been the subject of many discussions lately, with reference to

the "compatibility" or "convertibility" of information systems in many

fields (bibliography in Henderson et al. 1966). For essentially scien-

tific reasons, the modern trend is away from standardization -- a seem-

ingly desperate and somewhat old-fashioned goal, from a methodological

standpoint -- and in favor of concerted codes, each of which should be

free to reflect local idiosyncracies, while required to exhibit compati-

bility with others (an exemplification of this pattern in archaeology is

provided by two different working codes that were derived separately

from the same archetype, namely the Code for the Analysis of Pottery

Shapes as designed by the Centre d'Analyse Documentaire pour l'Archeo-

logie in 1956: Leenhardt 1965, Herteig 1967; see also Cowgill 1967:

50-51 for an excellent presentation of the same strategy). The intel-

lectual effort which should go into the design of descriptive codes in

any of the mentioned senses is admittedly considerable, though by no

means beyond the reach of suitably composed teams of archaeologists and

art specialists. Besides, though the impelling motive for undertaking

112
the job may seem to come from the requirements of modern information

processing techniques, one should not overdo the connection: the lan-

guage commonly used for describing artifacts as well as works of art is

incredibly primitive, so much so that one would find it difficult to

make sense of most written material in the specialized literature were

it not for the presence of drawings and photographs, or the reliance on

direct knowledge of the physical objects themselves on the part of both

authors and readers. It may be true that the incipient attention that

is now paid to semiological problems in archaeology and the fine arts

originally stemmed from a fancy for punched cards and computers; but one

should know better, and realize that those problems are as basic here as

in any other science, and completely unrelated in fact to the kind of

device which is to be used for processing the data. The so-called exact

sciences draw their name from a quality which is in the language and

procedures of the observer rather than in the conjectural nature of the

observed; introducing computers in physics, chemistry, and so on has

brought no revolution in the language of science, only because the

latter happened to be already in harmony with those requirements of

scientific method that tend to be confused in the humanities with the

requirements of computers. A further substantiation of that viewpoint

will be found in the following paragraph, concerning another aspect of

data processing, namely the construction of classifications in a broad

sense.

2.2. Mathematical requirements: classification procedures

The meaning of the word "classification" first has to be clari-

fied. For the present discussion, it covers any kind of order that may

113
be brought to bear on a given corpus. Any museum catalogue, for

instance, is in that sense a classification to the extent that objects

are usually not listed in a random order, but grouped according to ori-

gin, date, categories, or rooms of exhibition. This museum order is

admittedly one of the more simple ones; it is more or less related to

the finer groupings of archaeological and art sciences, but does not,

and probably cannot reflect them all in detail. Those finer groupings

in fact represent more complex end products, whereby specialists try to

bring some sense into the otherwise haphazard collections of artifacts

and monuments that confront them. Whether the grouping procedure be

called structural or typological (synchronic descriptions of distinct

schools or types, etc., contrasted with one another), genetical (chrono-

logical filiations of objects), or by any other name, it amounts for our

purpose to the same basic process as in compiling the simpler catalogues,

namely: (a) a selection of some distinctive features, pertaining to any

variable (dates, authors, subjects, forms, techniques, locations, etc.),

to act as differential criteria, single or combined, for the separation

of a corpus into groups, subgroups, etc., with or without overlaps,

etc.; (b) an ordering of those features, in the wide sense of the word

(weights, correlations, hierarchies, etc.), intended either to generate

a predetermined classification of objects (modeling empirical distribu-

tions) or to produce tentative ones, the interpretation of which is then

left to the specialist (discovering so-called natural classes in a des-

criptive matrix).

In all such procedures, the raw material is none other than the

descriptive data discussed in the preceding paragraph, that is, analytic

expressions made up of independent terms, each of which corresponds to a

114
well-defined feature observed on a given object. Let us designate as a

"descriptive matrix" any set of expressions of that kind corresponding

to individual entities, in a certain corpus (Figure 2).

^\CODE
Fl F2 F3 F4 Fn
CORPUS^^
El 1 1 0 0

E2 0 1 0 1

E3 1 0 1 0

E4 0 0 1 1

L
r
1
r-
1 En
1

FIGURE T W O A DESCRIPTIVE MATRIX, showing

presence or absence (symbols 1-0) of distinctive fea-
tures Fl, F2 ... Fn, as defined in a given code, for en-
tities El, E2...En, as listed in a given corpus.

It is easy to understand that the explicit ordering of entities

El En in a conventional catalogue reflects an underlying order of

features Fl, such as will generate the proposed classification (for

instance, in the elementary example in Figure 2, a classification such

as "entities 1 and 3 in subclasses Aa and Ab, 2 and 4 in subclasses Ba

Bb" can be generated by taking features in the following order: first

Fl, with F2 and F3 as secondary splitting criteria, then F4, with F2 and

F3 in the same subordinate position). This trivial fact has important

practical consequences, from the standpoint of data processing: it sug-

gests that much of the clerical work that goes into the editing of cata-

logues can be taken over by a sorting machine of some kind, provided the
115
author of the catalogue is able to state clearly the features that are

to act as classification criteria, and the treelike order in which they

should be considered to produce the desired catalogue (Ustinov 1963,

1964). Admittedly, few existing catalogues are yet reducible to this

mechanical procedure; one can surmise, however, that something is wrong

either with the language of description or with the mode of classifica-

tion, or both, in all cases when they are not. Here again, mechaniza-

tion acts as an incentive to come to grip with intellectual problems

that would have to be tackled anyhow, as the study of art or artifacts

tends to conform with the requirements of scientific method, for which

no reference to computers should be needed.

The same viewpoint holds, with some qualifications, in the case

of the more sophisticated taxonomie arrangements of material culture, as

evoked earlier. Two additional factors then come into play: (a) on the

one hand, external criteria of many kinds have to be taken into account,

in addition to objective descriptions, in order to obtain culturally

significant groups: knowledge about workshops, destination of objects,

circumstances of fabrication -- the historical facts in general, which

are not to be "read" in any strict rendering of physical objects, but

which are definitely significant for ordering them in a meaningful way,

from the specialist's standpoint; (b) on the other hand, no simple hier-

archical ordering of features, both internal and external, will gener-

ally be applicable for the generation of empirically significant classi-

fications in large-scale collections. More complex procedures are

needed: statistical techniques, combinatorial algebra, proximity analy-

sis, etc., such as have been reviewed in recent papers (Tugby 1965;

Cowgill 1967; de la Vega 1968).

116
 Here again, our concern is not so much with the technicalities

as with the methodological implications of "automatic classification,"

as it is sometimes called. It is true that many of the new procedures

have been fostered by computers, to the extent that they involved long

sequences of logical or arithmetical operations for which few clerks

were available; nevertheless, the most promising outcome of mechaniza-

tion in this case rests once more in the added obligations it lays on

the intellect, to elucidate underlying rationales in empirical typolo-

gies, or to define explicit procedures for the discovery of other group-

ings that may prove more meaningful and/or economical, in ordering given

sets of data, etc. As before, none of these claims is in essence

related to the advent of computers; they belong to the more basic

requirements of science, of which algorithmic processing is only a

timely if somewhat contingent reminder.

In this condensed survey of the possible classificatory by-

products of a well-formed data bank, a practical distinction has been

observed between the cruder descriptive catalogues, with no pretence to

explanation proper, and the higher-flown classifications that aim at

revealing some aspect of a postulated "order of things" in material cul-

ture. The opposition is reminiscent of a similar duality that was

observed apropos of descriptive problems, when two kinds of codes were

contrasted, according to their genesis and function as culture-free or

culture-bound systems (Section 2.1). There is indeed a certain paral-

lelism between the two pairs of antithetical concepts; and the same

question arises here, as to the relation between the two extreme kinds

of classification: universally oriented, a priori systematizations

versus culture-oriented, locally meaningful taxonomies. Should a data

117
bank restrict itself to compilations of the first order (descriptive

catalogues), for the sake of general acceptance, or should it favor only

constructions of the second kind (cultural clusters), because of their

higher scientific status? The answer is again the same as previously,

and for the same reasons: both productions are necessary insofar as the

latter are in essence provisional heuristic rearrangements of the former,

neither of which can be dispensed with in the natural course of scien-

tific research (similar opinion, though expressed in a different way, in

Rouse 1960).

2.3. Summary

We are thus in a position to summarize the role which mechanized

data banks would be expected to play in the progress of archaeological

and art studies. The basic requirement is the design of elaborate des-

criptive codes, for recording the data in the most detailed and unambigu-

ous fashion; freedom is left to consider multiple coding systems for the

same data, according to alternative goals (descriptive versus interpre-

tive) or other circumstantial differences, on condition that articulate

relations should be maintained to achieve maximum convertibility from

one code to another. In return for this intellectual investment on the

part of scholars, the contribution of computers is to relieve them from

the obligation of holding and managing extensive private files- about

objective data, on the understanding that some tehcnological and insti-

tutional mechanisms be set up to guarantee freedom of access to the new

data banks (see below, Section 3 ) .

A further investment is then required to obtain mechanical clas-

sifications of different kinds, as a by-product of the stored data.

118
 objects, monuments

intellectual
means

mechanical
products

FIGURE THREE MAN-MACHINE ASSOCIATION IN OPERATING A DATA BANK

<^>= intellectual contributions (i.e. computer requirements)
0 = mechanical products ( i . e . human needs)

119
Standing instructions for the compilation of printed catalogues in given

categories of objects (ordered list of headings, type-setting specifica-

tions, etc.), as well as standard algorithms for modeling or deriving

significant taxonomies: such are the requirements of computers at that

stage; in return, scholars are rid of the clerical tasks associated with

the preparation of recurrent catalogues and indexes, in the same time as

they gain assistance from the computer to build up models and test

hypotheses regarding more significant arrangements of the data.

Figure 3 illustrates the reciprocal requirements of scholars and

computers as they have just been summarized in accordance with the title

of this paper.

3. Institutional implications

The operation of data banks in the sense described above is not

feasible unless some changes are brought to bear on the profession, as

regards some of its mental habits and implicit deontology. Essentially,

the Sisyphean labor of computing repetitive files on largely overlapping

data, from generation to generation of scholars, should give way to an

utterly different program, in two stages: (a) an initial investment in

the design of descriptive languages of many kinds, as suggested in

Section 2.1., for the recording of physical objects (morphological and

other features of artifacts, monuments, etc.) in a set of substitutive,

"convertible" codes; (b) an open-ended application of such codes for

analyzing the data with a view to constituting and updating large-scale

public files, stored and managed by institutions (data banks) acting as

specialized information centers for the profession. Many points in this

program are likely to raise psychological and institutional problems.

120
For one thing, the first steps that have been taken in the direction of

(a) in the last ten years have shown that the more competent scholars

are sometimes unable, though not necessarily unwilling, to explicate and

communicate the objective basis of their own constructs, in the field of

archaeology or art studies. In other words, difficulties arise when a

bridge has to be thrown between higher-level systematic arrangements of

objects, whatever these may be, and the more trivial physical facts that

support the construction. Introspection alone does not seem to do the

trick, and some kind of a maieutic relation has to be established with

code-building specialists (applied linguists, or semanticists,,or semio-

logists, as one now tends to call them) to elucidate the elements and

structure of underlying descriptive languages. Cooperation on those

lines is seldom an easy task at present.

Another potential source of discomfort lies in the resentment

that many scholars have, quite rightly, against losing egocentric con-

trol of information, however, trivial or impersonal. "Control" is here

to be understood in two ways: as equivalent to ownership on the one

hand, and command on the other, both terms referring to the same comple-

ment, analytical descriptive data. Now, though private ownership has

been the rule in this case for centuries, there is not much to command

it other than somewhat sentimental reasons that do not necessarily out-

weigh rational displeasure (Figures la, lb). The right to fear collec-

tivization holds rather in the second interpretation of the word, in

which "control" refers to the actual command of files that have escaped

private owners to fall into the hands of public bodies. Then, possible

questions are: (a) Isn't there a danger of substituting a kind of

mechanistic, superficial knowledge, drawn from a free access to

121
large-scale uncritical information material, for the more organic and

deeper form of culture gained in the process of personally building and

perusing a private file? (b) Isn't there a contradiction between the

assumably rigid organization of the data in a master file and the multi-

plicity of intellectual viewpoints reflected in the heterogeneity of

personal archives? (c) Doesn't one take a risk in subordinating indi-

vidual research to de facto monopolies of information that may even-

tually have the power to control the whos and whats of scientific

inquiry, etc.? These are indeed sensible questions, ones that cannot

be dealt with in detail within the limits of this paper. Let us recall

only that the turn toward collectivization and concentration is not so

much a consequence of mechanization as a correlate of growth in science,

as in other areas of human activity. As the volume of observable data

increases, the chances diminish that any single mind will be able to

master it unaided, in order to derive the proper integrative constructs.

The apparition of large-scale international corpora in this century,

compiled by generations of learned men, is a tacit recognition of this

fact; so are such schemes as the Index of Christian Art, the Human Rela-

tions Area Files, and a few others, in which the emphasis on analytic

structure for easier retrieval marks a further step in the direction of

the modern data bank, as defined above. Now, few scholars have com-

plained that institutions such as those just mentioned are an obstacle

to authority, diversity, or freedom of scientific thought on human mat-

ters. The profession, presumably, is able to adapt protective mechanisms

to the new environment and keep out the elleged dangers of the day, as

personified by quacks or tyrants. Why should it cease to do so when

public indexes and files improve in quality and efficiency, through the

122
mere use of more sophisticated means, intellectual (descriptive codes)

and material (computers)?

Literature Cited

Binford, Lewis Robt. and Quimby, G. I., 1963. Indian Sites and Chipped
Stone Materials in the Northern Lake Michigan Area, Fieldiana,
Subtitle: Anthropology, vol. 36, no. 12, Chicago Natural History
Museum.

Christophe, J., and Deshayes, J., 1964. Index de l'Outillage sur cartes
perforées: outils de l'âge du Bronze des Balkans a 1'Indus, Centre
National de la Recherche Scientifique, Paris.

Cowgill, George L., 1967. Computer applications in archaeology, Com-

puters and the Humanities, vol. 2, no. 1, Sept. 1967, Flushing (N.Y.),

Coyaud, M., 1966. Introduction à l'étude des languages documentaires,

Klincksieck, Paris.

Cros, R.-C, Gardin, J.-C, and Levy, F., 1964. (2nd edition 1968)
L'automatisation des recherches documentaires, un modele general:
le SYNTOL, Gauthier-Villars, Paris.

de la Vega, F., 1968. Techniques de classification automatique utili-

sant un indice de ressemblance, Revue Française de Sociologie, Paris.

Gardin, J.-C., 1965a. A typology of computer uses in anthropology, in

The Use of Computers in Anthropology (ed. Dell Hymes), pp. 377-397,
Mouton, The Hague.

Gardin, J.-C, 1965b. Analyse documentaire et analyse structurale en

archéologie. L'Arc, no. 26 (on Claude Lévi-Strauss), pp. 64-68,
Aix-en-Provence.

Gardin, J.-C, 1967. Methods for the descriptive analysis of archaeo-

logical material, American Antiquity, vol. 32, no. 1, pp. 13-30,
Salt Lake City.

Henderson, Madeleine M., Moats, John S., Stevens, Mary E., and Newman,
Simon S., 1966. Cooperation, Convertibility and Compatibility among
Information Systems: a Literature Review, National Bureau of Stan-
dards, Washington.

Herteig, A., [1967], Kode og Kommentar for Analyse av det Keramisk

Material (manuscript), Historisk Museum, Bergen, Norway.

123
Krieger, Alex D., and Weyer, Edward M., 1964. New World Lithic
Typology Project, Parts I-II, American Antiquity, vol. 29, no. 4,
pp. 487-493, Salt Lake City.

Leenhardt, Marie, 1965. L'utilisation des cartes perforées dans le

classement et l'étude de la poterie médiévale, Annales de Normandie,
15e année, no. 3, pp. 479-488, Caen.

Pike, K., 1955. Language in relation to a unified theory of the struc-

ture of human behavior, Glendale.

Rouse, Irving, 1960. The Classification of Artifacts in Archaeology,

American Antiquity, vol. 25, no. 3, pp. 313-323, Salt Lake City.

Tugby, Donald J., 1965. Archaeological Objectives and Statistical

Methods: a Frontier in Archaeology, American Antiquity, vol. 31,
no. 1, pp. 1-16, Salt Lake City.

Ustinov, V. A., 1963. Calculateurs électroniques appliqués a la Science

historique (translated from Russian), Annales, 18e année, no. 2,
pp. 259-294.

Ustinov, V. A., 1964. Premenenie vycislitel'nykh masin v istoriceskoi

nauke (The use of computers in historical science), Ed. Mysl'>
Moscow.

124
 Discussion following paper by Jean-Claude Gardin

The Chairman: Mr. Gardin has given us a most important, and I

think a far-reaching paper. Do we have any specific questions for him?

Mr. Ronald Globus: Mr. Gardin, you talked about building a known,

standardized, descriptive language of artifacts, and the difficulty in

inventing such a language. Is the visual language of photography appli-

cable to computer use and applicable to our field?

Mr. Gardin: This is, of course, a solution which has been con-

sidered many, many times -- that is, substituting the digital descriptions

and logical descriptions for such as may be taken by photographs. The

trouble, then, is that for purposes of comparison one does not know how

to use the data if it is stored in that form. You all know that one

needs a typology to refer to. Now in essence, those direct and logical

methods of recording data do not have typology in them. That is, you use

a kind of TV grid which may be as fine as you wish. To compare two dif-

ferent objects with reference to these two grids, where you do not know

how to read the comparison: this is one of the main objections.

The second objection is that if one does use those, one is

restricted to the first kind of descriptive language I mentioned. That

is, one which is based on physical features -- nonsignificant physical

features. And one does not know either how to go from there to the

logical and meaningful quantification of the data -- quantification in

the logical sense of the word -- to this quantification which is the sub-

ject matter of the scientific language, as opposed to the descriptive

language. So these are two reasons why photographs have not been con-

sidered as input.

125
 THE USE OF COMPUTERS IN THE ANALYSIS OF TEXTILE DATA:

Specifically, Archaeological Fabrics from Peru

by

Junius B. Bird

American Museum of National History

In a broad sense, textiles are probably the most complex arti-

facts of daily life that archaeologists have to deal with. Unfortun-

ately, such perishable material survives in quantity for any length of

time only under the most favorable conditions such as prevail in certain

desert areas. Elsewhere textiles survive only sporadically under dif-

fering conditions and for different reasons. As rarities and in limited

numbers they pose no problems in analysis and recording. Only when they

are encountered in quantity do they pose a real problem. A procedure

for handling the data is discussed here.

Textiles are complex because they combine a multitude of vari-

able details and features with varied structural and decorative tech-

niques to achieve a wide range of products. In addition to technical

data, we must consider such things as design, pattern-repeat systems,

function, and even repair techniques. To anyone unfamiliar with textile

terms and technology, explanation of the possibilities is difficult.

As an archaeologist, I was faced with the problem of recording

all observable data on a series of 9800 sections and pieces of fabrics

and a quantity of related scraps, yarns, and cords. These had been
127
produced during a period roughly from 2500 to 500 B.C., at and near the

Hauca Prieta, a site on the north coast of Peru. We knew that an analy-

sis of the material on a chronological basis would reveal trends,

changes, and stable factors in the fabric production. As the specimens

had been found in association with other cultural material, we hoped to

develop a clearer picture of the human record.

It was a task of distinct steps that need only be mentioned

here. First, there was the cleaning and preparation for study, a full-

time job for one skilled assistant for one year. Then came the record-

ing of data involving microscopic examination, yarn by yarn, piece by

piece, followed by cataloguing as the material was classified.

At this point all data, except for large technical drawings,

were compiled in a numerical card file divided into chronological units.

A decision had to be made on how we could best score, interpret, sum-

marize, and present the information. The problem seemed a logical one

for computer processing provided we could devise an adequate coding

system for use with the standard 80-column card.

Before I describe how this was accomplished, some background

information will help in understanding the scope of the problem. When

the Spaniards first entered Peru in the sixteenth century they found a

politically united nation, extending far beyond the present limits of

Peru, of at least six million individuals. All utilized textiles in

some form or other and all were clothed. To be otherwise was barbarous.

In more ancient times, an indignity was inflicted on prisoners of war by

stripping them of their clothes.

The average wardrobe consisted of from two to five articles made

either of cotton, available in varying shades of natural brown and gray

128
as well as white, or wool from the domesticated alpaca and llama and, to

a much lesser degree, from the wild vicuffa. Bast and hard fibers,

obtained from wild plant sources, were of secondary importance. In

quality of workmanship the fabrics in general exceeded the products of

Spanish weavers. In variety of techniques employed, the Peruvians cer-

tainly surpassed contemporary Europeans.

Production was largely a family craft. All girls and some boys

learned to spin in childhood, and probably all women did some weaving.

The major part of their time, in fact, was devoted to the production of

yarn and fabrics, not so much as a chore but as a source of pleasure.

Great quantities of cloth, largely in the form of garments, were pre-

sented as offerings at religious centers and were collected as tribute

for the state. The Spaniards encountered vast quantities assembled in

storerooms, as much a measure of national wealth as the gold in our Fort

Knox. Such hoards were drawn on to clothe the armies, more was dis-

tributed as gifts, and some was burned or sacrificed at religious

rituals. Especially fine garments were created for the rulers and offi-

cials, and certain women were employed solely for this work.

The great importance and prestige attached to textiles at the

period of the Spanish conquest was an outgrowth of an ancient tradition.

We do not know when fabric production started, but it was well estab-

lished by 2500 B.C. By the beginning of the Christian era, some impor-

tant individuals were buried with an astonishing assemblage of remark-

able fabrics. In one instance, a total of over 300 square yards of

cotton and wool cloth, including many separate products, was used for

the clothing and wrappings of a single individual. Another gentleman of

the same period had been packed away with seventy-five garments and
129
other fabrics, the largest a single-loom product with four finished sel-

vages, 87 feet 3 inches in length, 11 feet 3 inches in width. It is

calculated that to make this piece, 107 miles of two-ply yarn had been

used.

All the dead were not so bountifully supplied, yet the total

amount so disposed must have been enormous. In one area the practice

even included the placing of small looms, on which were unfinished

fabrics, with the dead.

Today, in spite of centuries of looting, one can still recover

great quantities of textiles in some of the desert cemeteries. An even

greater quantity is available in community refuse. This means that the

existing collections now in museums are but a fraction of the total to

be dealt with in the course of future archaeological work. We will have

to handle large quantities, divided by geographical distribution and by

age into a multitude of interrelated units.

Further subdivision, and here more complex relationships develop,

is on the basis of technology, the manner in which the fabrics were con-

structed. In her recent book, The Primary Structures of Fabrics (pub-

lished by The Textile Museum of Washington, D . C ) , Irene Emery illus-

trates 161 variations of systems used in fabric construction. She makes

no attempt to cover all the elaborations and possibilities, nor does she

treat with secondary details, such as variable side and end selvage con-

structions. One cannot use this study as a measure of technical differ-

ences in Peruvian fabrics. It merely indicates something of the range

of basic possibilities, a starting point for an undetermined number of

variations. The potential importance of the book, in relation to

130
computer analysis, is that it points out a basis of relationship and how

the material can be grouped in simplified order.

In planning how to handle the specific problem we were dealing

with, the ordering of information to be derived from a relatively small

series of fabrics, we had to decide whether to devise a code just for

the material at hand, or one that would have broader application and

would be useful in the future. We knew that there were radical differ-

ences between the early fabrics and those available from later periods,

and that to prepare a code to encompass all would be a much more complex

undertaking. While we were confident that it could be done, time,

effort, money, and advice would be needed.

I am fortunate in having as an associate Miss Milica Dimitri-

jevic; she has worked on the collection, knows textile technology, and

is meticulous in attention to detail. In all discussions of the use of

computers that I have read, there is no mention of the personal qualifi-

cations needed. It is assumed that data entry will be accurate. But

for any complex problem, patience, hard work, and integrity are of para-

mount importance. If the personnel involved cannot be trusted in these

regards, there is no point in starting.

For advice, we at first had the help of Mr. Owen Henderson,

experienced in coding other data, and through him the staff of the Ser-

vice Bureau Corporation. After a seemingly satisfactory coding system

had been devised, support was received from the National Science Founda-

tion as Grant 16007.

One of the first points we had determined was that a single card

could not carry all data for all types of textile specimens. Only if a

fabric is made of a single continuous cord or yarn (fishnets will serve

131
as an example) can this be done. For woven or twined fabrics having

warps and wefts working in opposition to each other, that is, two sets

of elements, there can be more entries than the space on one card per-

mits. For them, within our plan, Card 1 carries warp data and major

information; Card 2, weft data and information supplementing Card 1

entries. Lack of card space necessitated the use of alphabetical codes

in twelve columns.

The divisions or groupings of card columns are indicated by the

data-sheet headings (Figure 1 ) . We were told by Service Bureau Corpora-

tion personnel to reserve one column for the machines, in this case

Column 1. Only after the data sheets were printed and data entries made

preparatory to card punching was it brought out that this was not really

necessary. The space was then used to indicate Card 1 or 2.

The data sheets measure 23 by 17 inches and have 32 horizontal

rows for entry of information. The space beyond the eightieth column,

headed COMMENTS, is for any supplementary notations, such as that cer-

tain specimens would be good examples for illustration. It was for

convenience only and nothing entered there was intended to modify the

information for the cards. Of the thirty-seven other data-sheet head

ings, thirty-one were for coded information, six for catalogue numbers,

counts, and measurements.

It would be pointless to explain each code in detail. Brief

comments will suffice to explain objectives, illustrate problems, and to

answer foreseeable questions.

The spaces for CATALOGUE and SPECIMEN NUMBER entries were

planned to encompass the varied cataloguing systems used by different

museums.
132
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FIGURE ONE Data sheet for textile information with sample entries for five fabrics : two t w i n e d , one woven, and two of
single-element construction. Entries in columns 2 to 21 correlate Cards 1 and 2 and were repeated auto-
matically on Card 2 . Entries under COMMENTS are simply annotations and were not cut on cards.
 The VALLEY OR AREA code utilized an existing numerical ordering

of the Peruvian coastal region, prepared by Professor John Rowe.

SITE columns are for numbered sites within one valley or area.

While certain geographical units may ultimately have more than 999

recorded sites, it will be many years before a four-digit record is

needed.

CHRONOLOGY AND EXCAVATION DATA is for excavation subdivisions at

one site. The material with which we were directly concerned was

derived from ninety-four sources. As these were not all successively

chronological, but in some cases overlapped in time, a three-digit code

was used. The fourth column in this area was reserved for future use,

since some sites will have many more subdivisions.

CULTURAL PERIOD. The terminology and ideas about Peruvian cul-

tural periods is in a state of flux, with alternative and conflicting

proposals. No exact dating of the prehistoric record by periods has

been achieved, so for general purposes, a broad frame of reference will

suffice. For this, Rowe's system, adapted from earlier work, is good.

Eight entries cover the time spanning the Preceramic to the Historic,

and the ninth is for items unidentified or uncertain as to period. If a

specimen can be specifically placed at the time when one period ends and

another begins, it is assigned to the later period and the fact noted by

an entry in the SPECIAL FEATURES code.

IDENTIFICATION, FUNCTION, and NO. OF LOOM PRODUCTS are obvious

headings. A scrap of fabric may not give any clue as to function

and has to be entered as uncertain. If a shirt is made of four sep-

arately woven products, eight cards will be needed to carry all data.

In contrast, the count of several woven fragments that appear to have

134
come from one loom product are entered under NUMBER OF ITEMS, and have

only the usual two cards. From one set of figures we have the count of

loom products providing the information; from the other, the number of

pieces handled in the study.

TECHNIQUE, important as a primary sorting key, is a code cover-

ing the basic divisions of textile construction techniques used in Peru,

and some of their combinations. The variations within the major divi-

sions are dealt with in the separate codes LOOPING AND NETTING, PLAITING

(including braiding), TWINING, and WEAVING. Theoretically, all these

might have been combined into one large code under TECHNIQUE. They are

subdivided for simplicity in scoring and programming. Construction

details, which may apply to more than one of the major technique divi-

sions, are dealt with under the codes for WARP MOVEMENT (Figure 2 ) , WEFT

COURSE (Figure 3 ) , TWINING TWIST, SELVAGE KNOTS, WEFT HANDLING, WARP

ENDS, and END FINISH. All of these codes are provided with drawings of

the features to avoid possible errors.

Supplementary features added to, or involving, finished fabrics

are recorded in REPAIR TECHNIQUES, STITCHES, and SUPERSTRUCTURAL,

embroidery and applique being noted in the last.

The SPECIAL FEATURES code is a place for annotations. If a

specimen has some feature not covered by preceding codes, or if there is

not sufficient card space allocated for all possible entries, reference

to that fact is made here. If explanation is needed, the information is

available on the catalogue file cards for the collection.

The data on the yarns and fibers might, to the uninitiated, seem

an easy problem for coding. It is, however, not simple, for the factors

are spinning twist direction, plus doubling or compounding twist

135
directions, versus fibers or combinations of fibers. There are fre-

quently several types of yarn occurring in the warp, or weft, and super-

structural sewing, or other supplementary yarns in any one fabric.

To cover certain aspects of the yarn analysis, the FIBER,

MATERIAL, two-digit numerical code with fifty-three entries, lists the

utilized Peruvian fibers and their combinations. It also includes how

these fibers are distributed in the pairs of yarns used for warp and for

weft in the twined fabrics.

The YARN STRUCTURE code (Figure 4) has to repeat part of the

fiber information as it related to twist direction. It is a two-part

code requiring complementary entries in adjacent columns. The six

columns alloted permits recording of three different yarn types for the

warp on Card 1, three for the weft on Card 2. If more than three occur,

reference to this is in the SPECIAL FEATURE code. Incidentally, the

twist-direction symbols, representing the slant of fibers and the slant

or lay of the elements in yarns of two or more ply, were proposed by the

textile analyst Louise Bellinger. It is a graphic system, far more

effective than the expression of the movements in words.

We made no attempt to include any record of the degree of twist,

even though this was deliberately varied for specific functions. To

include it in a coding system would involve various measurements for

each specimen and the end results would not justify the effort. Instead,

our policy has been to make sample checks within selected lots.

The data-sheet entry REPAIR YARNS uses the same numerical-

alphabetical yarn structure code for those yarns used for repair and

sewing and could also include embroidery yarns. Where two types occur,

one is entered on Card 1, the second on Card 2.

136
 n m

5ZLÏÏ

ni

M
K
m
Ki

FIGURE TWO Diagrams used in the TWINING : WARP MOVEMENT code. There are nine major types, w i t h some minor vari-
ants, among the material dealt with. Other variants that may appear in the future can be added within this
numbering system.
 WEFT COUiïoE Column 3k

Ust Card J. f o r f r a g m e n t s w h i c h h a v e par-,s jf H One continuous weft from point of entry to last row of weft Two or more continuous wefts laid in successive sheds and
b o t h s i d e s e l v a g e s ; Card 2 for f r a g m e n t s w i t h insertion traveling in the same direction
cme s e l v a g e o n l y .
C
Weft p a s s a g e s B, D, E , and G « r e .Limited i i
=
t w i n i n g ; o t h e r s a p p l i c a b l e t o l o t h t w i n i n g and
weaving.
I Two or more continuous wefts alternating as shown, advances made
at same selvage
A Weft c o u r s e n o t c o h e r e d b y following:

¿----------------H
One or more wefts used regionally with wefts turning within oody
B J t n r t s a t one e d g e , e n d s wich k n o t a t other of fabric. Use for both continuous and discontinuous wefts

\t
Two a r s e v e r a l complete passages, Lhen e n d s w i t h k n o t s (C,D,E,F) J Two continuous wefts l i k e I , advancing s h i f t s on opposite selvages Two continuous wefts interlocked at selvage (this occurs in some
djULile cloth)

. . /
\ Eccentric, i.e., weft running at other than right angles to the
warp for outlining in tapestry
Di
K Two or more continuous wefts used in creation of weft stripes and Eccentric, i.e., weft at other tnan right angles to warp for ca
advanced along the selvages; similar zo I and J vilinear construction

Discontinuous, regionally inserted wefts plus others running

L Two continuous wefts entering the same shed from opposite edges selvage to selvage

(
)
„t Q.
~>
M Two continuous wefts entering the same shed from opposite edges
( 1 and shifting to the next 3hed whenever they meet
( T> c . )
v

G One continuous weft fram point of entry to last row or pic!; K Three continuous wefts alternating in successive sheds and entering
twisted within spen of advance at selvage in opposite directions

FIGURE THREE WEFT COURSE code, a code for the variations of weft yarn passage in twined and woven fabrics.
Code X V I I YARN STRUCTURE
Columns 44-45; 46-47; 48-49

Use Card 1 for warp or for single element construction; Card 2 for weft

This code is a numerical-alphabetical code in which Nos. 0-8 refer to the yarn m a t e r i a l , and Letters A - Z to the yarn
structure.
Up to three types of warp and weft may be recorded in the f o l l o w i n g pairs of columns: 44-45; 4 6 - 4 7 ; 4 8 - 4 9 .
Yarn material is entered in the even columns, the first of each pair; yarn structure in the odd columns, the second.
When more than three types of warp or weft occur in a specimen, also enter 8 i n Special Features c o d e .

Fiber, M a t e r i a l — Columns 4 4 , 4 6 , 4

0 Unlisted G 2-ply / A /

1 Cotton H 2-ply W \

2 Cotton x bast (plied together) I 2-ply /A \

3 Cotton x cotton and bast blended J 3-ply ^

(one strand all c o t t o n , the other
blended cotton and bast, the two K 3-ply A
p l i e d together)
L Other
4 Cotton and bast blended (both
strands are cotton and bast M M o r e than 3 - p l y V
b l e n d e d , the two p l i e d together)
N M o r e than 3 - p l y '*'
5 Bast
O Other
6 Junco
3rd twist d i r e c t i o n
7 Wool
P 2 - p l y redoubled V \
8 Human hair
Q 2 - p l y redoubled A /

Yarn Structure — Columns 4 5 , 4 7 , 49 R 3 - p l y redoubled "^/\

A Unlisted S 3 - p l y redoubled A /

1st or spinning twist d i r e c t i o n T M o r e than 3 - p l y redoubled \ / \

B Single \ U M o r e than 3 - p l y redoubled A /

C Single / V 3 2-ply \ A

2nd or p l y i n g twist d i r e c t i o n W 3 2-ply A ^

D 2-ply V X M o r e than 3 2 - p l y \ A

E 2-ply A Y M o r e than 3 2 - p l y A V

F 2-ply \V / Z Unspun fiber or filament

*1 Example: F - C o t t o n s p u n \ p l i e d w i t h bast s p u n / , the two doubled /

Asterisks w i t h i n twist symbols indicate any combination over 3

FIGURE FOUR YARN STRUCTURE code, in which the material used is correlated with the
spinning and subsequent twist directions. The symbols indicate the lay or
slant of the fibers and united strands.
 The COLOR: TYPE, APPLICATION code records colors as natural, a

dye, or a pigment. So little is known of the ancient dyes and dyeing

procedures that it would be futile even to consider dye and mordant

identification. The application or use of colors falls into varied

categories. Two-tone yarns are made of contrasting strands. Fiber can

be dyed before spinning and fibers of different colors combined. A

fabric may be dyed after it is created or, more commonly in Peru, the

yarns were dyed before construction. Resist-dyeing techniques restrict

dye application to portions of the yarn or finished fabrics, to mention

only some of the procedures. Their combinations add to the recording

problem.

Due to lack of card space, the COLORS code is perhaps oversim-

plified; it permits entry of only four major colors in the warp and four

in the weft per specimen. If more are present, this is recorded in the

SPECIAL FEATURES code. It was obvious that the recording of exact

colors, through reference to color charts, would necessitate a large

code requiring many card columns for different color combinations if the

full range in Peruvian fabrics were to be covered. If anyone ever

wishes to attempt this, supplementary cards could be used. Our own con-

clusion is that the work is not warranted because one is faced with

color variations resulting from aging and fading, as well as the unin-

tentional differences of tone when the dyers were attempting to dupli-

cate a specific color. This is difficult even in controlled laboratory

procedure; it was more difficult for the ancients working with unrefined

mordants and a multitude of dye sources. For these reasons our COLORS

code has only ten entries in each of four columns.

140
 Textile design and decoration lends itself to coding, provided

one has sufficient card columns to cover the possibilities. Faced with

minimal space, the DESIGN entry is actually a combination of six codes:

three numerical, the others alphabetical. The first records whether the

piece has simple stripes, representational, or nonobjective themes, and

so on. The second records how these were achieved. The third is a

breakdown of nonobjective design. The fourth identifies representa-

tional motifs. The fifth and sixth cover the layout and orientation of

repeats, if these occur.

Numerical data on specimens are recorded under MESH SIZE, DIMEN-

SIONS, COUNTS (warp and weft or row counts), and END: NUMBER OF WEFT

ROWS. Measurements are in the metric system. Warp and weft counts are

recorded for the span of 2.5 centimeters. The reason for this is that

most published records are in counts per inch. Moreover, the average

counts of yarns, especially in low-count fabrics, cannot be recorded

accurately for 1 cm. without using two decimal places. A count per

2.5 cm., using only one decimal place, provides all the accuracy needed.

The preparation of the codes involved considerable experimenta-

tion and revision before they reached the forms described. There must

be ways in which the whole could be improved, but there were no major

problems in application. Some rechecking of specimens was necessary

during the entry of data where the original recorded information on the

catalogue cards was not clear in detail. Otherwise the work of data-

sheet entry proceeded quite rapidly. In the end, the information for

4181 specimens and groups of specimens, on 225 data sheets, was covered

by the entries for 7148 cards. At the Service Bureau Corporation the

card-punch operators expressed satisfaction with the design of the

141
data sheets and reported no problems. We did, however, encounter

thirty-three card-cutting errors with no clue as to what caused them.

For the analysis of the information we had prepared 106 ques-

tions to be applied to the material from 94 chronological subdivisions.

As we were thoroughly familiar with the interrelationship of the codes,

programming the questions was not difficult; except for a few cases, our

instructions were correct.

Sorting was done with an IBM 407 machine, since we were not ask-

ing for figures other than scores. As the reports came in, the results

of each question were assembled on graph paper with the figures grouped

in chronological order. Percentages were determined from which inter-

pretation of the changes and stability of features could be drawn. In

the end we have the most complete and detailed analysis of textile infor-

mation for certain periods ever assembled. Granted that this is a

regional record, it does provide a standard for comparative purposes

that has already proven most useful in judging miscellaneous small lots

from other parts of Peru.

By and large we believe the results to be accurate. There were

errors on our part and some in the work at the Service Bureau. Ours

resulted from failure to make certain entries; most, more properly

called changes, were the result of reinterpreting some features in dif-

ferent terms. Only in a few cases were the errors caused by transposi-

tion of entries. After adding the thirty-three Service Bureau cutting

errors, the total of cards to be reçut amounted to 318.

A check of the reasons for recutting the 318 cards is definitely

pertinent to this review of the project. We had, of course, anticipated

that there would be errors, and they came to light as the Service Bureau

142
reports were studied and analyzed. The checking of these reports was

simplified by the fact that they were subdivided on the basis of the

various chronological and excavation divisions. Comparison of the num-

bers of specimens checked for specific features within each division

against the record of the number of specimens in each division usually

indicated where the discrepancies occurred. In addition, we were

thoroughly familiar with the material and, as the records of feature

distribution developed, deviations could be easily checked. In all such

cases the data-sheet entries and the sources of information on the cata-

logue file cards were compared. Where card entries were unclear or

questioned, we also re-examined textile specimens with the microscope

for more precise or detailed analyses.

Such reconsideration resulted in changes of certain data-card

entries. This was followed by a revision of data-sheet entries and, in

the end, corrections of the Service Bureau reports.

Some codes needed modification in the form of additional sub-

categories and more precise instructions for their use. As an example,

the code for TWINING: WARP MOVEMENT, columns 30, 31 on the data sheet,

was ultimately so revised that almost all entries for the various ways

warp yarns were manipulated had to be changed on the data sheets. For-

tunately, the number of specimens with this feature is small, and the

handling and analysis of the information posed no problem. In this case,

195 out of 265 entries were changed. There are changes resulting from

the modification and improvement of a code rather than from errors.

In addition to what has just been described, the revision of

data-sheet entries in all other codes can be summarized as follows:

Out of 4181 specimens and groups of specimens, 94 required changes in

143
159 column entries. The real errors occurred in 81 column entries for

49 specimens as follows:

Information omitted 31 specimens

Erroneous entries 8
Entries transposed in adjacent
horizontal rows 5
Entries transposed in adjacent
columns 4
Confusion of source data cards 2
(One specimen had errors of two kinds hence
the numbers listed total 50 rather than 49)

In addition, we had failed to code any information for one specimen.

The errors noted are admittedly only those that were detected;

one can rightly wonder if others occurred. However, the search for mis-

takes was rigorous, and while one cannot claim perfection in such work,

we have satisfied ourselves that there is certainly nothing more that

would appreciably affect the results.

Important from the standpoint of future work is an understanding

of how or why mistakes occurred. The fact that there were only nine

instances of entries made in the wrong place on the data sheets where

over 500,000 entry spaces were dealt with indicates that the data-sheet

plan and work of entry was reasonable. Virtually all of the other mis-

takes can be attributed to the manner in which the basic information was

compiled on the catalogue cards, the source of the information to be

coded.

It must be remembered that this was the first study in detail

ever made of textiles of the types and age dealt with; that at the

beginning we had no way of judging what a study of them would reveal.

Equally important, we did not then know that the statistical analysis

would later involve coding and machine processing. Accordingly, the

plan worked out for the printed catalogue cards was adequate for certain
144
basic data and records, but it was inadequate for the varied information

on related features that frequently was recorded only by sketches. Had

we worked with the type of card we now envisage as desirable, with the

code plan as a guide, most errors and changes would have been avoided.

We would now enter the code data for each item on the catalogue cards.

The card punchers could work directly from them, but unless such cards

were duplicated, this would not be advisable. There is too much labor

and expense involved in their preparation to run the risk of loss.

Personally, we favor the compilation of the coded information on data

sheets regardless of how the source-card information is prepared.

The most embarrassing mistake at the Service Bureau was the per-

manent loss of the entire set of punched cards. Fortunately, this

occurred after initial processing. When other questions arose that

could have been handled by machine processing, the answers were

obtained by manually searching the data sheets. We found that this

could be done quite quickly and effectively. The experience convinced

us that for smaller lots of textiles the data should be coded and

entered on such sheets even if there is no intention to have cards cut

and processed. It not only is a compilation of information in acces-

sible form, but forces one into orderly thinking about a complex subject.

145
 Discussion following paper by Junius Bird

Miss Tamaradze: Dr. Bird, what was the object of this project?

Dr. Bird: The objective was to put a mass of related material

together in a form so that we could determine what changes had occurred

in time, where they occurred, the degree to which they occurred, and what

features were consistently followed through generation after generation

during a period dating from 2500 B.C. to about 500 B.C. This was a study

in textile technology, change, and so on.

Miss Tamaradze: Has the project reached the point where you have

the results?

Dr. Bird: Yes. We have all of our data related and it is

intriguing how certain things, such as twining twist direction, held on,

generation after generation, when they had some alternative system they

might have used. They are extremely conservative through that early

period; the rate of change is slow. Some of the most complicated tech-

niques were flourishing at the very start in time at one community, and

they tended to stagnate. There was a diminution in artistic endeavor,

and they sort of went to seed, in a way.

Mr. Leo Palmer [Baldwin Museum]: Do you feel that it would be

practical to expand this? We have some Peruvian textiles in our museum,

but we have no information comparable to what you want on the cards. Do

you feel, as you expand this project, that you will get into general

museums?

Mr. Bird: I am convinced, given enough time, given enough work

of this sort, we could take a small collection such as yours, program it,

and tell you exactly where it fits in time and in cultural connection --

possibly even to the particular valley.

 THE QUANTITATIVE ANALYSIS OF NUMISMATIC DATA

by

Jeanette Wakin

Columbia University

The value of numismatic evidence as an aid to history has long

been acknowledged by scholars of the medieval Islamic world. Few civi-

lizations can offer such a rich and varied source, and in periods when

literary materials are few or unreliable, and even when they are abundant,

an extraordinary wealth of documentation can be derived from coinage.

Coins are authentic contemporary documents, never subject to the

bias of chroniclers, distance from events, or the errors of scribes.

They are also official documents, for the striking of coins in Islam was

the exclusive prerogative of rulers. Moreover, coins provide not only

chronological and dynastic data, but because of the extensive use of

religious and political legends, titles of honor, and other epigraphical

what is said here about coins is also true, in varying degrees,

for other nonliterary sources, such as inscriptions and archaeological
evidence. For a definition of these sources in Islamic studies, see
C. Cahen, Jean Sauvaget's Introduction to the History of the Muslim East
(Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1965), pp. 52-60.
Several generations of outstanding scholars have produced a vast
body of literature dealing with numismatics and Islamic history; these
are reported in L. A. Mayer, Bibliography of Moslem Numismatics, India
Excepted (2d ed. rev.; London, 1954). For a recent assessment of pro-
gress, see G. C. Miles, "Islamic Numismatics," VI. Congresso Internazi-
onale di Numismatica (Rome, 1961), pp. 181-192. The role of numismatics
in historical studies is discussed in P. Grierson, Numismatics and His-
tory (London, 1951).

147
material, they are valuable for interpreting the ideologies of rulers or

dynasties, their religious leanings, the position of Muslim states with

1
regard to the Caliphate of Baghdad, and so on. Other information

usually inscribed on Islamic coins can be useful; mint names, for in-

stance, tell us something of the relative importance of towns as adminis-

trative centers.

Furthermore, if coinage was an expression of political power, it

was also an instrument of economic exchange; and it is the economic his-

torian in particular who should find numismatic evidence relevant and

valuable. Studies of weights and standards of fineness, which fluctuated

considerably throughout the Islamic world, have immeasurable advantages

for many aspects of Near Eastern economic history. Not the least of

these would be as a help in reconstructing the pattern of exchange rates,

prices, and salaries, about which we know so little. Research concen-

trating on other features of coins would be valuable for the study of

international trade, the circulation of gold and silver, and mint produc-

tion, while the analysis of hoards can yield information of another

kind.

•'•Three models in this respect are G. C. Miles, The Numismatic

History of Rayy (1938), his Coinage of the Umayyads of Spain (2 vols.,
1948), and 0. Grabar, The Coinage of the Tulunids (1957). All are pub-
lications of the American Numismatic Society, New York.
2
Numismatists, unfortunately, have no control over finds;
usually when coins reach the marketplace, hoards have already been scat-
tered, and often even the provenance of individual coins is forgotten.
However, an example of sound method, and of the variety of information
that can be derived from the study of a hoard, will be found in H. L.
Adelson and G. Kustas, "A Bronze Hoard of the Period of Zeno I," Numis-
matic Notes and Monographs, No. 148 (American Numismatic Society, 1962).

148
 The initial problem of analyzing these coins, each of which was

characterized by at least 25 observable categories of data, led me to

seek an efficient technique that would systematize and bring under con-

trol this variety of information. I wished not only to observe simple

correlations of one attribute of a coin with another, but also to exam-

ine the influence of more than one attribute at a time by breaking down

the data into categories representing all their logical combinations.

And so, although the coins themselves posed a number of problems of great

interest for the history of the Ayyubid dynasty, I decided to leave these

for a later date and, instead, pursue the research procedures. Thus, the

study should not be regarded as a formal analysis of a group of coins,

but as an attempt to clarify these procedures.

The method that seemed most adaptable in its application to num-

ismatic studies is known as multivariate analysis; and although the term

has a more precise meaning in mathematical statistics, it is employed as

the basic operation in the quantitative analysis of social variables.

To make efficient use of the method, a large variety of data must first

the British Museum, and 248 from the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris.
The Catalogue of the Khedivial Library in Cairo lists 170 Ayyubid coins.
The other collections are mentioned in the bibliography that forms part
of the code book accompanying the analysis. It should be noted that in
some cases published coins were excluded from the analysis, the data
being regarded as unreliable; in other cases, new attributions had to be
made.

Prof. Paul F. Lazarsfeld, of Columbia University, whose writings

have been the basis for much of this paper, is responsible for the wide
use of multivariate analysis. For a convenient summary, see his "Inter-
pretation of Statistical Relations as a Research Operation," in P. Lazars-
feld and M. Rosenberg, eds., The Language of Social Research (Glencoe,
111., 1955), pp. 115-24. The section on property space is based on the
work of Dr. Allen Barton, also of Columbia; in particular, see his dis-
cussion in "The Concept of Property-Space in Social Research," ibid.,
pp. 40-53.

149
 Yet, investigations along these lines have not been widely pur-

sued, and the few such studies that have been carried on in recent years

have been based on a relatively small number of specimens. It should go

without saying that essential to such undertakings is the systematic

observation of large numbers of coins and the application of uniform

criteria for measuring and interpretation. Even then, only the results

of accumulated studies will provide a valid basis for the evaluation of

economic and monetary trends. It is the purpose of this paper to

explore one aspect of these requirements: whether an empirical study of

numismatic data, applying the methods of quantitative analysis, can be

valid and useful as a research technique.

The research for this study was undertaken at the American Numis-

matic Society, where I had the privilege of examining the rich collection
2
of Islamic coins in the Society's vaults. Those which formed the basis

for the study consisted of the 736 unpublished specimens of coins of the
_ 3

Ayyubid dynasty in the collection of the ANS, together with published

coins dispersed throughout some thirty catalogues of collections and in

periodicals. In all, nearly 2,000 coins were used, although this was far

from exhausting the published material.

These essentials of methodology have been appreciated most by

A. S. Ehrenkreutz in his several articles on Islamic monetary history;
see especially his "Studies of the Monetary History of the Near East in
the Middle Ages, II," Journal of the Economic and Social History of the
Orient, VI (1963), pp. 243-277; method on pp. 244-250.
2
My thanks are due to the ANS not only for putting the facilities
of their library and collection at my disposal, but also for providing
the funds to carry on the research over a summer. I am especially
indebted to Dr. George C. Miles for his help.
3
Of which 113 are on loan from the University Museum in Philadel-
phia, and 11 on loan from the Hispanic Society of America. Of the 1,950
coins studied for this paper, 270 have been drawn from the collection of
150
be ordered. IBM machine or computer procedures performed two initial

tasks, the simpler one of counting and sorting the many categories of

information, or variables, the more complex task of providing statistical

tabulations of a large number of variables. One advantage in these tabu-

lations is the fact that it becomes possible to see fruitful relation-

ships that might otherwise elude the researcher.

Furthermore, the punched IBM cards, each containing all the data

for a single coin, or the computer tape to which the same information can

be transferred, provide a catalogue of the coins. Another convenience,

that the numismatist will appreciate, is that the catalogue may be

arranged either in the traditional manner, chronologically and then by

metal (aurum, argentum, aes), or according to any other variable he

chooses for his purpose. Future researchers need only consult the code

book, or key to the categories or variables, and then use the same cards

or computer tape for the construction of tables or for making comparisons

and cross-tabulations with other large groups of Islamic coins.

The Coins. The coinage of the Ayyubids, the dynasty of Saladin

and his successors, is a particularly rich and varied one. Issued by

nine sovereign rulers and eleven vassal princes, the coins were struck

at fifteen known mints in Egypt, Muslim Syria, and western Mesopotamia.

The period spans some 80 years, from the time when Saladin issued the

first coin in his own name in the year 1174 (570 A.H.) until the dynasty

was finally thrust out of existence in the middle of the thirteenth

Previously, Saladin had struck coins in the name of Nur al-Din

b. Zangï and of the Caliph al-Mustadî at Cairo in 1171 (567); Maqrlz",
Shudhur al-cUqud, ed. L. A. Mayer (Alexandria, 1933), p. 12.

151
century, by the Mamluks in Egypt and Syria and by the Mongol invasions in

the north and east.

The illustrations here have been chosen to indicate the variety

of Ayyubid coinage and to suggest a few broad trends shown by the study.

1 2 3

COIN N O . l obverse (Jog) and reverse (bottom), gold dinar

of Saladin, Cairo, 1191 (587 A.H)
COIN NO. 2 obverse (fori) and reverse of gold dinar of
AI- c Ädil, Alexandria, 1203 (&00A.HÌ)
COIN NO. 3 gold dinar of Al-Kämil, Fustät

i
The l a s t Ayyubid coins were s t r u c k by Al-Mansür Muhammad I I of
Hamä, by Al-Ashraf MiisS, nominally r u l i n g i n Cairo under the Mamlük Aybak,
and by Âl-Nasir Yusuf a t Aleppo. The l a s t coin i s dated 658 (1260).
This study does not i n c l u d e the Ayyübids of Hisn Kayfâ or the Yemen. For
t h e s e b r a n c h e s , see G. C. M i l e s , "The Ayyubid dynasty of the Yaman and
t h e i r Coinage," Numismatic C h r o n i c l e , 5th s e r . , XIX (1939), pp. 62-97,
and Ahmed Tevhid, "Monnaies des Ayoubites de Hisn Kayfa," Procès-Verbaux
e t Memoires du Congrès I n t e r n a t i o n a l e de Numismatique ( B r u x e l l e s , 1910),
pp. 493-505 (coins in the a u t h o r ' s c o l l e c t i o n ) .

152
 The first three photographs show the obverse and reverse of three

gold coins from Egypt, representing the evolution of the dinar under the
— 1 2

Ayyubids. Coin No. 1 is a gold dinar of Saladin minted in Cairo in the

year 1191 (587). The inscription, which is often contained in three cir-

cular margins instead of two, repeats various pious formulas, indicates

the date and the mint, the royal protocol, the protocol of the Caliph in

Baghdad, and generally employs some epithet to indicate that the coin is

of full weight and value. The last is quite superfluous in the case of

Ayyubid coins, because Saladin pursued a tendency that had already

appeared at the end of the preceding Fatimid period, and abandoned the

weight standard. His coins weigh anywhere from under three grams to

nearly six, and later, the variations in size and weight are even greater.

Neither Saladin's successors nor the Mamluks after them, ever returned to

the weight standard, and from this time on we can no longer speak of

dinars in the strict sense of the word, but of stamped pieces of gold

that had to be weighed every time they were exchanged in the market. In

other words, it is during this period that gold loses its place as a

standard of currency and becomes a commodity.

3
Coin No. 2 was struck in Alexandria in the year 1203 (600) by

the second great Ayyubid ruler, Saladin's brother Al- c Adil. It shows the

transition to another style, although still preserving its Kufic epi-

graphy.

^-Details on the dinar (denarius), or gold coin, the dirham

(drachm) or silver coin, and the fais (follis), the bronze piece, will be
found in the Encyclopedia of Islam, 2d ed. (Leiden, 1954- ) , s.v.
2
From the Catalogue of the coins on deposit at the American Numis-
matic Society; coin No. 76.
3
Catalogue No. 107.
153
 The third gold coin is a dinar from Fustat Misr, the third

Egyptian mint, which functioned sporadically. It was struck by Al-Kamil,

who headed the Ayyubid house from 1218 to 1237 (615-635), after his cele-

brated reform of the year 1225 (622), and in keeping with the spirit of

the innovation, perhaps, the script becomes cursive. In many ways,

Al-Kamil's twenty-year rule is the most interesting in the entire period.

The strict financial policy which he observed after Saladin's somewhat

ruinous operations, made possible for a time the large-scale minting of

dinars at a standard normal before Saladin's time.

mm m
*3*

COIN NO. 4 silver nuqra dirham, obverse on top, reverse on

bottom^ Saladin Cairo
COINS 5 "black" dirhams (cut fragments)

COINS 6 round Kämili dirhams

Catalogue No. 404.

154
 If only one type of dinar circulated in Egypt at any given time,

there were several types of dirhams. Coin No. 4 is a rare example of the

nuqra dirham, the silver coin par excellence, and the basis for all

large-scale transactions involving both silver and gold. However, the

nuqra dirham was probably not for general use in the internal Egyptian

market, where the people used the cut fragments shown in the next photo-

graph. These were called waraq or misri or "black" dirhams and their

alloy was about 30% silver and 70% copper. They were official coins, cut

from ribbons and minted by Saladin and his successors in Egypt until

Al-Kamil's reform. To replace these "black" dirhams, the Arabic sources

tell us that Al-Kamil had the next group of round dirhams struck. The

alloy of these miniscule kamilis was supposed to have been 70% silver and
2
30% copper, but an analysis made recently by Dr. Paul Balog shows that

actually their alloy was about the same, if not worse, than the fragments

they were to replace. So even if a new dirham type was invented, the

reform hardly improved the coinage.

COIN NO. 7 Aleppo hexagram, silver dirham

•'•Catalogue No. 143.

2
The Coinage of the Mamluk Sultans of Syria and Egypt, Numismatic
Studies, No. 12 (American Numismatic Society, 1964), p. 55. Both the
waraq and kâmili dirhams constitute a special class of coinage, so
155
 The silver coinage of Cairo suggests some interesting historical

problems, but much more representative of the Ayyubid dirham were those

from the Syrian mints, which also circulated in Egypt, as we know from

archeological finds. Coin No. 7 is the Aleppo hexagram, a type that

remained standard for that town throughout Ayyubid rule and which was

imitated elsewhere by neighboring princes. The marginal legend is

inscribed in the six spaces formed between the hexagram and the circle.

COIN NO. 8 Saladin, silver dinar, square-in-a-

circle type, 1177 (573 A.H), obverse
on top

COIN NO. 9 silver dinar, 12-lobed medallion

In Damascus and especially Hama, the predominant silver type is

2
the square inscribed in a circle (Coin No. 8 ) . This is a coin of

Saladin, struck in the year 1177 (573). Coin No. 9 shows a second and

although the data on these coins has been collected, they have not been
included in the catalogue or the tables at this time.

^•Catalogue No. 588.

Catalogue No. 143.

156
later Damascus type, the twelve-lobed medallion. This coin was struck

by Al-Salih Ayyub in 1242 (640). These Damascus types were the ones that

were later adopted by the Mamluk sultans.

Not all the coins were so standardized in appearance. Copper

issues, struck at a number of mints in northern Syria and Mesopotamia

(there are no copper specimens at all from Egypt) show by their great

variety both in weight and appearance that there was no accepted standard

throughout the Ayyubid domains. And since copper coins were intended for

petty transactions and to fill local needs, it is not surprising that

they conformed to local stylistic traditions very closely. In parts of

northern Mesopotamia, for example, where a surprising variety of figurai

types were known and accepted by the local population, the Ayyubids con-
2
tinued to strike figurai coins, as Coins No. 10 and 11 show. Often

10 11

C O I N N O . 10 obverse of copper coin

C O I N N O . 11 obverse of copper coin

1
Catalogue No. 1249.
2
Coin No. 10, Cat. No. 1168; Coin No. 11, Cat. No. 353.

157
these coppers carry the puzzling designation "dirham," or silver coin,

suggesting that they may very well have been plated.

Two more examples of copper types are shown in Coin No, 12, an

undated coin of Al-cAziz Muhammad of Aleppo, and in Coin No. 13, a coin

struck by Al-Zahir Ghazi in Aleppo in the year 1207 (604). The copper

coinage of the Ayyubids should have special interest for the economic

historian, for aside from the trends already suggested, it is during this

period that copper really comes into its own. Formerly a token currency,

under the Ayyubids copper becomes a state currency, supporting silver in

the same way that silver had once supported gold. This, perhaps, was the

real innovation of the Ayyubids.

12 13

COINS 12 and 13 two copper coins, obverse

The Sample. Although individual coins or groups of coins pose,

in themselves, a number of historical and numismatic problems, the pur-

pose of this paper is to determine whether the coinage as a whole can be

examined, using the methods of quantitative analysis as our research

technique. The basic question that must first be answered is: To what

1
Coin No. 12, Cat. No. 1106; Coin No. 13, Cat. No. 1012.

158
extent do the total number of specimens that exist in museums and col-

lections today reflect the actual coinage of a particular dynasty or

place?

Implicit in the methods of quantitative analysis is the assump-

tion that if we seek information about a whole class of similar objects,

we can examine a small, carefully selected sample, and then apply our

findings to the entire class. Ideally, the researcher has at his dis-

posal all the units of the class from which to draw his sample. And the

means of selection he will employ will be chosen from a number of highly

developed methods. Depending on his need or purpose, the researcher may

use such methods as systematic random sampling, stratified sampling, or

simple random selection. Furthermore, each of these operations makes

use of complex statistical methods to ensure the accuracy of his sample.

However, in a numismatic study, the sample is scarcely selected

at all. It is, rather, forced upon us. The number and quality of the

coins from any given period will be largely a matter of chance, with the

possibility that a major hoard find in the future may upset the distribu-

tion of the data. The ideal situation in a numismatic study would be to

have a random sample; that is, every coin minted by a dynasty or within

a given period would have an equal and specified chance of being selected.

Since this is not the case, are we justified in making inferences about a

whole group of coins from what we know about some of them?

In actual practice, there are situations from a variety of fields

analogous to that facing numismatic studies, having similar limitations

on data and on the sample that is available. Such studies utilize the

material at hand, and bearing in mind its limitations, attempt to make

reliable conclusions. Two examples would be the interrogation of

159
prisoners of war or analyses of captured docyments. Only as the material

is accumulated can generalizations be made; and these generalizations

will always be subject to revision with the addition of further data.

Such situations require a compromise between ideal and actual research.

The compromise consists of a general approach which combines careful

observation of the material and applying information already confirmed.

In the case of a numismatic study, there are the historical materials and

interpretations from the textual evidence. There are also the well-

established principles of sound numismatic research. Furthermore, if we

understand how the selection of the sample occurs, we can avoid making

comparisons that are not valid. For example, we could not compare copper

and silver coins in terms of mint production, since we know that copper

deteriorates much more rapidly than silver and, besides, may not find its

way into published collections as readily as do the more valuable metals.

On the other hand, it is reasonably safe to assume that metrological

studies within each type of metal and with a sufficiently large number of

coins should allow us to make approximations. So, keeping in mind the

limitations imposed by the nature of the coin sample, we can discuss some

of the ways in which quantitative analysis may be applied to numismatic

studies.

The Idea of Property Space and the IBM Card. The principle that

lies at the heart of quantitative analysis and which is fundamental for

organizing empirical research procedures, is the notion of property space.

A fundamental principle in plane geometry is that location in physical

space can be indicated by means of two coordinates. Any point on a plane

surface can be described by defining its distance from any two base

points that we choose, from the left and from the bottom, for instance.
160
Purely quantitative measurements can be replaced with others: with rank-

ordered and even qualitative classifications, or both at once. We can,

for example, locate a coin on a vertical axis representing time (rank-

ordered, progressing in steps), and on a horizontal axis representing a

given geographical designation or mint (qualitative):

year

mint

The dimensions along which we can locate our coins in property

space can be of various kinds. Some of them are continuous variables,

where there is a formal, if not actual, zero point and where there may be

equal intervals. The date of a coin and its weight are two examples of

this. But more often the dimension will consist of unordered classes,

representing a variety of qualitative properties, such as mint, metal,

inscription, points and ornaments, orthographical peculiarities, and so

forth. Third, although the categories into which the coins under study

have been broken down do not usually fall into rank-ordered classes, many

of them can be specifically defined in terms of rank order, depending on

the type of information one wishes to elicit from the coins. Rulers, for

example, can be ranked in terms of the amount of authority they were

supposed to have exercised, mints in terms of their relative importance

in economic life, metals in terms of their relative value, and so on.

The fourth and simplest dimension by which a coin can be charac-

terized is a dichotomous attribute, such as figurai types/nonfigural

161
types, Egyptian mints/Syrian and Mesopotamian mints, gold/nongold. The

other three types of variables can, of course, be reduced to this type of

characterization, making it possible to handle more complex relationships

in a simple property space.

Initially, a coin was located in the property space by means of

two coordinates or variables, date and mint. Now there is no reason why

it cannot be characterized by as many properties as we wish. We can add

the further attribute of metal, and instead of looking at the coin on two

plane dimensions, from the left and from the bottom, we now observe it in

terms of a cube, locating it by distance from the left, from the bottom,

and also in depth. If we add a fourth variable, which might be weight,

we can still locate the coin in a four-dimensional property space. And

although we can no longer represent this property space with a physical

model, we can still perform mathematical operations on the four variables,

just as we could on two or three.

The notion of being able to locate a coin in a property space of

more than two or three dimensions can be illustrated with an example from

the Ayyubid coinage. It was mentioned earlier that according to Arabic

sources, in the year 1225 Al-Malik al-Kamil ordered a reform of the

coinage. One of the measured he took was to replace the debased silver

coinage minted in Egypt up to that date with new round (or mustadira)

dirhams, which he had struck at the Cairo mint.

The term mustadira may refer to the new naskhi or cursive script
that appeared on these miniscule round coins. This is stated by
Ehrenkreutz in "Contribution to the Knowledge of the Fiscal Administra-
tion of Egypt in the Middle Ages," Bulletin of the School of Oriental and
African Studies, XVI (1954), pp. 502-514. However, naskhT writing
appeared on Ayyubid coins much earlier than this date, and seemed to be
standard for some coin types. For example, see Al-Afdal CA1T's silver
coin of Damascus, struck in the year 1195 (592), illustrated in the Cata-
logue of the British Museum, IV, Pl. Ill, No. 285.
 Al-Kamil's reform, however, did not appear to affect the s i l v e r
coinage in Syria, where the wide-flan dirham remained in c i r c u l a t i o n .
But we may wish to chart the Syrian dirham in a property space, to try
and discover i f the reform was f e l t in Syria in some way that is not
obvious. Using the Damascus dirham as a base, and s t a r t i n g with the
f i r s t two dimensions of mint and date, both of which are dichotomized,
we have the following fourfold table:

MINT
Damascus Non-Damascus

pre-reform

DATE

post reform

Now, i t may be interesting to see whether or not the coin type in

Damascus was affected by the reform. Since the type most commonly
employed in Syria was the square-in-a-circle (type 04 in the c l a s s i f i c a -
t i o n ) , we can introduce this as a third v a r i a b l e , again dichotomized. We
now have a property space that can be physically represented by a cube,
but which is more conveniently set up as a double fourfold table, as an
architect would lay out the floor plan of a two-story house.

The coin type seemed a logical variable to introduce, since i t

was already ascertained from another table that the square-in-a-circle
type, considered typical of Ayyubid coins in general and of Syrian coins
in p a r t i c u l a r , was not as consistently struck as f i r s t appeared. Of the
coins minted by five sovereign rulers in Egypt at the Damascus mint,

163
 TYPE 0 4 OTHER T H A N TYPE 0 4
Damascus Non-Damascus Damascus Non-Damascus

pre- pre-
reform reform

post post
reform reform

considerably less than half were of the square-in-a-circle type. Simi-

l a r l y , another tabulation produced the surprising information that none
of the rulers who struck coins in both Syria and Egypt at the same time,
used the same protocol on both his Syrian and Egyptian coins. That i s ,
the two protocols were not interchangeable. Further, the Syrian protocol
f a l l s into two types: that with the full honorific and that without the
full honorific. But did these protocols vary in terms of the mint or of
the type? Will we be able to discern any patterns that will add to our
knowledge of the monetary reform? The problem of the protocol suggests
the introduction of a fourth v a r i a b l e , again dichotomized, which now
gives us a four-dimensional property space. This can be i l l u s t r a t e d if
we continue to visualize each fourfold table as one-story or a four-story
structure.
Of course i t is possible to continue to add new v a r i a b l e s , or new
dimensions to the property space, but in i t s p r a c t i c a l application, the
multidimensional property space is already supplied by the IBM card.

The boxes can be f i l l e d in with either percentages or frequen-

c i e s , but here they are l e f t empty because i t was the working out of the
l o g i c , rather than concrete solutions to the questions raised, that was
important.
164
 TYPE 0 4 OTHER THAN TYPE 04

Damascus Non-Damascus Damascus Non-Damascus

pre- pre-
WITH reform reform
FULL
HONORIFIC post post
reform reform

Damascus Non-Damascus Damascus Non-Damascus

pre- pre-
WITHOUT reform reform
FULL
post post
HONORIFIC
reform reform

This card can be punched in any of i t s 80 h o r i z o n t a l columns, r e p r e s e n t -

ing 80 dimensions or v a r i a b l e s , with each dimension having twelve c a t e -

g o r i e s arranged v e r t i c a l l y on the c a r d . I f we c o n s i d e r each p o i n t on

t h i s 80 by 12 card as r e p r e s e n t i n g a dichotomous a t t r i b u t e (each space

can be punched or not punched) i t becomes p o s s i b l e t o l o c a t e any given

coin in a dichotomous a t t r i b u t e space of 960 dimensions.

The I n t e r p r e t a t i o n of R e l a t i o n s h i p s Among V a r i a b l e s . The n o t i o n

of p r o p e r t y space was used here to t r y and c l a r i f y the way in which a

category of i n f o r m a t i o n , or v a r i a b l e , can be given a p l a c e in a c o n t e x t

of more than one dimension. I t i s f u r t h e r p o s s i b l e to determine and

i n t e r p r e t the degree of r e l a t i o n s h i p between any two or more of t h e s e

165
variables. And just as we can specify the conditions under which a rela-

tionship will or will not occur, we can also test whether or not the

relationship is merely the result of other factors.

If the same observations are collected systematically on every

coin in a large sample, we would normally attempt to cross-tabulate among

variables. That is, observing that two factors seem related to one

another, we usually consider whether or not a third factor plays any role

in the original relationship. What we will attempt to do here is show

how this third factor (or additional fourth or fifth) can be used for

analytical purposes. It may be employed to show that the original rela-

tionship is spurious or accidental; that is, a third factor is actually

producing the relationship observed. Or it may help to explain the

original relationship by appearing as a factor that intensifies or

reduces it. Or, it may turn out that the third factor has no bearing at

all on the original relationship.

We can demonstrate this idea by taking as an example the Damascus

1
and Aleppo mints in terms of the coin types they produced. The types

traditionally employed at these two mints were for Aleppo, the triple

hexagram, and for Damascus, the double square inscribed in a circle. But

a great many coins produced by these two mints did not conform to these

1
The sample used here meets the logical requirements of classi-
fication since it is exhaustive and mutually exclusive for the two mints.
But the case has been chosen to illustrate the general principle and the
substantive results can be accepted only with the following reservations:
First, the example does not include a variable which can still be intro-
duced into the analysis. This is the distinction between silver and
copper coins which may behave differently in terms of the other variables
under study. Second, there is the ever present fact that the sample is
not a random one and the totals may have been influenced by a large num-
ber within one coin type, perhaps as the result of a sample containing
part of a hoard. Thus, while the conclusions must be regarded with reser-
vations, the example illustrates the general technique.
166
two types, and so we have dichotomized the coin types into traditional

and nontraditional. Using the 622 coins in our sample that can be

assigned without question to these two mints, we have:

TABLE I

t r a d i t i o n a l types 3 4 3 coins or 5 5 %

n o n - t r a d i t i o n a l types 2 7 9 coins or 4 5 %

Thus we have a s l i g h t preponderance of t r a d i t i o n a l types for the

two mints as a whole. But how are these proportions affected if we con-
sider them in terms of each of the mints at which they were produced?
Taking the mint as the independent v a r i a b l e , and the coin type as the
dependent variable, or the c r i t e r i o n , we set up the relationship as fol-
lows:

TABLE II

Damascus Aleppo

traditional 149 194 total = 3 4 3 coins

non-traditional 169 110 t o t a l r 2 7 9 coins

Expressed in percentages, t h i s would read:

167
 Damascus Aleppo

traditional 46% 65% total traditional

types = 5 5 %

non-traditional 54% 35% total non-tradional

types = 4 5 %

Now we find that one of the two mints was more likely to produce

a traditional type than the other. At Aleppo, not only were 65% of the

coins minted of the traditional triple hexagram type, but in relation to

the total percentage of traditional types for both mints (55%), the

traditional type there shows a significant difference. At Damascus, on

the other hand, the opposite is true. The proportion of traditional

types falls far below the proportion for both mints as a whole, and

assuming that our sample is accurate, we may say that Damascus was more

likely to produce a nontraditional coin type.

In order to clarify and elaborate the relationship at this point,

we may introduce a third, or test variable, which could be any one of a

number of factors. In this case, let us say that we are interested in

finding out if the influence of a particular ruler had any effect on the

type of coin produced at these mints. Since the role of Saladin in the

new orthodox militant tradition of the time has often been stressed, and

since we have some indications of the conservatism that permeated his

domestic policies, we may introduce this ruler as the test variable and

create a dichotomy between Saladin and Saladin's successors at these two

168
mints. We are now dealing with three v a r i a b l e s which w i l l give us three

relationships: that between mint and type (shown in Table I I ) ; the r e l a -

tionship between ruler and type (shown below); and f i n a l l y , that between

mint and r u l e r , which we w i l l attempt to discover. The following table

summarizes the second r e l a t i o n s h i p :

TABLE III

traditional non-traditional

Saladin 68% 32% = 100 %

Successors 52% 48 % = 100 %

Keeping in mind our original findings that for all coins tradi-

tional types accounted for 55% of the coins, and nontraditional types for

45%, we can see here that under Saladin a higher proportion of tradi-

tional coins was produced than for traditional types as a whole. Further-

more, Saladin's traditional types exceeded, proportionately, the tradi-

tional types of his successors.

We can combine all three variables in one table, and with the

help of the partial relationships obtained, examine the influence of

Saladin on both mints. To what extent did his use of traditional coin

types apply to each mint? This is the most important result of introduc-

ing the test variable, for it enables us to test the significance of the

Of course, it is possible to use three or more steps; dealing

with dichotomies simplifies the discussion, Saladin's successors at each
mint were different. The coins used in this sample were those of
Al-cAziz cUthmän, Al-cÄdil, Al-Kämil, and Al-SIlih Ayyflb for Damascus;
for Aleppo, the coins are those of Al-Zâhir Ghazï, Al-cAzïz Muhammad, and
Al-Nâsir Yüsuf.
169
original relationship in terms of the two partial relationships. If we

observe Saladin's coinage and that of his successors separately, what

happens to the original relationship between coin type and mint?

TABLE IV
Saladin Successors

Damascus Aleppo Damascus Aleppo

traditional 61 % 81 % 42 % 61 % traditional

non- 19% 58% 39% non-

39%
traditional traditional

This becomes clearer if we compare the two mints for traditional

types, recalling the original figures of Table II:

TABLE V

Damascus Aleppo
(46%) (65 °/o)

Saladin Successors Saladin Successors

61% 42% 81% 61 %

We can now describe the original relationship of mint to type in

terms of the ruler. A relatively high proportion of traditional types

were minted during Saladin's rule. This is particularly true in Aleppo,

where 81% of the coins struck during that period were likely to be of the

traditional type. At Damascus, where for the period as a whole, less

than half the coins minted were traditional types, the proportion rises

significantly as long as Saladin exercised control over that town. Cer-

tainly the most conservative statement we can make is that during the

170
first twenty years of Ayyubid rule there is considerably less inclina-

tion to vary the coin types.

Now, equipped with more precise information about the original

relationship, we can pose the question: Did Saladin determine mint

policy, causing the mints to strike coins that conformed closely to one

type? Or did the mint determine its own policy? If the second were the

case, then the choice of mint would lead to a high proportion of one type

of coin, with a formal policy on the part of Saladin. The solution to

this problem lies partly outside the coins; but whpt the empirical treat-

ment does is to show an ordered pattern of relationships and give us a

series of probabilities through further refinement and elaboration of the

relationships. Putting the idea of property space to work, we can intro-

duce additional variables into the relationship to see how the pattern

varies and is affected by them. There are many possibilities. The

introduction of weight frequencies, for example, may help to determine

whether there is any connection between the variables we have examined

and weight patterns. The time periods can be broken down further to see

if the distribution of traditional coin types remains constant or shows a

significant change.

The example we have used showed that by introducing the third

variable we could determine the significance of the original relationship.

In this case the percentage differences in the partial relationships were

high (81% minus 61%; 61% minus 42%); the procedure becomes vivid if we

apply it to a case in which the relationship disappears altogether, that

is, where there are no percentage differences.

Perhaps it has been apparent thus far that the number of observa-

tions that must be treated in any single operation will usually far
171
exceed the total number of coins, since several factors are measured

simultaneously. Moreover, the results are generally tabulated not merely

for the total number of coins but for many subgroups. It is this very

feature, the sheer number of observations, that makes it necessary for

the researcher to have some skill in the manipulation of quantitative

data. For even though the procedures described here help us to inter-

pret a number of observations, the volume of data must first be processed

efficiently. This has always been the case, but the technological inno-

vations in handling such materials requires insight into the techniques

and problems of computer methods. This gives rise, in turn, to a number

of new problems, some theoretical, such as the problem of index construc-

tion, and others practical, such as classification and coding.

One of the first steps in this project was to try and establish

a rudimentary system of classification that would be best suited to

numismatic materials or, at least, Islamic coins. The data -- any fact

conveyed by the coin or that could be established about the coin -- was

then broken down into mutually exclusive categories, each defined within

the system of classification. Next, this information was coded and

punched on IBM cards, each card representing a coin. Basically, the

system tries to arrange the punches so as to permit the maximum amount of

manipulation of data. A further refinement in method is to put these

same cards on magnetic tape and to compile the data by using a computer.

Machine methods in general have sometimes been regarded with sus-

picion in some fields of scholarship, and while it is true that there are

many pitfalls, they are not intrinsic to the method. There is no merit

to quantities of numbers in themselves; the analyst may suffer an overdose

of empiricism and sacrifice focus because he can examine so many things

172
in so short a time. Furthermore, the ease of correlating score after

score may delude him into thinking that anything he does on the machine,

however lacking in forethought, is signfleant.

But these are incidental pitfalls. Even for smaller undertak-

ings, quantitative analysis with machine methods is a great economizer of

time. It is not really a sensible use of resources that scholars should

spend weeks or months on computations or manipulations, by laborious and

often inaccurate methods, doing what mechanical means can do in a small

fraction of the time. Furthermore, the possibility of deriving multiple

correlations from the data handled by the computer helps us to pose ques-

tions that we might not have even thought of otherwise.

What this paper has tried to do was demonstrate how the combina-

tion of computer technology and a specific kind of reasoning can be

applied to numismatic studies. Perhaps this reworking and adaptation of

the most elementary aspects of this mode of analysis will suggest that a

broader task is possible: the cross-referencing and correlation of the

wealth of material to be derived from coins.

Note on the Ayyubid Mints

The sketch map following shows the fifteen known mints of the

Ayyubids for the span of 88 years during which they were active. A num-

ber of historical and technical problems concerning these mints arose

during the study, and two in particular are worth noting here.

First, 35 problematical coins from Aleppo (most of them from the

ANS collection) bear the name of Al-ZJahir Ghazi. According to the Arabic

173
chronicles, Zahir died in the year 613, yet these silver coins inscribed

with the triple hexagram continued to be struck in his name until the

year 629. These "posthumous" coins also bear the names of the caliphs

Al-Nasir or Al-Zahir, who died in 622 and 623. Furthermore, the name of

Zahir Ghazi's uncle and overlord, Al-Malik al- c Adil, also appears on the

coins, even though he outlived his nephew by only two years. It is also

curious that only 16 coins of the same type bearing the name of his son
c -™*
and successor at Aleppo, Al- Aziz Muhammad, appear in the sample; they

are spread over a relatively long period extending from 613 to 634. What

purpose could these coins have served, issued as they were up to 16 years

after the death of the ruler who was supposed to have struck them? Did

his son c Aziz reçut part of an old die, changing only the date, despite

the fact that coinage is one of the chief symbols of sovereignty? The

problem, a unique one as far as I know, remains to be solved.

Second, the town of Akhlat (or Khilat) appears as an Ayyubid mint

-- for the first time, to my knowledge -- on a copper coin of Al-Muzaffar

Ghazi in the collection of the ANS, The letters h-l-a ( >_>. ) preserved

on the coin seemed sufficient to attribute it to that town. The decade

of the date has been effaced, but the coin can probably be assigned to

the year 618, partly because of the name of the caliph Al-Nasir (who died

in 622) inscribed on it, and partly because Al-Ashraf Musa, whose name

appears on the coin as Muzaffar Ghazi's overlord, succeeded his brother

there in 609. Akhlat, which had been the capital of a dynasty known as

Shah Arman for over a century, was captured by Al-Awhad, the son of

Al- c Adil, in 604. The town remained in Ashraf's hands until the

Khwarizmian Jalal al D m Mangubirti pillaged it in 627. It was soon

retaken by the Ayyubids and remained under their suzerainty until the Rum

Saljuk Kayqubad I seized the ruins of Akhlat in 633.

SITES OF KNOWN AYYUBID MINTS

175
 SEVRES INCISED MARKS AND THE COMPUTER

by

Carl C. Dauterman

Metropolitan Museum of Art

Let me make clear at the outset that this is not a success story

in which the computer emerges triumphant over the sensibilities of the

art historian. It is a description of objectives and methods concerning

a special problem. I offer it because the methods should have applica-

tion to other types of problems, and because we have by now had enough

exposure to the computer to know what it can and what it cannot do for

us, although we are working from only partial returns.

This is a study of the marks found on Sevres porcelain of the

eighteenth century. In order to make the details more meaningful, I

would like to review a few facts about the Sevres factory, its practices,

and its wares. I stress the word facts, since it is the special nature

of this study to concern itself only with objective data, stripped of

intuitive opinions, concerning the pieces that have provided the material.

Stylistic analysis is involved in only a limited way.

The Sèvres porcelain manufactory, which began its operations in

the 1740s, was unique in more than one respect. For one thing, it marked

its wares with coded symbols that provide us with the most complete self-

documentation available among porcelains. For another, during a major

177
portion of the eighteenth century it produced porcelain of two entirely

different technical types: a glass frit or soft paste, and a kaolinic or

hard paste.

The products of Sevres fall into four broad categories, all hand-

somely represented in the Metropolitan Museum. First come the tablewares,

providing the bread-and-butter income that is indispensable to any porce-

lain manufacturer. Second, we have a line of costly wares suitable for

presentation pieces among crowned heads and nobles. Third, there is a

range of small sculptures, either glazed or en biscuit. And fourth (a

field almost exclusive to Sevres), we have plaques of decorated porcelain

to be used for inlaying furniture. The first of these categories, the

tablewares, naturally constitutes the most abundant type; therefore it is

among them that we should expect to find a representative cross-section

of marks. Our thesis is that with the help of the computer, we should be

able to gain some awareness of what is normal and what is abnormal in the

way a given piece may be marked.

Take a piece of Sevres in your hand, and the chances are that it

will tell you many things about itself. The communication comes through

a set of marks painted in blue or other color on the underside, each com-

ponent representing a coded statement concerning the nature and history

of the piece.

Consider the plate shown on the screen, for example. Made as

part of a large service for Mme. du Barry, it bears her monogram on the

front, supplemented by a border of baskets of flowers and cupids in

medallions, the rims heightened with rich gilding. Turn the plate over

and it will give an account of itself, in the cryptic manner presently to

be shown. The crossed L's constitute the familiar "trademark" of the

178
royal manufactory. But even here, more information is conveyed than is

immediately apparent. The fact that Louis's cipher is uncrowned is in

itself a way of announcing that the material is soft-paste porcelain.

The decoding proceeds with the reading of the letter within the crossed

L's, this being a date letter to indicate the year in which the piece was

decorated. Following the system initiated with an A in 1753, the U shown

here stands for 1773. Already we have more information from the marks

than most other porcelains are able to give. But with Sevres this is

only a beginning. The little star above the cipher is the mark of a

painter of flowers named Bienfait. The script initials L.G. are those of

Leguay pere, who was both a gilder and a flower painter. And the con-

joined letters VD stand for the gilder Vande.

From all this, we can see that a well-marked piece of Sevres can

provide, via its painted marks alone, four or five factors that, in their

interrelationships, should help to establish some pattern or framework of

agreement into which other observable factors can be tied.

The technique of deciphering these painted marks is not new. The

tools have been available for more than a century, in the form of charts

published as early as 1845 by Brongniart and Riocreux (Description

Méthodique du Musée Céramique de Sevres), and enormously expanded by

Chavagnac and Grollier (in their Histoire des Manufactures Françaises,

as published in 1906). Thus the scholar, collector, and faker alike have

had ample opportunity to become acquainted with the marking system

employed by this factory during the best years of its production. And

each has applied this information to his own particular advantage.

But revealing as the painted marks can be, they are capable of

providing at most only four or five documentary items or facts concerning

179
an individual example of SVvres. In making a comparative study, one

would like to deal with more correlatives. It is not enough to know only

the type of paste, the date, and the names of the painters and gilders.

Happily, there are certain other factors that can be added -- such things

as the size, the color of the ground, the nature of the decoration, and

the existence of matching pieces that may be marked in a similar or a

different way. These increase the number of factors to a potential eight

or nine points of comparison, all readily observable.

However, there exists still another factor, far less easily

observed. I refer to another whole set of marks that have been almost

totally overlooked as far as published records are concerned. These

marks, which add a pioneering zest to our study, are incised into the

material, and, being colorless, they do not readily call attention to

themselves. They take the form of letters, numbers, and symbols, all

three often occurring in combination. Some typical ones are shown in

Figure 1.

It is these marks that I am especially hopeful of being able to

decipher by means of a computer. How? Basically, by playing them

against the other data. That is to say, I am matching them against the

information of the painted marks and other confirmable data in an effort

to get at their meaning.

As a starting point, it may be assumed that these marks,

scratched into the paste and frequently covered with glaze, are basically

processing marks, used by the men who worked with the porcelain before it

was ready for decoration. Therefore one can attribute several possible

meanings to them. For example, they may designate a particular formula

180
1. ROMAN LETTERS
T V 3ono BRI
2. SCRIPT LETTERS
Se Jßr
3. COMBINATION OF ROMAN
AND SCRIPT LETTERS

i.. SYMBOLS $ f j f r O K I GB
5. NUMERALS )l|» 35 ¿^

6. ILLEGIBLE MARKS /fc / ^L )) « <J »

7. VAEIOUS COMBINATIONS

FIGURE ONE SOME TYPICAL INCISED MARKS

of the paste suitable to t h i s or that type of object; or they may have

something to do with guiding the pieces through a production line and
collating them in the decorator's studio or the salesroom. Alternatively,
they might identify the bench boy who roughed out the shape, the turner
who refined the shape, or the répareur or assembler who applied the sep-
arately fashioned accessories such as handles, f i n i a l s , or r e l i e f orna-
ment. Since the scratched marks are found in various combinations, i t
may further be assumed that they served several purposes rather than j u s t
one.

I t is amusing to realize that in playing off one set of marks

against the other, we are continuing the rivalry that s t i l l seems to

181
exist in porcelain factories everywhere, between the so-called "white

crew" who prepare the clay and shape the ware, and the colorists who are

charged with the later stages of making the porcelain attractive to those

who will buy it.

Although it has extended over a period of years, my project

started with the modest aim of compiling a checklist of examples of

Sèvres porcelain bearing two sets of marks: that is, date marks and

incised marks. To present all this information it was conceived that it

would be set out in tabulated form, with ten columns for each item

spreading across each page. On this basis, the data I have in hand would

run to approximately 200 pages after being converted from my field notes,

which were kept on 3 x 5-inch slips. This still remains an objective, as

such a checklist would be a new tool for the researcher whose basic need

is to look up one mark at a time, which is the way most books of marks

are used.

But somewhere along the way a tantalizing thought struck me: Why

stop with a checklist, when embedded in all these data were infinite pos-

sibilities for drawing cross-correlations that could reveal the answers

to many unknown aspects of art-historical interest affecting Sevres? But

wouldn't it be cumbersome to do the work from a checklist? Faced with

the records for 2,000 examples, each offering ten items of interest, we

are dealing with a minimum of 20,000 facts. Sorting out the various com-

binations and interpolations by leafing through 200 pages of columns

might be a psychedelic experience for a statistician, but it would be

pure frustration for an art historian.

182
 This is where the computer enters the picture. It seemed to me

that the computer would be able to pull together the data quickly and

thoroughly, without the danger of error from fatigue inherent in the

human eye. I began to investigate the possibilities, first by experi-

menting with Fortran punchcards, on which I arranged my data in various

ways until it began to look as if it should work.

In April of 1966 I wrote to Dr. Edmund A. Bowles of IBM saying

that we might be able to get at the function of our marks if we could get

a little help from a computer. Through his lively interest I was steered

to Dr. Jack Heller of the NYU Institute for Computer Research in the

Humanities. Dr. Heller took hold of the problem immediately, advised me

to throw away the Fortran cards, and put me through a ten-day course in

PL/1. Then he and Dr. George Logemann helped me to devise new says of

setting up our data. With their method, I was able to avoid the limita-

tions of the Fortran system, which is basically a business-oriented

approach, and even to overcome the prevailing method of setting out infor-

mation on any card having the standard eighty columns for abbreviated

symbols. To make the information on my field records comprehensible to a

punchcard operator, it had to be transferred, either by hand or type-

writer, onto data sheets.

The actual punchcarding was accomplished at the NYU computer

center. I found to my delight that the machine could understand me if I

prepared my data sheets in ordinary English, without total dependence

upon the artificial symbols and gobbledygook of the older methods. I

never saw the new punchcards, and it wouldn't have helped me much if I

had. My first glimpse of something I could read consisted of some sampl-

ings called "frequency dictionaries." These first regurgitations of the

183
computer told me that with less than half of my material submitted, I had

already contributed 10,469 "descriptors" or separate items of information,

such as 768 A's, 2,315 B's, etc. They also told me how many cups, plates,

vases, and the like were represented, and gave me a complete listing of

my initial marks, arranged alphabetically, and my numerical marks,

arranged in sequence. These printouts, corrected for errors of spelling

and inconsistencies of form, were returned to the computer center, where

the corrections were made directly upon the storage discs, without

recourse to the original punchcards.

The intricacies of the project are too much for a short discus-

sion. Let it suffice that we are essentially concerned with breaking the

code of the incised marks by playing them against the established code of

the painted marks, and further, that we will have some means of checking

our results against the eighteenth-century payrolls and other records of

the Sevres manufactory. In the time I have left I will comment on one or

two procedures that have worked for us and may offer promise to other

projects totally different in nature.

INCISED MK. DATE LETTER OTHER MKS. (colors)

( c o l . , pos.)
a x sS
Of? -^>
coUt.JycMajüL, 0Bj.Cap*¿aacALACc* XII B 135
REMARKS (decoration, e t c . )

FIGURE TWO A FIELD SLIP

 Let us spend a minute on the subject of handwriting. This enters

into our province because about half of our incised marks are in the form

of letters, as shown on one of our field slips (Figure 2), where we see an

ae conjoined, a space, and an _s. We had to find some way to make them

digestible by the computer so that we could retrieve them. We met that

challenge by devising a simple descriptive code (Figure 3, lines 3, 4, 5)

that gives a consistent and brief, if amateurish, way of differentiating

among long series of letters that may look rather similar. This permits

us to demand from the machine any combination of a given letter with a

given date, type of object, or any other correlative we may wish to inves-

tigate in seeking out normal patterns of relationships.

Now for a concrete example of how we have actually put the hard-

ware to work. The end product is called by the computer experts a vari-

able index. A layman's name for it would be a shuffled or a reshuffled

index, A simple illustration is offered in terms of one of our most

valuable research aids: a published index of the workers in the "white"

or plastic shops of Sevres, appearing in a book by Marcelle Brunet,

called Marques. Of course it's in French, but we didn't stop to trans-

late; the computer can handle French too. A normal alphabetical listing,

it incorporates the date and occupation of each worker. It is an inval-

uable storehouse of clues to potential linkages between our alphabetical

marks and the names to which they might apply. Most of the listings give

only surnames. Thus, if we have a mark with two initials, such as C.C.,

we might have to comb through 75 C's in the hope of finding all C.C.'s

who were working in a year corresponding to a given datemark. It's

almost like searching for a particular Smith in the Manhattan telephone

directory without knowing the first name but only the address. Things
185
 METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART
NEW YORK UNIVERSITY INSTITUTE FOR^COMPUTER RESEARCH IN THE HUMANITIES
SÈVRES PORCELAIN PROJECT

OBJECT *TA*
CuP
DATE *TD* 17¿>7
*TK* AEjrfS
*TK*
A£:LOiSCRlPTiC0NT0lNED)AE^l
*TK* S:\JP>ROK\AN:,S)¿1
*TK*

PASTE *TK* 3 *TK*

COLOR *TK* BLUE *™*
DECORATION *TK*
FLOWERS
PATCH MARK *TK*

AUTHENTICITY *TK*

*TK*
COLLECTION WW
ACCESSION NO. *TK* ZEBX135
MATCH. PIECES *TK* ÍWCH\MG ió PIECES
ARTIST *TK* XHROüET)*P£RE
ARTIST *TK*

ARTIST *TK*

GILDER *TK*

*TS*
*SP"OM Jrf MATCHING )/SAUCER
*TS*

*TS* ^/5"

FIGURE THREE DESCRIPTIVE CODE

would be easier in that case if the Smiths could be arranged according

to their addresses. In the same way, our search for a C.C. working in

1759 would be facilitated if all the C's could be set up in chronological

order, or if under a listing of dates the names of the workers could be

set out alphabetically. We could then see who was working at each period,

and for how long. Nothing is simpler for the computer. All one needs

to do is ask the programmer to switch the elements about, and presto',

the variable index is served up. Similarly, if one wished to know how

many workers of each category were employed at a given period and pre-

cisely who they were, the machine again would be most obliging. It's

only a matter of serving up the original source material in a different

relationship. Thus the turning out of variable indexes, one of the easi-

est tricks of the computer, becomes a widely useful and very revealing

technique for handling information.

This applies as much to the computer's own printout as to any

index in a book. If, for example, I should wish to zero in on a given

mark, I can start with an alphabetical list of characters, lined up with

dates and objects in parallel columns. Or I might want to limit my inves-

tigation to a single type of object, say a cup, and ask for a retrieval

of marks found on cups alone -- with the date of each given opposite.

This device of juxtaposing elements in unfamiliar relationships can

stimulate new avenues of thought. Its somewhat like the unkempt desk

drawer a friend of mine once defended when, on an unannounced visit, I

found it standing open. Its owner looked a little sheepish, then offered

this explanation: "You see, I never allow my secretary to straighten out

this drawer, I get too many good ideas by the accidental juxtaposition

of these unrelated papers." In most projects, however, the main approach

187
is to control the juxtapositions; and it is second nature for a computer

to reorganize information on command.

Of what use will this study be? We have set ourselves a series

of objectives, starting with the decipherment of the incised marks. But

we are hopeful, as I have hinted earlier, of gaining some insight along

the way into such other things as the division of work at the factory,

the processing of large orders, the range of types fashioned by a single

worker, the work spans of given individuals, the periods when certain

types of objects were in highest demand, and the pattern in which hard

paste gradually superseded soft paste. And one thing more -- if I may

mention that delicate word "forgeries," which carries (shall I say, in

the presence of Mr. Noble?) so much horsepower. Certainly the computer

index can serve as a warning flag against such pieces, by revealing

through its variable indexes how the normal pattern of agreement among

the descriptors is violated. This alone would be a valuable contribution,

as there is no other porcelain that has been more tampered with and faked

than Sevres.

In the hope of being able to show some actual findings through

the use of the computer, I requested a printout of our listings for hard-

paste examples, anticipating that this would be a small and workable

representation, as hard-paste porcelain entered the scene at äevres only

during the second half of our study, that is, about 1768-1770. I asked

that the report be arranged according to year, object, mark, and refer-

ence number.

The request yielded three sheets of printouts, the first of which

(Figure 4) shocked me by revealing thirteen entries dating between 1750

and 1765. The computer had pointed its electronic finger at a baker's
188
 HARD P A S T E I N D E X

1750 J LO ROMAN J 2 STAND j = ii*A

n J LO ROMAN J 2 VASE J = 11*

1751* MED D ROMAN D OPEN D 2 CUP M = 1+0

n n M = 1*0
MED UP M SCRIPT E ROMAN ME CONJOINED
ME 2

1755 L UP ROMAN CURVED L 2 JUG L=ll

1757 BP P ROMAN P SERIFS P 3 TRAY B = 58
n n B=58
BP UP B SCRIPT B OPEN B HOOKED B 1

1761 CN LO ROMAN C I N HOOKED N 2 JARDINERE C = 86

n u n
JARDINIERE c = 8i
1762 B UP SCRIPT HOOKED OPEN B 1 TRAY
1763 C LO SCRIPT C 1 SEAU D = 87
n
DT LO SCRIPT D CURVED D OPEN D 1 T 2 D = 87
F LO ROMAN DOTTED F 2 SEAUX A LIQUEUR F =1*0
1765 M UP SCRIPT HOOKED M 2 VASE M=lU
1768 AE LO SCRIPT CONJOINED AE 1 EWER 0 = 70
CS UP ROMAN C 1 S LR S 1 VASE c = ii8
J LO SCRIPT HOOKED J 2 BASIN J = 63
L UP SCRIPT HOOKED L 2 ECUELLE L = 77
N2 N LO N SCRIPT N SERIFS N HOOKED N 1 VASE C = ll8
2
0 0 UP ROMAN SHAKY OPEN 0 1 0 1 EWER 0 = 70

FIGURE FOUR
 HARD PASTE INDEX

I769 F . 2 DOTS F UP F ROMAN F SERIFS F 3 STAND = 13

DOT
CAS A AIGU A 3 S SHAKY S 1 BOWL C=37
CAS UP ROMAN C HOOKED C SHAKY C 1 C=37
1770 CD2 CD LO CD SCRIPT C I D CURVED D VASE C=155
OPEN D 1 2
MG UP SCRIPT HOOKED M 2 G 1 JUG M=2l*
1772 J UP ROMAN SERIF J 2 CUP M-7
n n
MA UP ROMAN CONJOINED MA k M-7
1773 AG LO SCRIPT A 1 G 2 TEA POT A=17
177I* MG UP SCRIPT M HOOKED M 2 G LOOPED G SAUCER M=25
1
1775 DP UP ROMAN LARGE O SHAKY O 1 P OPEN P 0=90
1
1778 G LO SCRIPT LARGE HOOKED G 2 PCT-A-HUTLT.E G=l8

1779 AL LO SCRIPT A 1 L 1 SAUCER A=l8

BO SCRIPT B UP B OPEN B LL B 1 O 1 TRAY B=l*9

DA LO SCRIPT D CURVED D IPEN D 1 A 1 JUG D=l+8
DA LO SCRIPT D CURVED D OPEN D 1 A 1 SAUCER D=l*6
n n BASIN D=l+9
n it
CUP D=l*3
tt «
SAUCER D=l*l*
n n
TEAPOT D=l*7

FIGURE FIVE
dozen of porcelains that were now suspect and would have to be re-examined

to determine whether the painted marks were falsified or just plain freak-

ish.

The other two sheets showed that during the very first years of

this new hard-paste production a great variety of objects already was

being made: stands, bowls, vases, jugs, cups, etc. I was intrigued to

see that in 1775 two saucers emerged with the incised letters da in

script (Figure 5 ) . And then, a mark of the same description (a small d

followed by an a) was revealed on every piece of a tea service. Appar-

ently, what we needed was to find a worker whose name began with these

letters, and who was employed within these years. The Brunet list showed

seven eligible names. My next recourse was to consult photostat copies

of the factory's pay sheets for the nearest available year, which was

1776.

One factor that played directly into our hands was that the pay-

master kept separate records for the potters who worked in hard paste.

We ran down the double column of names, remembering that those on the

right were written by the paymaster, while those on the left were the

countersignatures of the workers, testifying to their having been paid.

In every instance but one we found the names signed with a capital D.

The single exception was that of Danet the elder, whose name appeared

under a heading of Tourneurs, that is, potters who shape the clay by

throwing it on a wheel. Looking for confirmation, we found it in another

ledger of the factory, a record of special projects undertaken by the

potters in 1775. Here, again, the only signature beginning with a small

script d^ was that of Danet, corresponding to the mark incised on the

porcelain. I am therefore convinced that our da mark must represent the

191
tourneur Danet, whose mark has hitherto been unknown. By the same pro-

cedure we have substantiated the mark C.N. as identifying the sculptor

Chanou, and Bo in script as representing the répareur Bono. In this way

we know that at least three clases of workers used letters as their

incised marks, and in the weeks ahead we expect to bring more out of

obscurity.

Did we really need the computer to help us with this? Yes, for

the computer has given us two shortcuts. First, it has given us a vari-

able index that clarifies the relationships of names, dates, and occupa-

tions among the potters; second, it has given us the means of retrieving

almost instantaneously the names of those who worked in hard paste,

selecting for us the only eighteen objects that fitted our requirements

out of the more than a thousand records processed to date.

In this talk, I have skirted the edges of problems that may face

everyone who plans to use the computer. Fast as the machine is, there

are bottlenecks in the preliminary processing. Punchcarding takes time.

Programming takes time. But most conspicuously, queuing up at the com-

puter takes time, mainly because of the inadequate supply of the heavy

hardware. And I would suggest that anyone planning to use the computer

be aware that the techniques and the equipment are constantly being modi-

fied and improved. My project was first slanted toward the computer

early in 1966, hence the mention of Fortran cards. At every stage we

discovered that after a few months newer and better ways of structuring

it came into view. The moral is that unless you can stay with your

project from start to finish without interruption, you will find that

some part of your method will have become bosolete before you are through.

If this trend continues, no one will have to hurry about taking his place

among the pioneers; there will be new pioneers for years to come.
 Discussion following paper by Carl Dauterman

The Chairman: Carl has been keeping me posted on what has been

going on in the Museum. He wasn't kidding; the printout you saw at the

end came in as early as the end of last week.

Mr. Dauterman: It ruined an Easter weekend.

The Chairman: So you are right up to the minute on that. Do we

have some questions for Carl?

Miss Aida Kalish [Technical Research Services]: What kind of

records does the factory have besides those that you showed on the

slides?

Mr. Dauterman: Quite a variety, running from actual sales

records, itemizing the day-by-day sale over the counter at the factory of

these now priceless objects of Sevres, the prices paid, and the customers

who paid the prices, to the records of what was taken out of each kiln

after each firing, closely dated -- all in all, an enormous variety of

records.

Miss Kalish: Do you feel that somewhere there might be records

of the very thing you are trying to decipher, on your own, by means of

the computer?

Mr. Dauterman: It is a question of my having to use the records

to confirm the directions into which the computer is steering me, by

pinning down, in terms of handwriting comparison, as I have illustrated

in the talk, absolute conjunctions and not just possibilities.

Miss Kalish: This work produced at the factory was of such

importance, you would think that even today there would be many of the

legends carried on of the people who had worked there, and you know,

marks. I'm wondering why you don't know this.

 Mr. Dauterman: The most intimate records available at Sevres

describe the appearance of each individual on the day he was accepted

into employment. In one instance I remember a chap who was of less than

medium height, whose face was red and bumpy, who stuck out both front and

rear, and stood about five feet two inches off the floor. That's the

kind of thing you get, in very intimate detail, if you wish.

194
 THE MUSEUM COMPUTER AND THE ANALYSIS OF ARTISTIC CONTENT*

by

William J. Paisley

Institute for Communication Research

Stanford University

Sometime in 1980 a scholar will enter a major museum, seat him-

self at a computer terminal in the research room, and ask to review all

art works depicting, say, sailing vessels. He will want to see bas-

reliefs and sculptures, as well as drawings and paintings. He will

expect to see works from all significant collections around the world,

including works currently in storage in the museum, and those out in

travelling exhibitions.

The computer will want to negotiate a clearer request. First,

it asks, does he mean by "sailing vessel" a ship that travels on water

propelled by wind? Or does he mean all ships? The latter, he says.

The computer asks, if he would like to see all the 789 works that

.depict ships? Or will he narrow his request to include only those works

fulfilling another condition, such as school, period, or medium? Or will

he sample every nth work in chronological order? The scholar says that

he wants to see only those works in which a ship is represented in detail

in the foreground.

*This paper was composed at a 2741 terminal on-line to an IBM 360,

model 67, using Stanford's WYLBUR text editor.
195
 The computer asks if he would like to see all 234 works ful-

filling the new search specification. Yes. In chronological order?

Yes. The computer lists possible attributes, or items of information,

for each work to be displayed. It asks him to light-pen the attributes

he wishes to see. He light-pens artist, title, date, medium, size, and

location.

The request now clarified, the computer displays the first of the

234 works, drawing attribute data from digital storage and a reproduction

of the work from microform storage. The scholar reviews the file at his

own pace. He asks for, and immediately receives, a printed copy of cer-

tain reproductions and attribute data that he wishes to take away with

him.

At another terminal in the research room, an art student is

reviewing treatments of the running human figure from several cultures.

Another student is tabulating data on sacred and secular themes in 13th-

century German paintings, using the attribute file only, neither request-

ing nor seeing the works themselves.

At a terminal in the museum lobby, a visitor scans the daily

notices of special exhibits and events. When he encounters an unfamiliar

term, he queries the computer. An explanatory footnote is slipped into

the text as it pages across his scope. When he has finished reading, the

computer prompts him to stop at the terminal again on his way out, to

answer a few questions about exhibits he enjoyed and other exhibits he

would like to see in the future.

Several terminals are active back in the administrative offices.

A clerk inputs salary data. Another clerk adds new acquisitions to the

updated catalog that the computer will publish at the end of the month.
196
And the curator of the 20th century collection is searching availability

listings for works of laser art.

Even when all these terminals are idle, the computer keeps busy.

The terminal in the museum bookstore handles acquisitions and accounts.

The terminal in the storeroom handles inventory. In the Children's Gal-

lery one grade-school visitor is completing an instructional program on

color relationships. Another is playing a quiz-game with the computer on

the names of famous statues. A third is creating a composition with

light-pen and scope; the plotter next to his terminal is having diffi-

culty keeping up with his rapid strokes.

Such is my limited view of the role of the museum computer

roughly one decade from now. The technology of each of these applica-

tions is familiar to us in 1968, even if some of the software has yet to

be written. For that reason alone, this view will seem quite dated when

1980 arrives. The museum computer of 1980 will probably be a sixth-

generation hybrid with immense storage, special natural-language conver-

sation facility, and extraordinary power in pattern recognition. What we

now view as feats of computation may be the most routine daily labor of

such a machine, while its true feats -- that is, recognized as such in

1980 -- may take place in creative and intellectual realms in which its

role now is trivial.

However, my intention today is to talk about today's potential

and problems. A look into the future only reassures me that the museum

is similar in its concerns and services to the library and the school --

two institutions in which I understand the computer's role somewhat

better. Despite differences in floor plan and holdings, the museum is an

197
archive like the library. Despite differences in setting and student

body, the museum is a knowledge-transmitting institution like the school.

The scholar who sits at a museum terminal in 1980 does not feel

out of place; there are terminals in his research library and in his

office. The child who is learning about colors may feel that he is still

in school, where he spends part of each day at a terminal (this feeling

is not aversive, because school loses its schoolishness in an era of indi-

vidualized instruction).

The museum, like the library and the school, is a system with

identifiable inputs and outputs. Processes link inputs to outputs, and

the computer can be called in to expedite these processes. Institutional

differences disappear in many processes. Wherever people are employed,

there are salary records to be kept. Wherever goods are purchased, there

are ordering records and inventory records. Wherever a physical plant is

maintained, there are maintenance files.

Yet the museum has unique tasks. Stated negatively, one task is

not to lose cultural artifacts that seem to be worth saving. Another is

to expose art works and their documentation to artists and scholars.

Still another is to transmit the "cultural heritage" from one generation

to the next. The first of these tasks amounts to warehousing, with dis-

play of some items that happen to be famous, rare, costly, or otherwise

important. The second task is professional communication: artist to

artist, artist to scholar, scholar to scholar. The third task is educa-

tional communication: artist and scholar to the general public, both

children and adults.

The museum computer has many roles to play in accomplishing these

tasks. Various of them are being discussed by other participants in this

198
conference. I shall restrict my remaining comments to the computer's

present (and, perhaps, future) ability to analyze the content of art

works.

Three Kinds of Artistic Content

It is customary to identify three kinds of artistic content:

literature, music, and visual materials. There is borderline content,

like choreography, and the third category, art-to-be-seen, contains a

vast array of forms. Nonetheless, we naturally think of art in words,

art in harmonies of sound, and art in visual arrangements.

Literature and music share an attribute that the computer is

fussy about. Letters and notes, as well as all structures built from

them, are separable units. Literature and music share the attribute of

unitization. We can dismantle literary and musical content. We can

store the separate units as we choose. For some purposes, we can study

the units in isolation, without regard for their original sequence, as

in an analysis of letter frequencies or pitch frequencies.

The computer readily accepts literature and music. In both

encoding systems the possible symbols are few and are easily translated

into digital equivalents. We have exploited the computer's capacity for

words almost since the beginning of computation. Music, thanks to such

systems as Brook's "Plaine and Easie Code" (in press), also enters com-

puter storage easily.

Content in the visual arts is seldon unitized as it comes. We

must create units arbitrarily, as by gridding an art work into very small

199
squares. That is, a painting cannot be dismantled for storage in the

computer, except in the sense that tiny squares scanned across its sur-

face can be digitized with (for example) 0 representing white, 10 black,

and 5 an intermediate gray. It is in this way, you will remember, that

pictures of the moon are transmitted back from lunar rockets.

Digitizing scanned points is an often-proposed (perhaps inevi-

table) solution to the problem of storing and analyzing visual content in

the computer. We may agree, however, that storing the Mona Lisa in the

form of millions of digitized points is qualitatively different from

storing the letters of Hamlet or the notes of La Mer.

In the first place, digits from 0 to 10 may tell us shades of

gray but not color or texture. The number of digits needed to represent

a single square millimeter of a painting on all dimensions of perceivable

difference is very large. If we take only the dimensions of hue, value,

and chroma from Munsell's color classification, add dimensions of tex-

ture and flatness/glossiness, and allow only an average of 10 levels on

each dimension (that is, about 12 hues, 10 values, 8 textures, e t c ) , we

will need 100,000 digits to exhaust the visual possibilities of a single

point. To digitize a painting with high fidelity would require more

dimensions, more levels per dimension, and more digits -- for example,

more than a billion digits per point for 20 levels on each of 7 dimen-

sions.

Secondly, and more important, such units will not bear separate

analysis, at least at present. Individual letters of the alphabet and

notes of the musical scale have conventional meanings, but it is not

"meaningful" that a square millimeter of a painting has a hue of 9, value

*In this discussion, for simplicity, let "painting" stand for all
forms of visual art
of 3, chroma of 7, texture of 1, and gloss of 5, for a digital equivalent

of 93,715. (I cannot speak for the future: intriguing analyses often

appear after precise measurement is achieved for other reasons. I can

imagine comparison of 93,700's -- perhaps a Veronese red -- across

paintings of the 16th century, if someone has a taste for microanalysis.)

I am confident that the hardware problem of digitizing visual

content will be solved, whenever we care to push it, by a sophisticated

marriage of photocell, spectrometer, and other devices. However, it may

never be conceptually easy for us to think of a patch of red color as

digit 93,715. And, with present slow progress in pattern recognition, we

seem to be decades away from the day when the computer will scan the Mona

Lisa -^nd say, "This is a portrait of a person, probably a woman. The

palette and composition suggest the woHc of Leonardo."

Another Approach to the Input of Content

So far, we have considered direct input of content into the com-

puter. I have contrasted the visual arts with literature and music in

terms of the computer's difficulty in storing a faithful digital repre-

sentation of the work itself. This contrast is real and enduring.

Scholarship in literature and music may advance rapidly with great assis-

tance from the computer, from this time forward, while scholarship in the

visual arts will have to make do with less computer assistance -- with a

different kind of assistance, now to be discussed.

The computer can be helped to do whatever it does poorly by

itself. Ideally, a scholar and a computer become interdependent. The

scholar cannot compare or count very reliably, but the computer can. The

computer cannot make sense of most visual content, but the scholar can.
201
 There are reliability and validity problems in telling the com-

puter that painting No. 1347 is a portrait of a woman, called Mona Lisa

or La Gioconda, by Leonardo, but many attributes of an art work cannot be

learned by direct examination of content anyway (this is equally true of

literature and music). The computer will not know such facts unless we

mention them. For example, the computer could never guess a work's title

from its content. Too many alternate titles are possible, even for the

simplest work.

Therefore we have two different computer files for each art work.

We read into file A an isomorphic, digitized representation of the work

itself. We read into file B a list of attributes, information about the

work that a human brain has chosen for emphasis from an infinite number

of statements that could be made about it. Typically, file B contains

such attributes as artist, title, date, size, medium, present condition,

location, and value.

In the case of literary content, the computer can infer some

content attributes from file A data. Often the "aboutness" attribute

(what is the work about?) can be inferred. That is, an attribute nor-

mally read into file B can instead be inferred from file A.

In the case of visual content, the computer is presently able to

infer almost nothing from file A. In fact, creating file A from visual

content is a difficult problem. Thus there is need for a longer file B,

or "dictated attribute" file. In the foreseeable future, the computer

will need to be told what a painting is about, down to the least detail

of possible interest. Its power will be exploited not in "reading" the

painting but in remembering and combining the attribute information it is

given.
202
 Three Purposes of Artistic Content Analysis

Content analysis is difficult and costly in direct proportion to

its subtlety and scope. Purposes served by content analysis must justify

the effort and expense. We generally think of three reasons for analyz-

ing artistic content: (1) stylistic analysis, (2) classification for

storage and retrieval, and (3) pattern recognition for discrimination.

Although a separate literature has grown up around each purpose, it can

be shown that stylistic analysis, classification, and pattern recognition

are similar in many ways, even beyond their common dependence on content-

analysis procedure.

Stylistic analysis is concerned with evolutionary and isolated

trends in selected attributes that are thought to embody "style." We

have, for example, Munro's definition: "A style of art . . , consists of

a combination of traits or characteristics which tend to recur together

in different works of art, or have done so in the art of sane particular

place and period It is a recurrent trait-complex -- a distinctive clus-

ter or configuration of interrelated traits. . . . In Gothic architec-

ture: pointed arches, high vaults, pitched roofs, slender piers, thin

walls, large stained glass windows, flying buttresses, etc." (1956,

pp. 192-193).

Elsewhere (in press) I have distinguished between style as a

time-place-group characteristic and style as individual uniqueness that

sets an artist apart from contemporaries whose work is similar at the

time-place-group level. At both levels, stylistic analysis selects

those attributes that are aesthetically significant and interestingly

continuous or discontinuous over several works. Somewhat abstract but

203
still appropriate categories are Arnheim's balance, shape, form, growth,

space, light, color, movement, tension, and expression (1954).

The point to remember about stylistic analysis is that an attri-

bute is chosen on the basis of its aesthetic significance and its distri-

bution in works being compared (not so ubiquitous as to reveal nothing,

nor so rare as to be merely idiosyncratic). By these criteria, ideal

attributes are visible in each work (what is aesthetically significant

must first be visible) but are not easily quantified. Consider Wolfflin's

attribute "painterly" as applied to Baroque art (1932); we all see that

certain works are "painterly," but how can that attribute be captured in

a reliable analysis? The answer is that probably it cannot, but in styl-

istic analysis -- in contrast to classification and pattern recognition

-- we are less concerned with reliability anyway.

Classification for storage and retrieval draws upon different

attributes altogether. The artist's name is an irrelevant, even illegi-

timate, attribute for stylistic analysis, since style should be immanent

in content alone, and by the same criterion a work's title is just an

afterthought. Artist and title are the most central attributes in clas-

sification, however. It makes a difference in classification that a work

is called Mona Lisa and not Untitled, and is attributed to Leonardo

instead of Anonymous, notwithstanding the stylistic irrelevance of these

facts.

Just as Munro's definition guides us in selecting attributes for

stylistic analysis, this definition of a retrieval system (adapted from

Vickery, 1965, p. 4) guides us in selecting attributes for classifica-

tion: "To construct a retrieval system, we must first of all select art

works for inclusion in a store. For each art work, we must then select
204
one or more 'descriptors' by which the work can be described and dis-

covered. We must then record descriptors, and the 'addresses' of the

works to which they relate, on some physical medium, in a form suitable

for searching. We must then transform each user request into a set of

descriptors and compare this set with our physically recorded full set

of descriptors, to discover suitably close matches. We must previously

have stored the works themselves in such a manner that we, when provided

with an address, can produce any one of them."

It should be clear from Vickery's definition that the retrieval

system succeeds only when a user's request calls forth the works he

wants. Since, quite naturally, user requests contain attributes that

interest users (and not, for example, any number of easily specified

physical attributes that are never asked for, such as "paintings that are

exactly 30 by 50 cm."), it follows that the importance of a particular

attribute to a retrieval system depends upon kinds of users and kinds of

requests, not upon its "inherent significance" in the works that it

describes. An attribute can be highly significant, either aesthetically

or historically, and yet be useless in a retrieval system if users do not

happen to think of it as a key to the system's holdings.

Not surprisingly, users search on a small set of attributes that

have proven effective in previous searches. The user believes that some

works will be retrieved if he searches on the basis of artist, title,

subject, period, etc. He is justifiably skeptical (now) that many works

would be retrieved if he asked to see studies of the running human figure,

as in my introductory example.

The very difficult challenge to a retrieval system is to discover

works according to attributes that the user freely chooses, such as

205
"studies of the running human figure." The earmark of an "adaptive" or

user-controlled system is its acceptance of users' habits in structuring

knowledge domains. The system designer's dilemma is that all users'

preferences cannot be programmed in advance in attribute lists, yet a

new, user-chosen attribute cannot serve as the basis of a search

until all original content has been scanned for its presence.

Such adaptive searching is possible only when the computer can

draw upon file A (direct content) information. A recent study in litera-

ture, using the Stone "General Inquirer" retrieval program (Ellis and

Favat, 1966), exemplifies file A searching. The authors were interested

in the death theme in Twain's Huckleberry Finn. They searched a machine-

readable version of the book for words associated with death and compiled,

in effect, their own special-purpose concordance. Someday it should be

possible for a scholar in the visual arts to compile a similar concor-

dance of running human figures.

When the computer has no file A or cannot make sense of its file

A for the purposes of the search, a deep and richly multidimensional file

B is needed. If the computer cannot find a group of running human fig-

ures in its file A, and if we believe that a scholar should be able to

ask a museum computer for such information, then file B must contain

content annotations to fill the request.

In the first decade or more of the computer's presence in

museums, it is likely that file B will have to be very deep because file

A is very shallow. Moreover, file B will always be the more used, even

when direct representations of the content of art works exist in file A,

since most attributes that interest people are about the works rather

than in the works. File B also contains all attributes that are
206
administratively important; it is the acquisition, inventory, and main-

tenance file for the collection.

Pattern recognition is an esoteric topic for museums and a mun-

dane topic for banks. Pattern recognition is not the same as optical

character recognition, although the two terms are often used inter-

changeably. Optical character recognition is a special case of pattern

recognition, in which photocells send an image to the computer for inter-

pretation. When the image is alphanumeric and from an OCR-readable font,

we have the bank's daily business. When the image is free-form and in

color, we have the museum's ultimate challenge to the computer. Compared

with the complexities of scanning and interpreting the content of a paint-

ing, the computer's other tasks in the museum are simple indeed.

Pattern recognition was not born with the computer. Morelli and

Berenson made pattern recognition the cornerstone of an empirical con-

noisseurship. Figure 1 shows the kind of pattern recognition that

Morelli innovated. As Berenson recalls: "A generation ago, when a

beginner, I enjoyed the privilege of being guided through the Borghese

Gallery by a famous connoisseur. Before the Pietà now ascribed to

Ortolano I fell into raptures over the tragic pathos of the design. My

mentor . . . cut me short with, 'Yes, yes, but observe the little pebbles

in the foreground. They are highly characteristic of the artist.'

'Observe the little pebbles' has become among my intimates a phrase for

all the detailed, at times almost ludicrously minute, comparisons upon

which so large a part of activities like mine are spent" (Kiel, 1962,

pp. 145-146).

Berenson (1902, pp. 123-124) summarizes the assumptions of

empirical connoisseurship: "Obviously what distinguishes one artist from

207
 Filippino Antonio Pollajuolo Fra Filippo Lippi Cosimo Tura

->£? ~~
"»O
Giovanni Bellini Bernardino de'Conti Bramantino Botticelli

Botticelli Filippino Bramantino Bonifazio

Signorelli Giovanni Bellini Fra Filippo Mantegna

FIGURE ONE HANDS AND EARS SKETCHED BY GIOVANNI MORELLI TO

ILLUSTRATE IDIOSYNCRASY IN THE EXECUTION OF MINOR DETAILS BY
RENAISSANCE PAINTERS (source: Morelli, 1900, pp. 77-78)

208
another are the characteristics he does not share with others. If,

therefore, we isolate the precise characteristics distinguishing each

artist, they must furnish a perfect test of the fitness or unfitness of

the attribution of a given work to a given master."

However, not all pattern recognition involves visual images.

When the computer scans a poem for meter, that is pattern recognition.

When a musical score is searched for motifs, that is pattern recognition.

When psychological data are analyzed to identify potential suicides, that

is pattern recognition. In fact, we have pattern recognition whenever

data are analyzed in a cut-and-try fashion to determine whether certain

relationships in the data are really there (are not just random combina-

tions) and can be interpreted in terms that make sense to us. The famil-

iar pattern-recognition problem in a cryptogram is to find regularities

in letter appearances, then to match those regularities against known

patterns in the source language.

Stylistic analysis calls for aesthetically significant attri-

butes. Classification calls for attributes that users will think of.

Pattern recognition calls for attributes that discriminate among works

and parts of works. If two images to be recognized fill (overly sim-

plified) pattern matrices like this:

6 - #
5 . #
# # - - 4 - # # # - -
- -#- 3 - # - - # -
- -#- 2 - # - - # -
- -#- 1 - # # # - -

1 2 3 4 5 6 1 2 3 4 5 6

then such attributes as the six # cells in the second column and the

three # cells in the fourth row help to locate both images in a certain

209
class (the h-b class -- they are the only members), but only the first

row can discriminate them from each other.

Whether an attribute discriminates or not is a statistical

matter. One's hunches are often wrong. When pattern recognition is

applied to cases of disputed authorship, the attributes that one expects

to typify a writer, composer, or artist often fail the test. Morelli

grasped this principle half a century before the rest of us. To over-

simplify a bit, his fellow connoisseurs would attribute a painting to

Leonardo on the strength of an enigmatic smile, but Morelli contended

that such a striking attribute was exactly the first detail to be

noticed and copied by a disciple or forger. As Figure 1 shows, Morelli

got down to fingernails: "Among Sandro Botticelli's characteristic forms

I will mention the hand, with bony fingers -- not beautiful, but always

full of life; the nails, which, as you perceive in the thumb here, are

square with black outlines" (1900, p. 35).

The attributes that serve pattern recognition in cases of dis-

puted authorship are a curious set. Elsewhere (1964) I have discussed

these inconspicuous and perhaps unconsciously rendered attributes as

"minor encoding habits," in contrast to such major encoding habits" as

the Mona Lisa smile. They stand at the opposite pole from attributes of

interest in stylistic analysis.

The three purposes of artistic content analysis stress different

attributes in or about the work being analyzed. What they have in common

might be called the "taxonomie algorithm." That is, one fills files A

and B in the form of object/attribute matrices:

210
 ATTRIBUTES

1 2 . . k k+1 . . . . n

I File A | 1 ---File B 1

OBJECTS 1

The taxonomie algorithm scans attribute vectors or columns to find

objects possessing a given attribute. It scans object vectors or rows

to find attributes possessed by a given object. These are its only

operations, although it is followed by statistical routines (such as

comparison against a criterion in pattern recognition) and/or display.

It is indifferent to which content analysis purpose it happens to be

serving at the moment.

I have argued that the museum computer serves three content-

analysis purposes -- stylistic analysis, classification for storage and

retrieval, and pattern recognition -- in much the same way. When two

basic files have been filed, one with a digitized representation of the

art work itself and the other with dictated attributes about the work,

the taxonomie algorithm scans the files to analyze style, retrieve

information, and recognize patterns. (Whether it performs these opera-

tions well, poorly, or not at all with existing hardware and software is

not at issue. In two decades of computing, no plans for future activity

211
have ever been intelligently predicated on existing hardware and software.

The real problem is to think faster than computing power evolves.)

It often happens that a new instrument or machine brings together

people who previously worked apart. The computer has already unified

scientists in many disciplines; consider the pandisciplinary lure of simu-

lation, computer graphics, information retrieval, data management, and so

on. It has even bridged the two cultures, as today's gathering of human-

ists and scientists in the Metropolitan Museum bears proof. Since there

are never enough clever ideas to go around, the computer's habit of unify-

ing its users must benefit all of us who, for one purpose or another,

desire to analyze artistic content.

Getting the Museum Computer To Do These Things

Except for the impasse in pattern recognition that keeps us from

making much sense of visual content in file A, we can choose from an

array of well-conceived analysis and classification systems in order to

be up and running as soon as the museum computer is installed. From the

perspective of the person at the terminal, the computer proves itself in

these tasks:

(1) It must summarize the extent and kind of its holdings on any attri-

bute or combination of attributes in file A or file B. For example,

in a file A of literary content (using a query language that imi-

tates some current systems), "How many works contain word 'parlia-

ment'?" And in a file B containing dictated attributes of paintings,

"How many works of place 'Florence' and time '1475-1500'?"

212
(2) It must find any single work whose attributes match the attributes

of a request. With visual content, there is little point now in

discussing file A searches as standard procedure; therefore the

matching attributes must come from file B, For example, "Find

artist 'Titian' and title 'Assumption,'"

(3) It must display, for any work found, all requested file B attributes.

For example, "Show composition date and place of title 'Assumption'

by artist 'Titian.'"

(4) It must display the work itself. Neither in the present nor perhaps

in the future does this imply a full readout of a digital file A.

Any known technology for printing a long work in file A would take

too much time. Therefore a photographic microfilm will be called

from auxiliary storage and displayed optically.

With appropriate subdividing of files and statistical support, these

tasks, chiefly (1), serve stylistic analysis and pattern recognition as

well as classification.

There are many running systems that accomplish task (1) with

literary content (remember that, as far as file B is concerned, it makes

no difference whether the content is literary, musical, or visual).

Stone's "General Inquirer" (1966) and Sedelow's "VIA" and "Maptext" (in

press) qualify under this heading, together with many others.

Task (2), the basis of all retrieval and display, is served by

a number of interactive reference-retrieval systems. Parker's "SPIRES"

(1967) is an example operating on third-generation rather than second-

generation, computing equipment.

Task (3) is essentially question-answering. Simmons (1965) has

reviewed the capabilities of fifteen experimental question-answering

213
systems.
 Task (4) is perhaps the most exciting in a museum, where the

professional goal of access to a large collection conflicts with the edu-

cational goal of presenting a smaller but more coherent collection to the

general public. There are at least two running systems for scholars that

give dial-access to large files of visual materials. One (Janda, 1967)

uses 16-mm. microfilm with digital retrieval codes separating visual

frames. Another (Ekman and Friesen, in press) uses videotape with codes

superimposed on the electronic image itself. Either could soon be run-

ning, in color, in the museum.

Libraries and schools have been adopting the computer quite early

in its history. Early adoption of a costly innovation implies urgency in

filling a resource gap. Both the library and the school sorely need the

computer's help and are willing to buy it even if software has to be

written locally, poorly, and many times over. The ever-eclectic museum,

needing the computer less urgently, can acquire the best computing sys-

tems and practices without having to undertake much system development

itself.

Only in the pattern recognition of visual content, perhaps, may

the museum want to sponsor research and development. Pattern recognition

research in progress elsewhere is problem-specific: recognizing letters

and numbers, reading X rays and contour maps, matching fingerprints,

interpreting the sequence of events in the bubble chamber of high energy

physics, and so on. Virtually all present research stays within three

dimensions of perceivable difference, while the museum computer needs at

least seven dimensions of recognition power (the five cited early in this

paper, plus two dimensions of extension on a plane) to process file A

content. Solutions developed for X rays, contour maps, and even aerial
214
photographs will be inadequate. The museum's unique contribution to the

field of computer applications may be a pattern-recognition procedure of

great sophistication -- Berenson ex machina, if you will.

References

Arnheim, Rudolf. Art and visual perception. Berkeley: Univ. of Cali-

fornia Press, 1954.

Berenson, Bernard. The study and criticism of Italian art. London:

G. Bell and Sons, 1902.

Brook, Barry. The 'Plaine and Easie Code' of musical notation: some
recent developments. (In) Gerbner et al., op. cit.

Ekman, Paul, and Friesen, Wallace. VID-R and SCAN: tools and methods
for the automated analysis of visual records. (In) Gerbner et al.,
op. cit.

Ellis, A. B., and Favat, F. A. From computer to criticism: an applica-

tion of automatic content analysis to literature. (In) Stone et al.,
op. cit.

Gerbner, George, et al. Content analysis. New York: John Wiley, in

press.

Janda, Kenneth. Political research with Miracode: a 16 mm. microfilm

information retrieval system. Social Science Information, 1967,
v. 6, 169-181.

Kiel, Hanna (ed.). The Bernard Berenson treasury. New York: Simon and
Schuster, 1962.

Morelli, Giovanni. Italian painters, vol. 1. London: John Murray, 1900.

Munro, Thomas. Toward science in aesthetics. New York: The Liberal

Arts Press, 1956.

Paisley, W. J. Identifying the unknown communicator in painting, lit-

erature, and music: the significance of minor encoding habits.
Journal of Communication, 1964, v. 14, 219-237.

Paisley, W. J. Studying style as 'encoding behavior'. (In) Gerbner,

et al., op. cit.

215
Parker, Edwin B. SPIRES: the Stanford Physics Information Retrieval Sys-
tem, annual report. Palo Alto: Stanford Institute for Communication
Research, 1967.

Sedelow, S. Y., and Sedelow, W. A. Categories and procedures for content

analysis in the humanities. (In) Gerbner et al., op. cit.

Simmons, R. F. Answering English questions by computer: a survey.

Communications of the ACM, 1965, v. 8, 53-70.

Stone, Philip J., et al. The General Inquirer: a computer approach to

content analysis. Cambridge, Mass.: The M.I.T. Press, 1966.

Vickery, B. C. On retrieval system theory. Washington: Butterworths,

1965.

Wolfflin, H. Principles of art history: the problem of the development

of style in later art. New York, 1932.

216
visual applications
 VISUAL APPLICATIONS

Introductory remarks by chairman of session:

Virginia Burton

Metropolitan Museum

We will take up, this morning, visual applications of computers.

I think most of you yesterday afternoon had the opportunity to take a

look at this television-like set that is used as an adjunct, an attach-

ment to the computer, and it of course enlarges, extends, all of the

capabilities of the computer, and actually creates quite a breakthrough

for those of us in the fields of art, art history, and archaeology. Many

of the problems that you have heard discussed in the first two sessions

could be perhaps somewhat simplified by the use of this very magical

machine.

219
 AN EXAMPLE OF COMPUTER-GRAPHIC TOOLS

FOR EXECUTING AESTHETIC DECISIONS

by

Janice Lourie

IBM, New York Scientific Center

This paper describes the computer-aided solution to a problem

requiring the use of aesthetic judgement. The solution involves the use

of several input-output devices that permit a user to communicate

graphic information to a computer. The devices permit not only the

input and output of the initial and final graphic information, but also

permit the user to interact with the computer during the solution of the

problem. The use of these devices does not demand a technical under-

standing of how they function. It is not necessary to understand how an

automobile works in order to drive it. The same can be said of a com-

puter. My examples will be taken from the Textile Graphics computer

application.

Textile Graphics is a computer-aided technique for developing a

textile design and textile machinery patterning mechanism information

from an artist's drawing. The computer is operated by a textile

designer-technician who understands the particular textile machinery for

which he is adapting the original drawing. He inputs the original draw-

ing to the computer with a combination of graphic input devices. When

the artist's original design has been transmitted to the computer, he

221
develops it into the information which controls the patterning mechanism

of a specific kind of a textile machinery. As examples, a design to be

woven must represent each interlacing of warp and weft, a design to be

knitted must represent each stitch of the knitted mesh, and a design to

be printed must represent the areas of each color as separate images.

This process involves the use of both technical and aesthetic judgment

on the part of the textile designer-technician. His intercommunication

with the computer during this development process is facilitated by

means of these graphic devices.

When the design control information has been developed, it may

be outputted from the computer in a variety of forms. The form of the

output is commensurate with the use for which it is intended. For a

Jacquard loom, which is controlled by punched cards, Textile Graphics

output is the pattern of the holes in these cards; for a Raschel machine,

which is controlled by a chain of cam-links, Textile Graphics output is

a map of the heights of the successive links; for textile printing

machines, which are controlled by etched copper rollers or silk screens,

Textile Graphics output is a set of color-separated films.

In the functioning of the entire system, the computer serves as

a tool for the artist. It enables him to make the same aesthetic judg-

ments he would normally make; however, it executes his decisions much

more rapidly than is possible when using traditional methods. The rapid

execution of the user's decisions is what gives this set of tools its

versatility.

222
 Description of the Textile Designing Problem

Woven fabric is formed from two sets of threads arranged so that

all the threads in one set are parallel to each other and perpendicular

to all threads in the other set. The set of threads which run the

length of the fabric is called the warp; the set of crosswise threads is

called the weft. These two sets are interwoven to form a mesh or web.

The design of a woven fabric, say a Jacquard design, originates

with an artist's sketch. Since the threads within each set remain paral-

lel to each other, any curved or nonrectilinear lines in the artist's

sketch must be represented by a series of vertical or horizontal line

segments in the woven fabric. Therefore, the fabric design is an

approximation of the artist's sketch.

Traditionally, the design to be woven is represented on point

paper (graph paper), which has the number of horizontal or vertical

lines per inch in the same ratio as the number of weft and warp threads.

Each square represents the intersection of one warp and one weft thread,

that is, one interlacing. At each intersection the warp thread may

pass either over or under the weft thread. This binary choice is

represented by painting or not painting the point-paper square corres-

ponding to the interlacing.

The development of this point-paper representation of the design

is the problem facing the designer-technician. Without a computer, he

begins by projecting the artist's sketch onto the point paper (at about

a ten-times enlargement) and tracing the projection. He then determines

which weave (pattern of interlacings) to put in each disjoint area. In

deciding the proper weave for an area, and its orientation within the

223
area, the designer must consider both the appearance (aesthetic rules)

and the use (structural rules) of the fabric. He then uses a paint

brush to paint the weave into each square.

After the weaves have been inserted in the areas, another set of

rules, concerning the interaction of weaves, must be applied. Certain

modifications, again both structural and aesthetic, must be applied. As

an example of a structural modification, two weaves, each obeying a

restriction of a maximum float (length) of warp over weft (or vice

versa) might cause this restriction to be violated when they are placed

in adjacent areas. An example of an aesthetic modification may be seen

in Figure 1.

FIGURE O N E
The right-hand drawing shows background weave altered to make the cen-
ter unit stand out.

It is not uncommon for a design the size of a necktie to consist of over

half a million rectangles. Such designs take well over a hundred hours

to develop.

224
 Computer-Aided Solution

Input Phase: A design may be entered into the computer by trac-

ing it or drawing freehand on a digitizing tablet. The tablet used in

this application is about ten inches square and is made up of a wire

mesh with a hundred wires per inch in each direction. A pencil-like

stylus is coupled to the tablet. As the person tracing moves the stylus

along the design, the coordinates of the points over which the stylus

passes are transmitted to the computer. If the design is larger than

the tablet on which it is to be drawn or traced, it can be traced in

sections. This is accomplished by placing alignment dots on sections of

the original design and then drawing one section at a time, a process

similar to ironing a large object on a small ironing board.

While the design is being drawn, it may be simultaneously dis-

played on the screen of a display terminal. The display terminal looks

like a television set with a 12-inch square displav area (Figure 2 ) .

FIGURE T W O
The particular tablet described here is called a GRAFACON and it is made

by the Data Equipment Company; the display screen is part of a complete

graphic communication terminal, the IBM 2250.

Connected to the display terminal is a function keyboard, with

which the user can control the execution of a computer program. A pro-

gram is a set of sequential instructions. However, these instructions

need not be executed in sequence. One of the instructions may be:

"Branch to another instruction on a certain condition." If, as the pro-

gram is being executed, this condition occurs, then the strict sequence

will be violated and execution will resume at the indicated point. Such

conditions may be "interruptions" caused by depressing the function

keys. In this way the user causes the branching of the program out of

sequence into the particular subprogram or function designated by the

key.

The function keyboard connected to the IBM 2250 display terminal

has thirty-two keys. Each key may be associated with a different sub-

program within the computer. When the subprogram is executed, it will

perform the indicated function. An example of a function might be "Move

the design to the right."

If the function of one of the thirty-two keys is "Reassign the

functions of all the other keys," we can generate the potential for

another thirty-two functions using the same keyboard. For each set of

these functions we can similarly reserve one key so that it is possible

to use the keyboard for hundreds of different functions. An overlay

which fits on the function keyboard labels the keys for a particular

assignment of functions. As the keyboard is used for different sets of

thirty-two functions, the overlay may be changed.

226
 Figure 2 also shows a light pen connected to the display ter-

minal. The light pen detects light. When it is pointed at the display,

it transmits to the computer the coordinates of the point which it

detected. Therefore, it can be used to indicate parts of the design on

which the user would like to perform certain functions. Using the func-

tion keys and the light pen, the designer-operator can translate,

enlarge, reduce, erase, or repeat part or all of the displayed design.

If the design has symmetry, the operator may elect to trace only a por-

tion of it and request the computer to generate and display the remain-

der reflected about any chosen lines of symmetry.

Another method of introducing graphic information into a com-

puter is by means of a photographic scanning process. It is possible to

introduce a film of a design or an object directly into the computer.

Then it may be optically scanned and the information will be available

in the computer memory. This is a faster and simpler method for

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FIGURE THREE DETAIL OF BEE AFTER BEING SCANNED BY COMPUTER

introducing graphic information into the computer; however, it is not

always advisable to use this method. The information extracted in the

227
optical scanning process may be much more than is necessary for the par-

ticular application; hence, it may be more costly and time-consuming to

use this information during the development phase of the application.

For example, if one were trying to characterize certain vessels with

respect to their height, openings, handles, curvature, and so forth, it

would be possible to abstract these qualities in a line drawing, and it

would not be necessary to digest the masses of information from the

optical scanning of a photograph process. Furthermore, in the case

described above, the three-dimensional object can be represented in two

dimensions -- that is, in a line drawing -- with respect to the essen-

tial characteristics mentioned.

When, in the Textile Graphics application, the original art work

to be reproduced in a textile is not of a suitable quality for direct

reproduction, it must be inputted by the tracing method described above.

The reasons why the original artwork cannot be directly reproduced are

many. Let us consider one of them. A simple line drawn with varying

degrees of pressure in the original artwork must be more carefully drawn

to have only a single degree of thickness for the reproduction process.

Even the artist would acknowledge this. It is not the intent which pro-

duces the original unevenness, he would say, but rather the carrying out

on impulse of the idea. This kind of inaccuracy is a frequent concomi-

tant of the artistic expression. There have been many attempts to

restrict the artist as he works to particular colors or to a particular

kind of precision. These attempts have been unsuccessful, probably

because of something inherent in the original creative process. There-

fore, the majority of original designs must be manually recreated.

228
 Development Phase: The development of the outline of a design

into weavable information (the pattern of warp and weft interlacings) is

carried on as a dialogue between the computer and the user. The tools

of this dialogue are the display screen, the light pen with which one

may draw on the screen, and a set of function keys which perform func-

tions decided upon in advance by the user or the programmer of the

system.

In the development phase of Textile Graphics, one of the first

keys the user depresses is the "label" key. This key will cause a

unique label to be given to each disjoint area of the design and will

display the label within the area on the screen. This function performs

a reorganization of the total outline information into area outlines,

within the computer.

The reason for identifying each area separately is so that the

user may be able to treat the separate areas independently. This func-

tion is certainly not confined to textile designing. Users of various

computer applications may likewise want to handle objects or parts of

objects in different ways -- that is, to give them identity.

After this function has been executed, the user may point the

light pen at a given label and any function "keyed in" will be performed

on the designated area.

The designer-technician next wants to select different weaves to

"paint" into the disjoint areas of the design. As defined earlier, a

weave is a pattern of interlacings of warp and weft. Weaves may be

represented diagrammatically (Figure 4 ) , with each black square repre-

senting weft over warp. A weave diagram may be as small as 2 x 2

229
 ¡!E
plain weave satin weave twill weave

FIGURE FOUR

rectangles or as large as the number of threads in the fabric. I

have seen a design with a repeat of one hundred million rectangles.

The computer may contain a library of many weaves. In practice,

it would be usual for a library to contain more than a thousand weaves.

One set of assignments of the function keys would be to serve as a

library dialing system. For example, the user wishes to select Weave

112 from the library. He can push button 1 twice, followed by button

2 and then a "display" button and the screen will be filled with Weave

112. This process permits him to display the contents of a catalogue.

He can also generate a new weave on the screen with the light

pen. First, he displays a grid of dots on the screen, by depressing a

function key. Then he points with the light pen to those dots which he

wants to represent warp over weft. They will become " 1 . " The others

will remain dots and will represent weft over warp. He can next execute

a function that will incorporate the new weave into the library and give

it a number or other identifying symbol.

230
 A user may want to introduce a weave into the library and not

want to check manually through every weave already in the library to see

whether this weave is new or redundant. A comparison of the weave with

those already in the library can be made by pushing a "compare" function

key. Then, if the program searches the library and finds the weave

already there, it would reject this weave.

A weave selected from the library may be inserted in a particu-

lar disjoint area. After selecting the weave, the user redisplays a

specific area of the design. Then, by pointing at the label in the area

with the light pen, the user causes the weave to appear in the area

within a few seconds. Without use of a computer, the designer must exe-

cute the process by painting the weave pattern into tiny squares, an

exceptionally time-consuming task. Imagine the time it would take to

paint a 2-inch-square woven area represented by 40,000 rectangles on the

point paper.

Since many areas may be treated in a similar fashion, it is

desirable to have a function key that will equate the labels of several

-o it o o n

<i (t o o «>

<t o 41 <> o

4> «I 41 41 4r

FIGURE FIVE DOT GRID

231
areas so that when a weave or other operation is designated for one of

the areas it will be performed on all of them simultaneously. When the

"equate" function key is depressed and the light pen is pointed at the

labels of each area to be equated, the labels will become equal to the

first label detected by the pen.

In applying Textile Graphics to woven textiles, areas may be

equated for the purpose of inserting the same weave in them. Another

example of the use of the equate function is seen in the application of

Textile Graphics to printed textiles. In the process of textile print-

ing it is necessary to separate the areas of design into color groups.

If the equate labels are used for the purpose of labeling each area of

the design which is to be the same color, the information pertaining

only to areas of the same color may be collected together in the com-

puter.

When different weaves have been inserted in two adjacent areas,

their common boundary may be visually unpleasing. An example in which

this is true was shown in Figure 1. If the user depresses the "invert"

key, every interlacing he subsequently detects with the light pen will

be changed to the opposite state. Warp over weft, that is, will become

weft over warp and vice versa. The change of an interlacing takes place

in milleseconds. In the traditional method, without the computer, a

painted square must become an unpainted square. In order to accomplish

this, one must dip the paintbrush in water, apply it to the square, and

remove the dissolved paint with a blotter.

Since the screen is of a fixed size, all of the design may not

be displayed at a given time. Therefore, it is essential to have a

232
function key programmed to move the design either left, right, or up or

down. In this way other portions of the design may be brought into view

and "woven" on the screen.

Another type of movement is enlargement or contraction. Repli-

cating the design about centers of specified displacement is another

type of movement in which the design is moved to other centers while it

also remains displayed in its original position. Other keys perform

these functions.

Output Phase: After a design has been processed through the

development phase of Textile Graphics program, all the information

necessary to control the patterning mechanism of a specific piece of

textile machinery is contained in the computer memory. This information

may be outputted from the computer in several forms.

For a woven textile, the loom patterning mechanism uses a large

punched card (or equivalent) for each row of the design. The holes in

the card represent warp threads to be raised during the weaving of that

row. Within the computer a row of the design is represented as a string

of "O's" and "l's." The "l's" represent a hole in the corresponding

card -- that is, a raised warp thread. If the O's and l's are printed

out row by row, they will constitute a "map" of the control cards. If,

however, each row is punched on an IBM card, the set of these cards can

be converted with special equipment to the loom control cards.

The same pattern of binary data may also be photographically

plotted on paper or film, so that the designer can keep a visual record.

One such plotter, the Geospace plotter, uses paper or film measuring

40 x 60 inches. It will plot the entire sheet at a resolution of 100 x

100 points per inch in 75 seconds.

233
 The color-separated images collected in a printed textile design

may each be printed on a separate film, thus generating a set of color-

separated films.

Once the information from the completed development phase is

"captured" within the computer, it may be used to control the textile

machinery patterning mechanism directly, instead of outputting it in any

of the forms described above. An example of such direct control is now

on exhibition at one of the two IBM pavilions at the HemisFair in San

Antonio, Texas. In this exhibit, the "designer," a visitor to the fair,

may draw an original design on the display screen, weave it on the

screen (development phase), and, when he depresses the appropriate func-

tion key, it will be woven by a loom connected to the computer. The loom

has been modified to accept control signals from the computer instead of

sensing holes in punched cards.

This direct control greatly foreshortens the normal manufacturing

cycle in which every painted square on the point paper must be manually

recreated as a hole in a punched card.

Summary

Because the computer executes these input, develop, and output

instructions so rapidly, it enables many more trial decisions to be

tested than would be possible with manual execution. Similar tools and

techniques are applicable to other problems whose solution involves the

aesthetic decision of the user and decision execution by the computer.

234
 Discussion following paper by Janice Lourie

Mr. Donald Puct [Newark Museum]: What did that terminal cost in

money?

Mrs. Lourie: Somewhere around, I believe, $3500 a month rental.

I'm not really a salesman, even though I sometimes sound like it. So you

ought to ask one of them. I think there's one around here.

235
 COMPUTER METHODS FOR THE PROCESSING, CLASSIFYING, AND

MATCHING OF PROFILES AND OTHER IRREGULAR CURVES*

by

Herbert Freeman

New York University, Bronx, N.Y.

One of the specialized fields of computer technology that is

receiving much attention at the present time is that of computer graphics.

This is the field that is concerned with the computer processing of pic-

torial data, that is, of data described in a graphical sense rather than

in terms of numbers or letters. There are four major areas of activity

within computer graphics, and these are conveniently labeled analysis,

synthesis, manipulation, and pattern recognition. All of these refer to

the purpose for which the graphical data are processed by the computer.

In the case of analysis, graphical data are supplied to the computer in

encoded form, and the computer is required to extract specific informa-

tion of interest from the given data. The opposite applies for synthesis,

where general descriptive information about the graphical data is entered

in the computer, and the computer must generate the graphical presenta-

tion. For manipulation, both input and output are graphical in form;

however, the input graphical data must be operated upon in some specified

x
The research reported here was supported by the Information
Sciences Directorate, Air Force Office of Scientific Research,

237
manner so as to yield the desired output form. The removal of curvi-

linear distortion from earth-satellite photographs is a good example of

data manipulation. Finally, in pattern recognition, graphical data are

supplied to the computer, and the computer must classify the data

according to some pre-established criteria. Pattern recognition has

certain similarities to analysis, but where analysis emphasizes the

determination of specific characteristics, pattern recognition is con-

cerned with classification as an end in itself. In this paper I shall

deal solely with the analysis and pattern recognition of data of the

line-drawing type.

Since a digital computer can accept only data that are given in

some simple number system (usually binary), any graphical data to be

processed must first be converted (encoded) into such a numerical form.

Encoding requires quantization, that is, the breaking up of the given

data into small discrete elements of information to which distinct code

symbols can be assigned. I shall now describe a method of quantizing and

12 3
encoding that is particularly well suited for line-drawing data.

Consider curve I in Figure 1. To encode it, we superimpose a

uniform grid of arbitrary fineness. We next tract out the curve from end

to end and mark the grid nodes that lie closest to the intersections

between the curve and the superimposed grid (nodes A, B, C, D, E, F, G,

and H). These nodes are then connected with short straight-line segments

in the sequence in which they are encountered. The result is a broken-

line approximation for the curve, which we shall call the chain of the

curve. The chain, II, is, of course, a quantized representation of the

given curve. The segments of the chain, called elements, will be of unit

length if they lie along a grid line, and of length V 2 if they cut
238
 FIGURE ONE THE CURVE QUANTIZATION SCHEME
I =•
II =

diagonally across a grid square, where it is assumed that the grid is of

unit spacing.

Since as a chain moves from node to node, each next node can only

be one of the eight grid nodes that surround the present node, we may

adopt a very simple coding scheme for the chains. We assign the numbers

0 through 7 in a counterclockwise sense to the eight directions of

departing from the present node, starting from the right horizontal,

Figure 2. A chain can then be described by merely giving, in sequence,

the digits that identify the successive directions of its straight-line

segments. The curve of Figure 1 can be encoded into the number sequence

01210767 (beginning from the left).

239
 3 2 1

S \ 0
V. y f
4 S

(¿S 6 ^V 7

FIGURE TWO THE CHAIN ENCODING SCHEME

To obtain the chain representation for a given curve, we may

either carry out the encoding process manually, which is, of course, very

tedious, or we may design some semiautomatic equipment in which a stylus

is guided along the curve and electrical signals, picked off from the

stylus, are furnished to the computer. The computer extracts the neces-

sary information from the signals to generate the chain code for the

curve. Such equipment has been built and employed for this purpose.

Special codes can be inserted into the number sequence to indicate the

location of a chain intersection, or to provide for the relative posi-

2
tioning of two nonintersecting chains.

The chain encoding scheme permits the efficient storage of line-

drawing data in a computer. Even more important, however, is that it

presents the data in a form that greatly facilitates the processing by

the computer. For example, if we wish to determine the length of a chain,

we need merely total the number of even-valued elements (n ) and the num-

ber of odd-valued elements (n ) . The length is then given by the follow-

ing formula:

240
 L = ne + n0 V2
The length of the chain 01210767 shown in Figure 1 is thus 4 + 4 V 2 =

9.656 units.

Similarly, if we wish to determine the height of a given chain,

we merely break up each of the elements (which are really little vectors)

into their horizontal and vertical components. For height, we then com-

pute a running sum over all the vertical components, and take the differ-

ence between the maximum value of this sum and the minimum value. The

difference will be equal to the height of the chain. For width, a simi-

lar procedure is used, except that the horizontal components of the ele-
3

ments are now summed.

The determination of length and height is, of course, trivial.

However, the determination of more complicated properties such as

enclosed area, area between two curves, point of intersection of two

chains, whether a chain is open or closed, the rotational movement of a

chain about a specified axis, the geometric center of a chain, whether a

chain is symmetrical about a specified axis, as well as many other simi-

lar properties, are easily determined. Each element of a chain, it will

be noted, must be processed individually. Therefore, the more elements

contained in a chain, the more extensive the processing. This suggests

that we should quantize a curve as coarsely as possible; that is, that we

should use a wide grid spacing. However, as we quantize a chain more

coarsely, any properties we obtain from its analysis will be less precise.

Hence a compromise must be sought between precision (fine quantization)

and short processing time (coarse grid). Criteria have been established

for determining the quantization fineness necessary for a particular pre-

4
cisión; however, their description is beyond the scope of this paper.
241
 I shall now illustrate the computer processing of line-drawing

data by describing a particular application, namely, the computer assem-

bly of jigsaw puzzles. This application, which by itself may seen a

little frivolous, is ideally suited for this purpose. As a problem it

is well defined, everyone is familiar with it, and its solution requires

the use of a large number of sophisticated computer techniques that are

equally applicable to the more serious problems of computer graphics.

Clearly, the use of computers as an aid for the reconstruction of ancient

broken pottery is a very similar problem.

Let us consider a conventional, commercial-variety, jigsaw puzzle,

assuming that the pieces are turned on their backs, so that they all

appear uniformly gray. The assembly is to be achieved solely on the

basis of the shapes of the pieces; no color or picture-pattern informa-

tion is to be employed. We shall further assume that the pieces are

arranged in a completely arbitrary manner, that the boundary of the final

assembled puzzle is both unknown and irregular, that all required pieces

are provided, and that no pieces that do not belong to the puzzle are

present.

One quickly notes that to develop a computer assembly scheme,

special attention should be given to the puzzle junctions, that is, the

points where three or more pieces join. We shall call a junction at

which three pieces come together a triradial junction, one at which four

pieces come together, a quadradial junction, and so forth, as illustrated

in Figure 3.

It is of interest to examine the source of triradial, quadradial,

and higher-radial junctions. If we consider the map of the United States

242
 FIGURE THREE

ABC - triradial ¡unctions

D E F - quadradial junctions

243
and regard each state as a piece of a jigsaw puzzle, we find that there

is only one junction that is quadradial, namely, the point at which Ari-

zona, New Mexico, Colorado, and Utah join. All other state junctions are

triradial. Clearly, the triradial appears to be the "natural" junction,

with the quadradial occurring only where artificially created. Now if we

look at commercial jigsaw puzzles, we find that only some of the simple

ones, made for small children, contain many triradial junctions. Vir-

tually all of the larger puzzles, containing hundreds of pieces and made

for adults, have exclusively quadradial junctions. The reason for this

lies in their method of manufacture. Large puzzles are made by "cutting

through," from edge to edge, and such cutting can yield only quadradial

junctions. The distinction is illustrated in Figure 4. For broken pot-

tery, the method of "manufacture" is such that either triradial or quad-

radial junctions may occur, possibly in nearly equal numbers. Higher-

order radiality would be most rare, except where the breaking is done by

piercing, such as with glass broken by a bullet.

Although higher-order radiality in a jigsaw puzzle is rare, it

is, of course, not difficult to achieve if one sets one's mind to it.

The total number of junctions in a puzzle and their radialities are

related by the formula:

J = 2n - 2

= N 3 + 2N 4 + 3N 5 + + (k-2)Nk

where J is the number of junctions, n is the number of pieces, and N3,

N A , N5, etc. , denote the number of junctions of radiality 3, 4, 5, etc.,

and where, for exterior junctions, the puzzle's exterior is also taken to

be one "piece." This makes all exterior junctions at least triradial.

244
 FIGURE FOUR puzzles with only triradial (À) or only
quadradial (B) ¡unctions

Note t h a t i t i s impossible to c o n s t r u c t a puzzle t h a t i s e n t i r e l y com-

posed of j u n c t i o n s of r a d i a l i t y five or h i g h e r .

A most s i g n i f i c a n t f e a t u r e of j u n c t i o n s i s t h a t a t every j u n c t i o n

a t l e a s t one of the p i e c e s must have a d i s c o n t i n u i t y - - a sharp slope

change, or " c o r n e r " - - in i t s contour. To be more p r e c i s e , a t an

m - r a d i a l j u n c t i o n , a t l e a s t m-2 of the p i e c e s j o i n i n g t h e r e must have

d i s c o n t i n u i t i e s in t h e i r c o n t o u r s . This can be observed c l e a r l y i n F i g -

ure 3. The presence of t h e s e d i s c o n t i n u i t i e s provides a h i n t for p r o -

ceeding toward the assembly of j i g s a w p u z z l e s on the b a s i s of shape a l o n e .

I f we s e l e c t a p i e c e a t random and look a t the d i s c o n t i n u i t i e s in i t s

c o n t o u r , we have a t once an i n d i c a t i o n of p o s s i b l e p o i n t s a t which t h i s

245
piece joins with two or more other pieces. Of course, a discontinuity

may occur at a place other than at a junction (such as at point x in

Figure 3c), or a junction may occur at a point on a piece where there is

no discontinuity; however, the presence of a discontinuity is strong cir-

cumstantial evidence that a junction has been located.

type I type II type III

type IV typeV type VI

FIGURE FIVE TYPES OF PIECE MATINGS

We now focus our attention on the manner in which the pieces of

a puzzle may fit together. It is not difficult to see that there are

six distinct ways in which two pieces may "mate" with reference to dis-

continuities in their contours; these are shown in Figure 5. The first

type of mating, Type I, brings two pieces together so that each one fits

against the other from one discontinuity to another discontinuity. In

246
Type II mating, the two pieces start together, each with a discontinuity,

but they separate at a point at which only one of the pieces has a dis-

continuity. For Type III, mating starts and ends at points at which only

one of the mating pieces has a discontinuity. Matings of Types TV

through VI are more complex; fortunately, their occurrence is rare. In

Figure 4a, the matings are all of Types II and III; in Figure 4b, they

are all of Type I.

As a first step toward assembling a jigsaw puzzle, we take all

the pieces that are given and examine them for discontinuities. We then

assign a unique number to each piece, and also label with a decimal frac-

tion each curve section lying between successive discontinuities, pro-

ceeding in a counterclockwise direction about each piece. The process is

illustrated in Figure 6. Each of the curve sections is then encoded,

using the chain encoding technique.

discontinuities
in contour

FIGURE SIX LABELING A PIECE

247
 In the next step, the chains of the curve sections are analyzed

for a variety of properties. Thus we might determine the length of the

chain, the straight-line distance between its end points, the maximum

separation between end points, the enclosed area lying between the chain

and the straight-line vector, etc., as shown in Figure 7. All these

properties of the chain are clearly independent of the orientation of the

piece from which the chain was obtained. This is important, because when

two pieces mate on a Type-I basis, their lengths, straight-line distances,

maximum separations, enclosed areas, etc., must be the same (within some

tolerance) even though their original orientations may be different.

We next set up a classification system for all the chains, using

the previously determined properties as classification criteria. In

effect, a catalog is constructed in which the chains are classified

according to their properties.

We are now ready to begin the actual assembly. We take one

chain, say, No. 8,1 (i.e., the No. 1 section of chain No. 8) and look up

its properties in our catalog. If chain 8.1 is to mate with another

chain on a Type-I basis, that is, from discontinuity to discontinuity on

each, the two chains must have closely matching properties. We search

through the catalog for all chains that have properties that match those

of 8.1 to within a specified tolerance, and then arrange these according

to how closely these properties agree. We select the one whose proper-

ties match most closely to those of 8.1 and rotate it (by means of a

suitable computation algorithm) so that it will have the same orientation

as chain 8.1. Next we carefully determine whether the two chains indeed

mate by checking how well they match in fine detail, and whether the

248
 enclosed area
maximum separation
straight-line distance

chain of
curve section 27.2
r--0

FIGURE SEVEN PROPERTY DETERMINATION

249
pieces to which they belong are compatible in other respects. For

example, suppose that in Figure 8, chain 5.3 matches most closely to 8.1;

however, because pieces 5 and 8 would overlap, the next best match,

chain 12.2, must be taken instead. Observe that we cannot expect perfect

mating since we are not dealing with the original curves but merely with

their chain-encoded, straight-line approximations.

FIGURE EIGHT SELECTION OF M A T I N G PIECES

The foregoing assembly procedure, as described thus far, works

only for pieces that mate on a Type-I basis. Fortunately, this is the

most common type of mating. When only a few other types of matings are

present, they can be ignored at first; they will be found indirectly

later through the matings of other curve sections of the same pieces.

However, if a large number of other types of matings occur (it is pos-

sible, for example, to construct a puzzle that has only Type-II matings!),

the foregoing procedure must be modified. In addition to determining the

properties for the entire chains, a subset of such properties is also

determined for two fixed-length portions of each chain, one from each

250
end. These will be entered in a special fixed-length chain property

catalog and then used in the same way as the main catalog.

As we fit pieces together, we try to find all the pieces that

come together at a single junction. When all the pieces around a junc-

tion have been properly assembled, we can have a fair degree of confi-

dence that the assembly is correct and that we have not been deceived by

an ambiguous match (though we can never be sure of this until the entire

puzzle is assembled!). Because of quantization errors, it is possible

that two pieces believed initially to mate may later be found to be

incompatible. However, the assembly of a whole cluster of pieces will

usually cause this to be detected fairly quickly. The appearance of a

partially assembled puzzle is shown in Figure 9.

FIGURE NINE PARTIALLY ASSEMBLED PUZZLE

251
 In the foregoing, we have described only the assembly of jigsaw

puzzles. The assembly of broken pottery is, as noted earlier, a com-

parable process. As long as the individual pieces are fairly flat, the

procedure may be used without modification, even though the assembled

pottery item may be three dimensional, for example, an amphora. One

difference from jigsaw puzzles is that missing pieces may be common; how-

ever, as long as not too many pieces are missing, they do not present a

serious problem. They will be treated simply as being part of the outside

boundaries. Nothing in the method described requires that the assembled

puzzle have no holes in it.

The general techniques described here, as well as the particular

illustration, may well have possible application in museums, particularly

in matters relating to archeology. For those with further interest in

the subject, items 1, 3, and 5 in the references are particularly pertin-

ent.

References

1. H. Freeman, "On the Encoding of Arbitrary Geometric Configurations,"

IRE Trans. Electron. Comp., vol. EC-10, 2, pp. 260-268, June 1961.

2. H. Freeman, "A Technique for the Classification and Recognition of

Geometric Patterns," Proc. 3rd Int'l Congress on Cybernetics, Namur,
Belgium, pp. 348-369, Sept. 1961.

3. H. Freeman, "Techniques for the Digital Computer Analysis of Chain-

Encoded Arbitrary Plane Curves," Proc. Nat'l Elect. Conf., vol. 17,
pp. 421-432, Chicago, 111., Oct. 1961.

4. J. Glass, "A Criterion for the Quantization of Line-Drawing Data"

(doctoral dissertation), Department of Electrical Engineering, New
York University, Bronx, N.Y. 10453, May 1965. (Also available as
NYU Tech. Rept. 400-112).

252
5. H. Freeman and L. Gardner, "Apictorial Jigsaw Puzzles: The Computer
Solution of a Problem in Pattern Recognition," IEEE Trans. Electron.
Comp., vol. EC-13, 2, pp. 118-127, April 1964.

253
 Discussion following paper by Herbert Freeman

Mr. Chenhall: I'm an archeologist. I see something here that

would be potentially very useful in reconstructing broken pottery at

archeology sites. At the present time, what kind of limitations do you

have? I think what I am saying is the limitations as to the size of your

program, in terms of the numbers of separate segments that could be inde-

pendently compared?

Within the realm of practicality with computer programs, within,

say, unlimited computer time, what type of storage does it take in order

to accomplish, say, for the 10 or 12 or 27 pieces of a particular jigsaw

puzzle? I'm thinking if that were expanded by a factor of 100, could you

handle this?

Mr. Freeman: Yes. The amount of storage required is not inordin-

ate, and any large-scale computer with good secondary memory, such as

magnetic tape or disc units, could handle a very large puzzle without any

difficulty.

We have definitely considered archeological applications, and I

believe there are some people who have worked with it. I don't have their

names with me, but I could get them. This is certainly an application

where it's practical.

One of the things, also in the case of jigsaw puzzles, is the

fact that we tried to make the problem difficult; that is, we tried to

think up puzzles that would be particularly difficult to put together

with this scheme, and still we were able to overcome almost every

instance. I think with natural-type puzzles, nature isn't trying to make

it difficult for you, so it should be no problem. Storage is no problem,

and computation time is nothing unreasonable.

 Mr. Chenhall: Are you limited, at the present time, to two

dimensions?

Mr. Freeman: We have considered only two-dimensional-type prob-

lems. These plates we have looked at, essentially, as two-dimensional-

type problems.

Mr. Everett Ellin: In answer to your question about archeologi-

cal application, I'd like to tell you about one that's very closely

related to the work you explained to us. It's a group of archeologists

who are working in Egypt, trying th reassemble a frieze that, in its

original form, was probably several hundred feet in length. At the time

this frieze was destroyed, the segments were widely used as building

materials at many other locations in Egypt. An archeological team is now

seeking to mate segments from other museums or other locations by exactly

this technique. Fortunately, they were aided by the fact that the frieze

included many sunburst symbols -- straight lines radiating out from a

center -- which gives you another factor in mating pieces, besides the

perimeter. The matching of a radial line that would cut across five or

six segments would be the same radial line.

They are trying to correlate thousands of suspected pieces by

this method, and I undetstand they are having great success. If anybody

would like to know more about this I could give you the name of a gentle-

man at the Smithsonian Institution, Museum of Natural History, who is

very familiar with the project.

The Chairman: This is one of the projects that is being spon-

sored by the American Research Center in Egypt. It's director is Ray

Smith. If you want any further information on it, you can contact him

255
through the American Research Center in Egypt, or possibly in care of

Chicago House at Luxor.

Now, it had been my understanding with the archeologists I have

spoken to that they were primarily engaged in a punch-card system. Such

was my impression last year, at least. Do you know that they use the CRT

at all? Is that what you are referring to? Or is it the coding system,

Mr. Ellin?

Mr. E11in: I thought they were using a system very much like the

one you just described, where they are refining their work after locating

the obvious matches through the radial line situation. They are now

trying to match suspected pieces by the configuration of the perimeter,

by this kind of method. I'm not absolutely certain, however, about this.

The Chairman: If they are not using the CRT, we can tell by this

time that they should be. Are there any further questions?

Mr. Allon Schoener: Would it be possible to digitize a photo-

graph of these segments and achieve the same result? In other words, the

system that the Bell Laboratories people use, where they can actually

digitize a photograph and then reproduce it, and then do the matching.

On a direct basis, that is, instead of having to go through all of this

detailed linear application? Do you follow what I mean?

Mr. Freeman: I'm not sure. By "digitized" do you mean the

entire piece, or just the perimeter -- the outline of the piece?

Mr. Schoener: The entire piece, which would also give you the

outline.

Mr. Freeman: Yes, it certainly is possible. If we are just

going to work with the outline, then keeping the entire piece in the com-

puter gives us a lot more data that we are not going to use. It simply

256
means a lot more to carry around. Also, some of the processing tech-

niques are not as efficient as the ones developed here. This coding

system has this dual advantage: if you are working with a contour --

solely with a contour, that's all you are interested in. It's very

efficient in storage and in processing.

There are other techniques, such as digitizing an entire picture.

This is important if there are other features throughout the piece that

you must also preserve. But if you are going to work only with the con-

tour, then I believe this method is more efficient, both from the point

of view of storage and of processing.

Mr. Schoener: But if you then had visual symbols on the surface

that were also necessary to identify, not just simply the outline, digi-

tizing the element might be more advantageous.

Mr. Freeman: You might start that way. If you had, let's say,

some broken pottery that you wanted to assemble, you don't have to take

each piece of pottery by hand and do this. You might have some photo-

graphs of the pottery and you might digitize the entire photograph, first

looking for other features as well, such as sunbursts, as mentioned a

minute ago.

However, when you go to your contour matching -- that is, the

actual piecing together -- you might convert the data that you have from

the digitized photograph -- and converting it to this chain-coding scheme

is very easy -- then continue the fitting, only now using the chain-

coded system. Then, when you find likely candidates -- that is, when you

find two pieces which look like these two mate -- you might go back and

encode it photographically, whether a particular sunburst line, which

starts on one and is supposed to run through another one, indeed does.
257
If it does, you have further confirmation that you have mated these

pieces correctly; if it does not, you might then look at other candidates.

Mr. Freeman: In other words, perhaps a combination of the two?

Mr. Schoener: Yes, very definitely.

Mr. Freeman: We specifically ruled that out. We said we are

going to work only with shape. But by all means, if you have other infor-

mation, you want to use it. But, as I said, I described some ambiguities

where you can fit two pieces together and later find this is the wrong

fit. Probably we could have turned those things upside down and noticed

that one was yellow and the other blue. This might have given us the

indication that these were not the right ones to use. However, we said,

"Let's take the more difficult task first. Let's look at shape only and

proceed that way."

Chairman: Before we continue with our session I have two announce-

ments to make. One is that the microrecords exhibition and display across

the hall will be available all afternoon for those of you who haven't

seen the explanation of how these machines work, and for others of you

who would like perhaps to take home with you various types of printouts

or microfiche records. You can do this at any time for the rest of the

day.

Second, during our coffee break I was given further information

concerning the Egyptian reliefs that are being assembled. Some of you,

particularly those interested in archeology, may want to know more about

the project. It is reported in the magazine Expedition, published by the

University Museum of the University of Pennsylvania, fall issue, 1967.

The article is by Ray Smith, and it's called "The Okanocan Temple Project."

258
 APPLICATIONS OF COMPUTER GRAPHICS IN MUSEUMS

by

Leslie Mezei

University of Toronto

The materials with which museums deal are basically of a

graphic nature, be they drawings, paintings, sculpture, or other arti-

facts. An exhibit catalogue containing only verbal information is not

nearly as valuable as one with illustrations. Even scholarly studies of

art and of artists are only so many words until illustrations are added.

When a museum turns to the computer to assist it in its work, it is

only natural to ask: "We do have numbers and words to deal with, but

our business is primarily graphics, and what can the computer do for us

in this regard?"

Let me declare at the outset the bias with which I approach this

question. I am less interested in the technical advances than in the

new concepts they engender and the new questions we dare to ask with

their assistance.

Organizations which have installed a computer to do only the

things they had done before have found that they are not making effec-

tive use of this new tool. They have found that a complete

re-examinâtion of their purposes and goals is necessary. Merely auto-

mating the old procedures was not good enough. You in museums are in

grave danger of making the same mistake over again. You have had to

259
spend much of your lives shuffling 3" by 5" cards. If you devote all

your resources to feeding cards into the mouth of the mechanical mon-

ster, you will miss many great opportunities that the computer and

related technologies offer you. After all, you seek understanding, not

index cards.

It is impossible for me to give here even a brief outline of the

field of computer graphics and of the input anrl output equipment and the

software required. A list of survey articles for this purpose appears

in my Bibliography. To illustrate some of the possibilities, I am show-

ing you a series of slides which I have developed during the last year.

They were all drawn on a CALCOMP 565 incremental digital plotter, con-

trolled by an IBM 7094 computer. The programming was done in a FORTRAN

based language I call SPARTA, designed for the manipulation of arbitrary

line drawings.

I can think of potential applications of computer graphics in

each subject area discussed at this conference, and yet, were you to ask

me: "What projects of this type should we start on today?" I would have

difficulty answering. Much that I will talk about is but a pipe dream

today, since automatic processing of complex pictures is expensive in

equipment, in computer time, in storage requirements, and in programming.

I am sounding this cautionary note because graphics is another one of

the glamour areas of computer application where promise of quick and

easy results may well leave a lot of people disappointed.

However, it is sensible to look ahead to the future possibili-

ties now, so that the initial systems are designed in such a way that

advantage can be taken later, without major upheavals, of the increas-

ingly sophisticated, and, one hopes, decreasingly expensive graphics

260
equipment. Meanwhile, research projects should be started now in these

areas. I hope to suggest immediate applications for which only rela-

tively inexpensive plotters and relatively simple programming are neces-

sary. My suggestions must of necessity be general and vague at this

point. Accordingly, I will use a broad brush, or, should I say, a wide

light pen.

Documentary Applications

When we think about information storage and retrieval we imme-

diately ask: "Can we store a replica of the objects themselves, rather

than a descriptive index?" With linguistic material we can store the

complete text in the computer memory, to be retrieved and even analyzed

on request. Indeed, retrieval requests can be based not only on the

indexing information, but on an analysis of the text itself. Can we do

this with a representation of the art object? Not yet, at least not in

large quantities. To store a high-quality image of even a black and

white picture in computer memory requires recording of the order of a

half a million points of a TV-like scan. In addition, we do not yet

know what kind of questions to formulate for the analysis of the pic-

tures.

However, for now we could be satisfied with high-speed automatic

retrieval of microfilm and slide material. This can be done using

microfiche, aperture cards, and more advanced techniques now being

developed. Here the visual information is stored only for the purpose

of retrieval of the whole, without any analysis or use of the informa-

tion within the picture. Eventually, optical scanning equipment can be

incorporated, which converts the slide into digital form for computer
261
processing. Looking further ahead, we can expect full color capability,

and the storing of three-dimensional objects as laser holograms, or as

three views which a program combines into a single three-dimensional

image. By that time optical computers will probably come to our rescue.

But the first steps have to be taken now.

For the microfilm storage systems we will still require indexing

by descriptive terms. The development of a notation system or language

for the description of pictures for this purpose may well become more

important than information retrieval. It may provide us with a better

understanding of the grammar, the syntax, of graphic communication.

For the newer forms of art, the kinetic multimedia productions,

the movie camera is the only means of recording at present. Here again,

the development of a code or language is necessary. This would involve

the description of the individual parts, their interconnections, and the

algorithms (our jargon for procedures) involved in their performance, be

this fully prescribed or partly random. This would be of assistance not

only in recording what happened, but also in the communication between

the invariably large number of people involved in creating the work.

When much art and design will be done at the graphic console of

a computer a good record will be provided by the initial data, the pro-

gram used, and the automatic recording of the intermediate stages.

Indeed, if the final work of art is produced by computer-controlled

equipment there is no need to retain the result: it can be replicated.

This brings us to questions about the role of the museum. Look-

ing into the future with a crystal ball is a popular hobby. The current

issue of TV Guide talks about "the giant 3-D color screen in every room"

which "may literally become your 'window on the world.'" "You may be
262
able to dial exact reproductions of art masterpieces electronically

'hung' on your wall from the world's great museums." Will the museum,

being a place to which we come to view a display of objects, also

become an electronic control center from which the displays are beamed

into the outer world? And what type of displays are we talking about?

Masterpieces? Artifacts of the past? Everyday objects? Multimedia

presentations? Electronically generated images? What else? Each type

presents its own problems, to those of us trying to bring these things

about. I would think that it will take more effort and a longer time

than the popular expectation would suggest. However, unless we pay

attention to these trends now, we will leave a larger mess for future

art historians than we are in now.

Museum Networks

Does all this imply that computerized museum networks will take

over much of the importance of the museum itself? And will these be the

exclusive preserve of the archivist and art historian? It seems reason-

able that computer networks for museums should serve not only the pur-

pose of exchange of information between them, but also as regional com-

puting centers for the individual museums, and, indeed, for the whole

world of art. It would become more economical to assemble the sophisti-

cated equipment and manpower required into regional centers, I hope that

these efforts will not be dedicated entirely to the preservation of the

old--though I am not suggesting that this is not a worthy aim--but also

to help the evolution of the living arts and artists. Increasing num-

bers of artists are turning to the concepts, techniques, and tools of

science. To digress for a moment, evidence of this rapidly growing

263
movement can be seen in the large number of people involved with Experi-

ments in Art and Technology here in New York, an International Science-

Art Newsletter produced by John Holloway of the Chemistry Department of

the University of Aberdeen, Scotland, and a regular column I publish in

Arts/Canada magazine, which I call Science in Art in Science. Where

shall the artist go to gain use of the expensive computer equipment he

cannot himself afford to rent? Why not the museum computer network?

Recently I was involved with some preliminary activity toward

the possibility of setting up a Canadian Information Service for the

Visual Arts. Although this is not related to graphics, you may be

interested in the types of information which were considered:

Registry of visual artists

Art teachers
Grants and awards available
Organizations and professional societies
Auctions
Information sources
Libraries
Legislation affecting the visual arts
Employment opportunities
Educational opportunities
Publications
Research projects
Major art collectors
Places of exhibition

Exhibitions

As you see, much of this aims at assisting the art activities of

today. The recording of information about the art objects themselves

was also considered, of course, and found to be the most difficult and

voluminous item.

Since it is logical for large organizations such as museums or

groups of museums to apply the computer to their administrative loads,

large amounts of statistical information will be available: the feed-

back items Robert Chenhall talks about, such as attendance, use of

264
facilities, and financial support. The network will process a veri-

table maelstrom of diverse information. If graphic equipment will be

available, the underlying structure and relationships within much of

this data can be displayed in the forms of charts, graphs, Venn diagrams,

flowcharts, network charts, trees, maps, and others.

Stylistic Analysis

Musicologists are developing thematic indices for their appli-

cations. Perhaps simplified outline diagrams could be stored for the

art material, if not of the individual pictures, then of major styles.

For shape classifications, such as the ones we were shown by Dee Green,

a pictorial dictionary would be within the possibilities of computer

technology now. They would be useful for educational purposes as well.

As far as I know, stylistic analysis of works of art directly

by computer programs has not yet been attempted. Expensive scanning

equipment, large storage, and complex programming would be required to

perform this analysis directly from the graphic material. I have

included in my Bibliography a number of technical papers which indicate

some of the more advanced computer graphics techniques that could be

used.

The scanning of aerial photographs for target recognition is

receiving a greal deal of attention. This requires the automatic, i.e.

programmed, recognition of different textures, such as water, forests,

man-made objects. The technology developed for processing the video

pictures transmitted from the moon and Mars has already been experimen-

tally applied to X rays, microphotographs of chromosomes and nerve

fibers, and photographs of natural scenes. Contrast enhancement and

265
filtering techniques bring out features not otherwise visible. These

may well become useful to those studying the fine texture of paintings,

for authentication purposes, for example. By stylistic analysis I mean

this type of question: "In what way is a Picasso drawing different from

a Durer drawing?" When people say to me: "Your picture 'Bikini Shifted'

looks like a Picasso," just what do they mean? It is difficult to

decide along what dimensions and parameters objective measurements

should be made. I do not for a moment suggest that all aspects of art

are measurable; I am aware of the psychological and sociological aspects

that depend on many things not explicitly in the picture. But the same

is true of language on the semantic level, a condition that does not

stop us from studying its syntax. Some parameters that have already

been suggested include measures of complexity by means of information

theory, of structural relationships by means of autocorrelations, and

measure of degrees of randomness.

In automatic pattern-recognition research, linguistic approaches

(a search for generative grammars) are becoming popular. In a very real

sense, if I can write a program, i.e. find an algorithm, which will

generate pictures of oak trees, then I have learned something about the

structure of oak trees. Many objects of nature can be described in two

parts: a uniform set of rules, processes, or constraints with small,

random fluctuations superimposed over them. "A rose is a rose is a

rose," yet each one is unique, a random variation on nature's grand

design. But what is a rose? In what way does it differ from the most

similar different flower? How do I program a computer to draw a family

of roses, all different, but recognizably all roses? Since art often

deals with stylized representations of the patterns of nature, these

266
questions become relevant. Again I believe that the questions themselves

and the search for answers to them will make a more important contribu-

tion than the uses to which we put the results. This has already hap-

pened, I believe to linguistics as a result of the efforts toward machine

translation of languages.

Education

The most vivid art lesson I ever witnessedwas a movie showing

the evolution of one of Picasso's paintings through the many preliminary

studies which went into it. You could see the artist at work, and get a

glimpse into his inner world. If we seat him at a display console and

have him develop his studies with a light pen, we can record the process

automatically on film, and produce this type of movie.

Computer-generated movies have already been used to explain the

processes which a computer program involves, for example. This is but

one example of making invisible processes visible, a major educational

aim. By eventually eliminating the labor of the fill-in work in cartoon-

ing, animated educational movies may become economical and easy to pro-

duce. Computer-assisted instruction will also be enriched by graphical

elements.

Much illustrative graphic material for educational purposes can

be produced using a plotter, such as series of design studies.

Design

Computer graphics will introduce new techniques and new possibil-

ities to the graphic design arts, such as industrial design, typography,

layout, illustration, and so on. These could be used by museums in the

preparation of catalogues, bulletins, posters, and other literature.

 In the planning of museums, of new layouts, and of specific

exhibits, graphic simulation techniques can be used. The architectural

and urban planning professions have taken a real interest in computer-

assisted techniques. The Design Methods Group, for example, publishes a

monthly newsletter that should be of interest to anyone involved in this

type of planning activity.

I have really done no more here than point to some general areas

where computer graphics may make a contribution. With your more inti-

mate knowledge of museums, I am sure that you will think of many others.

I hope that these ideas, as well as the slides, have served to acquaint

you with a fascinating new area of computer technology that has great

relevance to museums and the world of art. Perhaps it will prove to be

the way of bringing art to the world.

Bibliography

SPECIAL ISSUES OF PERIODICALS ON THE DESIGNER AND COMPUTER GRAPHICS:

Krampen, Martin (ed.). The Designer and the Computer, Print., XX, 6,
1966.

Krampen, Martin, and Peter Seitz (eds.). Design and Planning No. 2,
Computers in Design and Communication, New York, Hastings House,
1967.

Seitz, Peter. Design and the Computer, Design Quarterly 66/67, Minnea-
polis, Walker Art Center.

TECHNICAL BOOKS ON COMPUTER GRAPHICS:

Gruenberger, Fred (ed.). Computer Graphics: Utility/Production/Art.

Washington, Thompson Book Co., 1967.

Poole, H. H. Fundamentals of Display Systems. Spartan Books, Washing-

ton, 1966.

268
SURVEY ARTICLES ON COMPUTER GRAPHICS:

Abzug, I. "Graphic Data Processing," Datamation, Jan. 1965, 35-37.

Berry, B., and M. L. Mendelsohn. "Picture Generation with a Standard

Line Printer," Communications of ACM V (1964).

Davis, Ruth, M.A. "History of Automated Displays," Datamation, Jan.

1965, 24-28.

Feuche, Michel. "Digital Plotter Industry Growing Markedly," Computers

and Automation, Aug. 1967, 32-33.

Fulton, R. L. "Visual Input to Computers," Datamation, Aug. 1963, 37-40.

Hardway, C. L. "Graphic Data Input-Output Equipment," Online Computing,

Karpus, Walter J. (ed.), McGraw Hill, 1967, pp. 56-73.

Machover, Carl. "Graphic CRT Terminals-Characteristics of Commercially

Available Equipment," AFIPS Conference Proceedings, Fall 1967.

Menkaus, Edward J. "The many new images of microfilm," Business Automa-

tion, XIII, 10 Oct. 1966, 32-43, 58.

Skinner, Frank D. "Computer Graphics--Whare Are We?" Datamation, May

1966, 28-31.

van Dam, Andries. "Review of Computer Graphics Equipment," Advances in

Computing, Vol. VII.

ADVANCED COMPUTER GRAPHICS TECHNIQUES:

Appel, A. "The Notion of Quantitative Invisibility and the Machine Ren-

dering of Solids," IBM Research Report, RC 1775, Feb. 1967.

Conn, Richard W. "Digitized Photographs for Illustrated Computer Out-

put," AFIPS Conference Proceedings, Spring 1967, 103-106.

Hershey, A. V. "Calligraphy for Computers," U.S. Naval Weapons Labora-

tory , Dahlgren, Virginia. Technical Report No. 2102, Aug. 1967.

Kaiser, S. F. "Graphs Should be Computer Drawn," The Human Use of Com-

puting Machines. Bell Telephone Laboratories, Murray Hill, N.J.,
June 1966.

Kruskal, J. B. "Finding Hidden Structure in Complex Data," The Human

Use of Computing Machines. Bell Telephone Laboratories, Murray
Hill, N.J., June 1966

Mathews, M. V., Carol Lochbaum and Judith A. Moss. "Three Fonts of Com-
puter Drawn Letters," Communications of ACM.X, 627-30.

269
Mezei, Leslie. "SPARTA, a Procedure Oriented Programming Language for
the Manipulation of Arbitrary Line Drawings," Proceedings IFIP Con-
gress '68. In press

Miller, W. F., and Alan C. Shaw. "A Picture Calculus," Proceedings of

Conference on Emerging Concepts in Computer Graphics, University of
Illinois, Urbana, Nov. 1967. In press

Nelson, Theodore H. "Computer Indexed Film Handling," Society of Motion

Pictures and Television Engineers, Inc., 98th Technical Conference,
Nov. 1965.

Selzer, R. H. "Digital Computer Processing of X-Ray Photographs,"

National Aeronautics and Space Administration, Jet Propulsion
Laboratory, California Institute of Technology, Technical Report
No. 32-1028.

COMPUTER ART:

Mezei, Leslie. "Computers and the Visual Arts," Computers and the
Humanities, II, 1, 41-42.

Mezei, Leslie. "The Electronic Computer: A Tool for the Visual Arts,"
Proceedings, Computer Society of Canada National Conference, 1966,
108-112.

Mezei, Leslie. "Computers and the Visual Arts," in Annual Bibliography,

Computers and the Humanities, I, 4 (Mar. 1967), 154-56, and II, 4
(Mar. 1968), 168-69.

Mezei, Leslie. "Computer Art--A Bibliography," Journal of Computer

Studies in the Humanities and Verbal Behaviour, I, 1.

COMPUTER GENERATED MOVIES:

Knowlton, K. C. "A Computer Technique for Producing Animated Movies,"

AFIPS Conference Proceedings, XXV (Spring 1964), 67-86.

Miura, Takeo, Junzo Iwata and Junji Tsuda. "An application of Hybrid
Curve Generation to Cartoon Animation by Electronic Computers,"
AFIPS Conference Proceedings, XXX (May 1967), 141-48.

Noll, A, Michael. "Computer Generated Three Dimensional Movies," Com-

puters and Automation, Nov. 1965, 20-23.

MUSEUMS:

Burton, Virginia. "Computers Confront the Curator," The Metropolitan

Museum of Art Bulletin, Summer 1967, 20-23.

270
Hutchinson, Bruce G. "Simulation of Exhibit Visitor Circulation in a
Digital Computer," Computers in Design and Communication: Design and
Planning No. 2, Martin Krampen and Peter Seitz, eds., New York,
Hastings House, 139-144.

Lachenbruch, David. "Looking Ahead," TV Guide, April 13-19, 1968, 8-12.

Mezei, Leslie, and Arnold Rockman. "Canadian Information Service for

the Visual Arts," Report outlining a proposed procedure for a
feasibility study, 1967.

Mezei, Leslie. "Science in Art in Science," column in Arts/Canada,

beginning with April 1968 issue.

Rockman, Arnold. "The Great Universal Extrasensory Emporium and Display

Mart in the Old Curiosity Shop," Keynote address to Western Associa-
tion of Art Museums, Vancouver, Sept. 1967.

271
 COMPUTER GRAPHICS AS A MEDIUM OF ARTISTIC EXPRESSION

by

J.C.R. Licklider

Massachusetts Institute of Technology

This opportunity to talk with you is a pleasure -- a pleasure

mixed with awe and fear. The awe is inspired partly by you and partly

by this wonderful museum. No phrase should be uttered here that is not

at the same time wise prose and essential poetry. The fear arises from

my conviction that the computer can be and should be centrally important

to art. It is a fear that successes in supporting roles, together with

too early exposure in a difficult leading role, will spoil the computer's

chance of making its full potential contribution to art.

The main role in which the computer can serve art, I believe, is

that of a new medium of artistic expression. In the title of this paper,

I call the medium "computer graphics." "Graphics" subsumes the visual

aspect of the computer. If time were unlimited, I would be inclined to

broaden the title to include stimuli, such as sounds, appropriate to

other human sensory modalities. However, my main point can be developed

"The ideas described in this paper arose in part in connection

with the research program of Project MAC, an M.I.T. research project
sponsored by the Advanced Research Projects Agency, Department of Defense,
under Office of Naval Research Contract Nonr-4102(01). Reproduction of
this report, in whole or in part, is permitted for any purposes of the
United States Government.

273
within the context of computer graphics and visual art. The main point

is that the computer -- considered in the broad sense that includes input

and output devices and computer programs as well as the computing machine

itself -- is potentially a medium through which art can be freed of heavy

constraints that are inherent in all the media presently employed and

through which art can be brought into hitherto unrealizable interaction

with its creators and appreciators. In my assessment, that potential

is worth much more than all the inventory control and information

retrieval systems that will ever find their ways into museums, though

such systems will render valuable services and will do so relatively soon.

The fear to which I referred is due in part to my awareness that

we have in our several minds quite different images of the computer and

its capabilities and that there is danger in associating different images

with the same words. For example, one of us said a little while ago that

digital computers deal essentially with numbers and that whatever digital

computers process must first be reduced to numbers. I think it can be

said in at least equal truth that digital computers deal essentially with

discrete patterns that may represent names or pictures quite as readily

as numbers and that numerical calculation is merely one of many things

that processors of discrete patterns can do. For our purposes, it is

beside the point that the main early applications of digital computers

were numerical. It is more significant that textbooks now call them

"general symbol processors."

(For six months, without ever noticing the defect, a group I

know used a computer in which the basic "divide" instruction was miswired.

The group was not mathematically incompetent. It was doing things that

involved little or no dividing. Digital computers can do many such

things.)
 The main disparities among our images of computers, however, stem

from differences in proximity and time. By "proximity" I mean closeness

to the computer, closeness in the sense of the intimacy of interaction

with it. For many, the computer is a cold, precise machine that lives

behind a glass wall, a machine intolerant of the slightest error in the

thick decks of punched cards it receives, indifferent to the reading

habits of those to whom it presents great stacks of printout paper full

of capital letters, and on the whole best dealt with not more often than

once a day, and then through its retinue of intermediaries -- its pro-

grammers, keypunch operators, dispatchers, computer operators, and field

engineers. For some, but not yet many, on the other hand, the computer

is a responsive intellectual servant or even partner, available whenever

needed through a typewriter or graphic console beside the office desk,

1
fluent in many languages, and capable of helping with the day s chores --

the editing of a memorandum, the scheduling of a meeting, the prepara-

tion of a lantern slide -- as well as contributing to the formulation and

solution of major problems and the development and execution of grand

designs. The second concept of the computer, the interactive computer, is

the more important one in the present context.

Time is an unusually powerful variable in computer technology.

Much of the dissonance in discussions of the capabilities of computers

arises from one man's thinking in terms of what is now actually working

in his computer center while another visualizes the operation of a system

for which he has just written a "letter of intent." If you are awed at

But not yet capable -- except in a few fields for which special
programs or "scenarios" have been developed -- of communicating with
people in their natural languages.

275
all by the "population explosion," in which there is a doubling in thirty

years, or the "information explosion," in which there is a doubling in

ten or fifteen, then it may be necessary for you to remind yourself con-

tinually to "think time scale," as the jargon puts it, in planning your

adjustment to computer technology. The size of the largest memory, the

speed of the fastest computer, the number of computers in operation, and

the amount of information processing achievable per unit cost -- all have

been at least doubling every two years. Doubling in two years means

increasing thirtyfold in ten years, a thousandfold in twenty. If tech-

nology continues to advance as it has advanced throughout its short his-

tory, which it may well do, then today's dreams will be within the com-

puter's scope tomorrow, and "Ars longa, vita brevis" will take on a new

meaning. Indeed, in many areas of application, even now the limiting

factor is not the computer's ability to execute large and complex pro-

grams but the ability of men to prepare them.

Computer Programs and Programming

Computer programs are of course merely the patterns or arrange-

ments that the user imposes upon the variable parts of the hardware of

computers. Since a large computer has millions or (when its secondary

store in included) billions of variable parts, "merely" speaks of basic

nature and not of potential complexity or sophistication. Moreover,

since the pattern of the variable parts of a computer at one moment

determines the pattern -- almost always in a different pattern -- at the

next moment, the temporal course of a running program has a very differ-

ent character from the fixed pattern of a static program, that is, of the

276
same program when it is not being executed. Such facts about the nature

of computers and programs are fundamentally important to an understanding

of computers and their programs as a medium, but such facts do not, I

think, convey immediately the concepts of computer and program that

relate those entities to the world of art. I hope the following asser-

tions will communicate at least the tone of my feeling about the per-

tinence.

1. Although there is not a sharp, fixed line of demarcation

2
between computer hardware and computer software (program), the

boundary is clear enough to warrant the assertion that it is com-

puter programs and programming toward which the artists' attention

should move in the coming years.

2. Computer programs constitute the only medium for modeling,

construction, or expression that has all these characteristics:

a. Capacity to accept and retain as much detail, as much com-

plexity, as much generality, and as much sophistication of

organization as one is able to give it -- or as little as he

likes.

b. Amenability to alteration at one level of organization with-

out revision at other levels. (For example, one can move a tree

without repainting its individual leaves.)

c. Abstraction (inherent in a and b but worth separate mention)

from whatever characteristics or commitments one wishes to leave

unspecified.

2
What is an arrangement of variable parts (a program) in one com-
puter can be frozen into an arrangement of fixed parts in another (more
complex) computer. Moreover, the dichotomy of "fixed" and "variable"
breaks down into "fixed" plus several degrees of variability.
277
 d. Existence in two forms, static and dynamic, the latter flow-
3
ing from the former.

e. Amenability to intervention, alteration, influence, or control

by an external agent while "running" in the dynamic form. The

external agent may of course be a person at a console.

3. Although important steps are being made to develop a "theory of

computation" in the spirit of logic and mathematics, the preparation

of computer programs is much more an art than a science, and com-

puter programs themselves would surely be called art forms rather

than engineering structures by anyone so old-fashioned as to main-

tain the distinction. Indeed, "programmers' programmers" are

artists; some of the programs they write are beautiful; and some of

their would-be supervisors believe that the main functions of pro-

grammers are to satisfy their own creative impulses and to challenge

the existing order.

4. Computer programming can be a creative, a strongly affective,

and a highly rewarding experience. Among my colleagues who do their

programming in direct communication with the computers -- in what is

called the "conversational mode" or "interactive mode" -- there is a

feeling that anyone who does not get two or three hours a day at the

console is being intellectually deprived and emotionally retarded.

Moreover, it is fun to learn to program, especially if you can learn

3
A motion picture film has the two forms. One can examine it
either frame by frame or as a motion picture. However, the static form
of the film is necessarily comprised of all the individual frames. The
essential static form of a computer program is just one frame, ordinarily
the first. It defines the initial state of the computer; the initial
state determines the second; the second, the third; and so on unless or
until the computer stops or an external agent intervenes.

278
 in interaction with a good program that not only teaches but helps

you explore and experiment. There are as yet only two or three such

programs in operation, but more are on the way.

5. Just as everyone (and that includes everyone in the world of

computers) who is intellectually and emotionally alive should have

an educated appreciation of the arts, everyone (and that includes

everyone in the world of art) who is intellectually and emotionally

alive should have an educated appreciation of computers. But the

situation is not as symmetrical as the preceding sentence may imply,

for -- according to the thesis of this talk -- the computer will be

a medium of artistic expression, and not conversely. I think it

will be necessary for many creators and purveyors of art to write

programs and to think in terms of programming concepts, whereas, so

far as I know, no one thinks programmers need experience in ateliers

as well as in museums. But now review assertion 4: it is easy and

it is fun to learn to program. Let each of you who is a profes-

sional of art devote as much time to programming as has been devoted

to art by the average one of us who are professionals of the com-

puter, and all of you will be good programmers, most of you will be

creative programmers, and some of you will be changing the direc-

tions of your careers.

Computer Graphics

Computer programs are, I have been saying, the ideal medium for

the construction, exploration, and representation of ideas. Computer

graphics, let me now say, is what can transform the ideas from inacces-

sible abstractions to concrete, visible manifestations with which people

279
can directly interact. Without programs, computer graphics cannot exist.

Without graphics, computer programs cannot have the direct appeal to per-

ception and the interactive character that are essential to artistic (and

indeed to many other) applications. We must therefore think about pro-

grams and graphics together.

Leslie Mezei has presented a scholarly survey of accomplishments

in the generation of artistic designs by or with the aid of computers,

and his paper and others have provided a good introduction to computer

graphics. All I need do to relate that introduction to this discussion

is ask you to visualize an advanced present-day graphical console and

then to join me in making a few extensions and projections.

The main components of the favorite graphical console are a

cathode-ray display, a light pen, a set of "function keys," and a type-

writer.

Under the control of its programs, in a few microseconds, the

computer can make a bright dot at any point on the cathode-ray screen.

Instead of a dot, it can, in about ten microseconds, make at any location

on the screen any one of about a hundred prespecified patterns -- which

are ordinarily selected to include straight-line segments, letters,

numerals, and punctuation marks, but which could just as well be, for

instance, various shapes, sizes and orientations of "brush strokes."

Because it can make its elementary marks in microseconds and the persis-

tence of human vision (supplemented, if desired, by the persistence of

the display screen) holds each mark for centiseconds (or longer), the com-

puter can in effect display many marks simultaneously. It can display

the same marks over and over in the same locations to make a still pic-

ture, or it can gradually change the marks and/or their locations to make
280
a moving picture, or it can flood the eye with continually new and uncor-

rected patterns at such a rate that perception, overloaded, falls back

upon the statistical mode of appreciation that sees "snow" when the tele-

vision set is turned on but not tuned to an active channel.

If the light pen is touching or nearly touching the display

screen, the computer can tell in a fraction of a microsecond whether or

not the pen is pointing at the cathode-ray beam that illuminates the

the screen. Since the computer is controlling the beam, it "knows" where

the pen is whenever the pen "sees" light. With the pen, therefore, one

can call the computer's attention to any part of a displayed pattern.

And with the aid of programs that "track" the pen point as it moves

across the screen and "remember where the point has been, one can print

or write or draw on the screen -- and the computer will retain the corres-

ponding pattern in its memory.

The function keys and the typewriter keys merely send identifying

codes to the computer, and, upon receipt of the codes, the computer pro-

grams adjust themselves or initiate external actions according to self-

contained procedures. Ordinarily the programs are so arranged that, when

the computer receives the code for "a," the computer causes the typing

mechanism to print an "a," and so on. One can therefore type "normally"

on the typewriter and leave the message typed in the computer's memory.

But that is only one of many ways to use the typewriter. Press a func-

tion key to change the mode (that is, a parameter of the programs in the

computer's memory) and, for example, hitting typewriter keys "m," "m,"

and "a" will cause the computer to type "Metropolitan Museum of Art." In

short, however, the function keys and the typewriter keys are just con-

venient "controls" through which one can tell the computer what to do.
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 You have seen computer-generated patterns, and, whatever your

assessment of their artistic quality, you have probably been impressed

unfavorably by their obvious technical limitations: lack of resolution,

lack of color, restricted repertoire of "brush strokes," and so on. I

recognize the discrepancy between my claims of promise and the facts of

the display technology presently available to would-be computer artists.

Two sets of facts sustain my confidence. One is the set alluded to in

the introduction: computer technology advances very rapidly. Unfor-

tunately, graphical displays -- and indeed equipment for man-computer

interaction generally -- did not come into the focus of the computer

technologists' attention until three or four years ago, and they have

therefore not had the benefit of the intensive development over two and

a half decades that has brought central processors to a state that

elicits awe rather than apology. However, computer graphics is now

"in," and it is riding up on technology's exponential escalator. So let

me ask you to look at today's computer art through a lens that augments

by a few of the powers of two mentioned earlier. The other set of facts

that sustains my confidence stems from current research in computer

graphics. I shall describe some of those facts shortly. For a moment,

however, let us examine a little more closely the present state of com-

mercially available computer-graphics equipment.

Typical computer-driven cathode-ray displays are programmed in

terms of a matrix of about 1000 x 1000 points. When the beam is posi-

tioned at one such point, it produces a circular spot of light, the

brightness of which falls off gradually with distance from its center,

and which overlaps a few of the neighboring points in the 1000 x 1000

grid. Thus a typical present-day computer-driven display cannot "paint"

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as many as 1000 x 1000 separated and distinct dots. However, an advanced

graphics system that I know (one manufactured by a small company in Tech-

nology Square, Cambridge, and coincidentally just one floor's thickness

from my office) does display a 1000 x 1000 grid of points without overlap,

and it permits one to program in terms of about 8000 x 8000 center-point

locations. Because we shall need it in the next paragraph, let us select

the more advanced system as a basis for measuring present-day computer-

graphic capability: 1,000,000 separate and distinct dots and 64,000,000

separately programmable locations.

The "discretist" nature of the display just described suggests

comparison with a pointillist painting. A year or two ago, I counted

pigment points in an area of the largest Seurat painting I could find,

his "Le Grand Jatte" at the Chicago Art Institute. My recollection is

that there were about 11 pigment points per linear inch in a painting

perhaps 6 feet by 10 feet. That would make the total number of points

come to about 11 x 12 x 6 x 11 x 12 x 10, which is just 1,045,440, and so

near to the even million of our capability measure that it must arise
4
from a convenient rather than an accurate memory. Of course, Seurat was

not constrained to place his points precisely in a rectangular grid, but

note that the computer display, with its 64 million possible center

points, offers 64 different possible locations for each of its million

%7hat I have for the sake of simplicity been calling "1000 x

1000" is actually 1024 x 1024. The figure 1024 is 210; it stems from the
binary representation of information used in almost all digital computers,
1024 x 1024 = 1,048,576. That makes the too-close coincidence even
closer. So let me take another tack. At 200 lines per inch, a 5-inch-
square silk screen print can retain much of the artistic quality of the
original -- even, amazingly, of a pointillist original, but let me not
get into that -- and such a print can be matched in resolution by the
1000 x 1000-point display.

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"separate and distinct" dots. I doubt that Seurat's hand was steady

enough to split a hair more finely. Similar analyses could be made of

other aspects of present-day computer-graphics technology. They would

show, I think, that in each individual aspect today's very best does not

fall far short of meeting the demands of serious art. However, one can-

not find all the best capabilities combined in one available system, and

my hopes are therefore forced to rely to a considerable extent upon the

rapid advance of the technology -- about which there is yet one more

thing that I must mention. It advances fastest in directions in which

there is demand backed by money. That fact may have some bearing upon

the time scale of the computer's contribution to art.

Removing Some Constraints

As computers are adapted for use in one field of application,

techniques are developed that make it possible to start using computers

in another field. Then, as the requirements of the new field become

understood, the borrowed techniques are modified and more appropriate

ones are invented. It is important to bear in mind that when we discuss

the application of existing computer techniques to art we are talking

about borrowed shoes, and borrowed shoes rarely fit well enough to wear

on a long journey. Nevertheless, some advances are being made that are

shaping computer graphics at least roughly to the requirements of a

medium of artistic expression.

The first requirement, doubtless, is a display that is bigger

and brighter and better than a conventional cathode-ray tube -- probably

one that will hold its image until the computer wants to erase or modify

it. Such a display would be useful in several established fields, and --

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although the c o n v e n t i o n a l c a t h o d e - r a y tube i s enjoying an u n u s u a l l y long

t e c h n o l o g i c a l l i f e - - t h e r e i s some evidence of p r o g r e s s toward s u p e r i o r

displays. I s h a l l merely mention two approaches: (1) the plasma d i s p l a y

t o be d e s c r i b e d l a t e r in t h i s conference by Donald B i t z e r and (2) a non-

c o n v e n t i o n a l c a t h o d e - r a y d e v i c e , under development a t the Hughes Research

Laboratory a t Malibu, t h a t i n h e r e n t l y h o l d s i t s image b u t permits s e l e c -

t i v e e r a s u r e of any p a r t . In any e v e n t , one of t h e s e y e a r s someone w i l l

succeed in developing a l a r g e , t h i n s h e e t of inexpensive m a t e r i a l on

which computers can q u i c k l y p a i n t - - and e r a s e and r e p a i n t or p a i n t over

-- clear, bright, sharp, precise designs.

Meanwhile, people adapt the cathode r a y . At the System Develop-

ment L a b o r a t o r y , for example, t h e r e i s a r e a r - p r o j e c t i o n c a t h o d e - r a y d i s -

p l a y t h a t p r e s e n t s the computer-generated image on a l a r g e , t h i n , trans-

lucent screen. Lantern s l i d e s , s e l e c t e d by the computer, a r e p r o j e c t e d

upon the same s c r e e n . When the viewer makes marks on the screen with a

s t y l u s ( s i m i l a r in function b u t not in t e c h n i c a l p r i n c i p l e to a l i g h t

p e n ) , the computer s e n s e s , remembers, and d i s p l a y s them.

Although most computer-generated d i s p l a y s a r e l i m i t e d t o " l i n e a r

g r a p h i c s " - - p o i n t s , s t r a i g h t l i n e s , simple curves - - computers a r e

q u i t e capable of p r o c e s s i n g and d i s p l a y i n g h a l f t o n e - l i k e p i c t u r e s w i t h

f i l l e d a r e a s and g r a d a t i o n s of b r i g h t n e s s . Thomas Stockham has r e c e n t l y

demonstrated remarkable e f f e c t s in c l a r i f i c a t i o n and s c h e m a t i z a t i o n of

such p i c t u r e s through computer p r o c e s s i n g . Some of h i s schematized p i c -

t u r e s have a d e f i n i t e l y a r t i s t i c q u a l i t y . The t r o u b l e w i t h the computer's

h a n d l i n g of h a l f t o n e - l i k e p i c t u r e s i s t h a t the computer has been so slow

and i n e f f i c i e n t . At the U n i v e r s i t y of Utah, however, David Evans, John

Warnock, and t h e i r c o l l e a g u e s have been working on the problem, and they

285
have succeeded in increasing dramatically the speed and efficiency of

halftone-like display of complex three-dimensional objects or situations

-- as seen from any point of view.

You may have been concerned, during my discussion of resolution,

that there would be no purpose to pointillism without color. But there

are, of course, color cathode-ray displays -- widely used in television

-- and there are indeed computer-driven color cathode-ray displays.

Charlton Walter had one in his laboratory at the Air Force Cambridge

Research Center six or seven years ago, and now there are several such

displays in operation. The color display that is most beautiful, however,

is based not upon the three-beam television-style cathode-ray tube but on

the old sectored-disk principle that lost the color-television competi-

tion. I do not vouch for its practicality, but I do vouch for the strik-

ing quality of its color. In his laboratory at Harvard, which to the

regret of the Cambridge computer community he has now deserted for Utah,

Ivan Sutherland demonstrated a color display system in which the viewer

looked at the display screen through glasses -- actually a rather heavy

binocular lorgnette -- in which disks with red, yellow, and blue sectors

rotated in synchrony with the display. (The glasses sent timing signals

to the computer, and it presented the red, yellow, and blue parts of the

picture at the proper times.) As I say, the colors were beautiful and

the effect was dramatic.

In one of Sutherland's whirling lorgnettes, the colored sectors

were separated by opaque sectors, and the sectors were arranged binocu-

larly in such a way that a colored sector was before one eye while an

opaque sector blocked the view of the other. With that arrangement, the

286
computer could present two different but correlated ("stereo") pictures

to the two eyes. The result was colored 3D -- and very striking.

Of the two main ways of creating three-dimensional effects in

perception, stereo is the better known and the "kinetic depth effect"

(Köhler and Wallach) is the stronger. One gets pure kinetic depth

effect when, with one eye closed, he walks around an object (or manipu-

lates it) and sees it from a continuously changing angle. Bert Green

demonstrated computer-generated kinetic depth effects about ten years ago,

and the technique has been used in a variety of applications since that

time.

Recently, Ivan Sutherland developed a technique -- a modern ver-

sion of the ruse made famous by Potemkin -- that couples the computer-

generated kinetic depth effect to the position and orientation of the

viewer's head. A sensing device attached to the observer measures those

quantities at frequent intervals and sends the data to the computer. In

the computer's memory is a programmed representation or model of an

actual or hypothetical situation. The viewer moves about, as it were,

in the modeled situation, and the computer displays to him what he would

see from his continually changing point of view if the modeled situation

were real. The image is projected into one of the viewer's eyes from a

small cathode-ray tube mounted on the viewer's head. The viewer sees a

virtual image, out in front of him, and -- as I say -- if he turns his

head, the image changes at once into what, in the modeled situation, lies

in the new direction of regard. By always displaying what the viewer is

looking at, Sutherland (or his computer) creates the impression that it

is all there all the time.

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 In my assessment, Sutherland's demonstration, although limited in

many ways, is a step that takes us into a new world. It does so not

because it creates a whole situation by displaying each moment only a

cleverly selected part, but because the laws of this new world are the

laws the modeler programs into it. The effects that can be created are

thus constrained by limitations of the programmer's imagination rather

than by the way things actually are on this still mainly Euclidian-

Newtonian earth.

Unfortunately, some of the technical considerations alluded to

earlier also limit what can now be done with Sutherland's technique.

The computer cannot display fast enough to present a complex, detailed

scene in the moment of the turning of a head. One would of course like

to have the effect coupled to the eye as well as the head and to have

color and stereo as well as kinetic depth. And I should like, espe-

cially, to make an old daydream come true: to live in a world of four

or more clearly perceptible spatial dimensions.

The way to realize the dream is opened by Sutherland's technique.

(McCulloch and MacKaye have discussed an approach based on stereo cine-

matography, but filmed stimuli cannot react to the viewer's responses,

and interaction -- which Sutherland's technique fosters -- seems essen-

tial to the development of the experience.) The basic idea flows from

the realization that we have three-dimensional (that is, three-spatial-

dimensional) perceptions despite the fact that the stimulus patterns on

our retinas are actually only two-dimensional projections of the scenes

at which we are looking. When one looks with two eyes, there are of

course two such two-dimensional patterns. They are correlated with one

another because they are different perspective projections of the same

288
scene. And when he moves or objects move in the scene before him, the
two patterns change progressively, always maintaining the perspective
correlation. The reason he sees a three-dimensional scene is not that
the scene _is three-dimensional, for an i l l u s i o n maker who understands the
correlations can make him see in 3D when what he is looking at is r e a l l y
two f l a t p a t t e r n s . The reason he sees a three-dimensional scene is not
that the scene jLs three-dimensional, for an illusion maker who under-
stands the correlations can make him see in 3D when what he is looking
at is r e a l l y two f l a t p a t t e r n s . The reason he sees a three-dimensional
scene is that i t is the most plausible hypothesis, as judged by his per-
ceptual inference-drawing system, that accords well with the sensory
facts.

To make a person perceive d i r e c t l y in four s p a t i a l dimensions,

therefore, we should set up a situation in which the most plausible
hypothesis is that the person is looking at a four-dimensional scene and
in which his perceptual inference-drawing system will learn about four-
dimensional hypotheses. I am afraid that the learning w i l l require a
long time, but a positive r e s u l t would be worth i t . Think of being the
f i r s t person ever to perceive d i r e c t l y in more than three dimensions!

The s i t u a t i o n I have in mind (and s h a l l try to program by the

time the hardware technology makes the experiment feasible) is a four-
dimensional space, full of obstacles, in which the subject can fly a
four-dimensional airplane. Two carefully selected two-dimensional projec-
tions of the view from his cockpit will be formed as images upon his
retinas. Every time he f l i e s a mile without accident, he w i l l be
rewarded. Every time he h i t s an obstacle, he w i l l receive an e l e c t r i c

shock. The d i f f i c u l t y of the course and the levels of reward and shock
289
will be adjusted to the subject's capability in such a way as to keep him

happy and eager. After a few minutes -- or hours or days or weeks or

months or years -- he will be seeing in 4D. The transition from 3D to 4D

will not come suddenly. At first there will be only glimmers or patches

of some new experience that makes the task easier. Toward the end there

will be only occasional relapse into the old way of seeing. Or at any

rate, so I believe. And, as I say, I should like to be the first student

pilot, and I am quite sure that technology will advance fast enough to

let me be.

The thought of going on to five and more dimensions evokes the

story of the mathematics professor who was lecturing on multidimensional

spaces. "Imagine," he said to his class, "a 49-dimensional space." Sev-

eral hands went up immediately, and there was complaint that such a thing

could not be imagined. "Well then," said the professor, "it will suf-

fice for present purposes to imagine a 25-dimensional space, 25 being

also the square of a prime number. . . . "

To go back to three spatial dimensions may or may not be to

return to "reality." It seems both real and unreal when one "sculpts"

with a "Roberts wand." Before he took leave from the Lincoln Laboratory

to be a pioneer of interactive computer networks for the Advanced

Research Projects Agency of the Department of Defense, Lawrence Roberts

was a pioneer of three-dimensional computer graphics, and one of his

contributions was a scheme through which the computer could sense the

three spatial coordinates of the tip of a wand held in the hand of a

viewer seated at a cathode-ray display. With the display operating in a

three-dimensional mode (for example, front, side, and plan or isometric

290
projection), the viewer ("sculptor") could create a solid figure by trac-

ing its imaginary edges in the air in front of him. Roberts did not

develop his actual device to permit the carving of curved solids, but he

and others worked out promising techniques for the definition, manipula-

tion, and display of very general complex curves, and one can say that

all the component techniques exist that are required to create sculpture

on a computer display and in a computer memory. In computer sculpture,

mistakes will be erasable.

In the three-dimensional model in the computer's memory, the

return to reality can be suspended, whereupon it is suspended in the

display. Gravitational force may follow an inverse cube law, mass may

depend upon velocity in a way that neither Fitzgerald nor Lorentz nor

Einstein would have condoned, and pendulums may oscillate more frequently

as their lengths increase. The laws of the model's nature have to be

logically and mathematically consistent with one another, but not with

physics.

What effect will such a removal of constraints as I have been

suggesting have upon the arts? It is evident that every art must be

pursued within some system of constraints, and it is evident that the

course of every art involves a struggle against its constraining system

- - a breaking down of the constraints and a corresponding opening of the

art until the rules of the game are gone and the game is gone with them.

Then there is reformulation, redefinition: evolution of new rules, new

constraints, a new art. If what I say is evident is true, then artificial

constraints will have to be invented to replace the ones that computer

technology will remove. It is easy to invent artificial systems. It

will be easy to define many new arts. Most of them will fail at once.
291
Some will run the course of fads. Perhaps several will survive long

enough to develop schools, followings, and traditions. But whatever the

exact shape of the events, I believe that a major part of the future of

art must surely develop in close association with the computer, for --

as I shall try to convince you next -- it is the medium that can bring

objects of art into intimate interaction with people.

Interactive Art

The strongest force in the world of the computer, I am sure, is

the attracting, motivating force of interaction. By interaction, I mean

simply the interplay, the communication, the reciprocal stimulation that

goes on between two or more reactive organisms. In the present context,

the organisms are the person(s) at the console, on the one hand, and the

programmed computer(s), on the other. The compelling force of interac-

tion among people is of course so familiar that it is truly appreciated

only by prisoners in solitary confinement. The compelling force of inter-

action between people and computers is not yet widely known, but it is no

less strong for being discovered late. (Nuclear force, also, was unknown

to man until rather recently.)

Where there are facilities for man-computer interaction, one can

observe phenomena that attest to the strength of the force of which I am

speaking. Students neglect not only their courses but their girl friends

and stay up all night with the computer. Professors show up a little

late with sheaves of pinhole-feed typewriter paper instead of lecture

notes, and boast of their "debugging" adventures instead of giving their

lectures. A homework project in Civil Engineering now entails interactive

computer simulation of the whole process of planning, laying out, grading,

292
and constructing a hundred miles of interstate highway, whereas a few

years ago it was limited to cut-and-fill calculations on a desk calcula-

tor for one petal of a single cloverleaf intersection. Research staff

members (at the RAND Corporation where the small but beautiful JOSS was

developed) call on-line access to a computer their "most important fringe

benefit." And so on. But the best way to understand man-computer inter-

action is to become involved in it. On two occasions, once back in 1962

and once last year, I was hooked so strongly that only a complete fore-

swearing of the computer could rescue me and salvage my other affairs.

In two senses, the arts have always been interactive. As it is

being created, a work of art responds to the artist, and he to it, each

influencing the other. According to my use of the term, that is true

interaction. When it is experienced by another person, the work of art

influences him and changes his perception -- and, if one can say that he

responds to his perception of the work rather than to work itself, the

perceptual alteration influences the perceived work of art, which then

influences him further and further changes his perception. But all the

change actually takes place in the appreciator; the work itself is not

actually affected. At best it is a weak kind of interaction. In my

analysis, the difference between the artist's and the appreciator's

interactions with the work is crucial. It accounts in large part, I

believe, for the fact that most artists are intensely dedicated to their

arts whereas most nonartists are indifferent. It is the difference

between living and observing. It is crucial not only to art but also to

Johnniac Open-Shop System, one of the first and most influential

interactive multi-access computer systems, named in honor of John von
Neumann.

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education and to retaining sanity in modern civilization, which more and

more substitutes observation for participation. I do not mean to say that

there can be no real involvement without true interaction. I do not mean

to say that true interaction is always an energizing, vitalizing experi-

ence. But I do assert that interaction is an extremely strong factor in

the motivation of people, and I am sure that, in the world of art, inter-

action will dominate all such factors as resolution, color, dimensionality,

and sense modality.

If my belief in the strength of the force of interaction is even

fractionally valid, then it must follow that the most important things

computers can do for the arts are to enhance the interaction between the

artist and his work and to introduce true interaction into the relation

between the appreciator and the artist's product. Because the artist

already has so much going for him, and because the introduction of true

interaction into the appreciation will have the greater impact upon the

nature of the museums with which many of you are vitally concerned, I

shall conclude with a brief discussion of possibilities in the domain of

what might be called "interactive appreciation." Note, however, that as

soon as the appreciator is allowed the pleasure of participation, he

becomes an artist -- and the role of the person I have been calling the

artist -- the (initial) creator of the work of art -- changes. Both he

and the purveyor of art (for example, the curator of a collection) are

offered the responsibility of arranging interactive experiences for the

person I have been calling the appreciator.

c
Something along this line has been happening for several years,
of course, particularly in connection with the development of nontradi-
tional art forms.

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 A weak but interesting form of interactive art is "adaptive art,"

that is, art that adapts to its appreciator's ability to appreciate.

That ability, one hopes, increases with experience. Adaptive art would

increase its challenge in proportion to the growing ability. It would

solve the age-old problem of selecting the correct level of sophistica-

tion -- the problem of missing your audience completely if the work you

present is complex and losing your audience immediately if the work you

present is simple. From the appreciator's point of view, perhaps it is

less a problem than a familiar fact. When an underchallenging painting

or a print is first hung on the living room wall, everyone in the family

looks at it. It attracts repeated examination and figures in conversa-

tion for several days or weeks, but then it gradually fades into the wall

until it is actually seen, actually perceived, only when it is called to

attention by an unsatiated visitor or by some topical coincidence. Over-

challenging paintings are rarely hung on living room walls.

An adaptive painting would change a little each time you examined

it. It might be programmed to grow more complex in structure. It might

be programmed to grow more abstract. Imagine, for example, a "Mont

Sainte-Victoire" programmed to recapitulate in a month or a year

Cezanne's long development of understanding and the progressively increas-

ing abstraction of his conception of his most enduring model. I think

that such a painting would hold its interest -- indeed that it would

motivate a strong involvement on the part of each member of the family

in a germinal episode of the history of art.

Of course, one could simply buy a lot of Cezanne prints and put

up a new one whenever the old one started to die out of conversation, but

that technique would either tax the picture-hanging power or limit the
295
repertoire of a family caught up in appreciation of adaptive art. Should

not Cezanne's developing abstraction on the south wall be paralleled by

Turner's on the east?

But recapitulation would not be the main thrust of adaptive art.

The main thrust would be the development of a new art form. All the

parameters of the painting's adaptive program would lie before the

painter like the colors of his palette, and it would be his challenge to

use them well. He would program the responses of his work to feedback

from the viewer, while aiming to involve the viewer ever deeper in

exploration of the painting.

But does anyone have time to examine carefully all his paintings

twice a day? My answer is "yes." Many people do, and more and more

people will have such time to spare, for leisure hours are increasing in

number, and some such development as I am envisioning will be required

to save our civilization from the mass hypnotism of broadcast television.

Several years ago Marvin Minsky prepared a program that illus-

trated in a simple but germinal way the idea of interacting with a com-

puter-generated design. The program caused a bright dot to move about on

the screen of a cathode-ray tube, leaving behind a bright trace like the

flame of a whirling, swerving rocket. The trail was of constant duration

rather than constant length, and, if the dot moved very fast, the trail

filled the screen with an intricate lacework. The program, which Minsky

called "Tripos," was only eighteen instructions long, if I recall cor-

rectly. However, each cycle of operation set up new conditions for the

next, and given certain initial conditions the design did not begin to

repeat itself -- or would not have begun, even if it had been allowed to

run continually for months or years. The program took its initial
296
conditions from a set of 18 two-position switches on the console. Some

patterns of the switches yielded interesting, even beautiful, designs.

Others yielded uninteresting, unattractive ones.

With eighteen binary switches, one has more than a quarter of a

million different initial conditions from which to select. There was no

possibility, therefore, of testing them exhaustively. One had to have at

least some kind of hypothesis as to what made attractive designs. Mem-

bers of the laboratory and visitors -- Tripos was more interesting to

visitors than to any of the "serious" researchers -- vied with one

another to make the "best" designs, and theories of the effect occupied

many luncheon conversations. Finally, Tripos had to be banned to free

computer time for paying projects.

We almost tried to make Tripos pay its way. The idea for making

it do so involved using it as a computer exhibit at the Seattle World's

Fair. We would write an auxilliary program to set the switches, a pro-

gram that would operate in terms of hypotheses -- one hypothesis at a

time, but with several alternative hypotheses available to it, each one

having one or two parameters. We would set up the computer (a very small

one) at the fair and put the display screen -- a big one -- in a place

where a crowd could gather to watch it. The floor would be the platform

of a very large scale (a truck-weighing scale, we thought), and the

weight of the assembled viewers would be fed back to the computer as a

measure of the attractiveness of the designs recently displayed. Each of

us could then try out his pet hypotheses objectively, and the computer

manufacturer would pay our company for drawing to his exhibit the largest

crowd at the fair. Unfortunately, however, the computer manufacturer

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(not, of course, the one associated with this meeting) failed to seize

the opportunity to be the prime patron of interactive art.

It is a long projection from Tripos to a Metropolitan Museum full

of computer-driven reactive environments, but this is an age in which

projections have to be long to avoid prepublication obsolescence. At any

rate, one can imagine an interactive art museum without placing a firm

order for consoles and a computer.

One part of the museum is' devoted to individual interactors.

They are called "soloists." Each solo console provides "display" equip-

ment for projecting light patterns onto retinas, developing controlled

pressure wave forms at eardrums, and perhaps applying vibrations, tex-

tures, and other forms of stimulation that I said I would not get into.

Among the "controls" are a stylus, a "bowling ball," a joystick, a

Roberts wand, and of course the sensors that provide the computer with

information about the position and orientation of the interactor. The

console communicates with the computer, of course, and the computer's

secondary or tertiary store contains not only all the programs that con-
Q

stitute the works of art in the museum's collection but also data about

the artistic history of each interactor.

As soon as a particular individual identifies himself at a con-

sole, the stored values of his various parameters are made available to

It is established practice in the rapidly advancing technologies

-- evidently because the future so soon becomes the present -- to use the
present indicative as a substitute for the future subjunctive.
Q
Computer programs can be copied more readily than concrete works
of art, and a copy of a computer program is absolutely undistinguishable
from the original. Any number of collections can therefore include the
same work. It may be difficult for the art world to adjust to this fact.

298
 9
the programs with which he may wish to interact. Each painting, each

piece of sculpture, each responsive environment that he calls for (or

that the advisory program suggests to him) is thus at once especially

attuned to his preferences, his capabilities, his anthropometric measure-

ments, and so on.

The range of activities engaged in by interactors is so broad

that there is no possibility of presenting a typical scenario. One man

spends every Tuesday afternoon trying to achieve an effect recognizable

as counterpoint by synchronizing a new light-artist's visual phenomena

with Mozart's melodies. Another simply explores the parameter spaces of

his favorite reactive environments (which happen to have been generated

by a program rather than an artist, but of course an artist created the

environment-generating program). A third, a serious student of four-

dimensional sculpture, carefully explores each new accession the very

hour it is "put on the air" and compares it with other works to which it

bears significant relation. (As this man explores, he creates a "supra-

program" that constitutes his contribution to the artistic enjoyment of

others. The supra-program presents a selected set of work-of-art pro-

grams in a carefully arranged sequence and offers commentary helpful to

less advanced students.) A fourth soloist is a student artist. The pro-

grams that he selects are mainly instructional programs that present prob-

lem situations, monitor his constructive solutions, and give criticism

9
If the individual is a newcomer, he communicates first with a
special "welcoming" program that explains the ground rules, explores his
tastes and abilities, and sets up initial values for the essential para-
meters. If the newcomer has a file at another museum, the welcoming
program of course asks permission to obtain it and, if permission is
granted, acquires the file forthwith through the museum network,

299
and advice. And so on and on, with each individual personality develop-

ing and expressing itself in its own way. Do not let the tenor of my

suggestions constrain your imagination.

In the part of the museum devoted to group interactions, there

are two kinds of interaction stations. One is merely an arrangement of

solo consoles that lets the members of a party face one another around a

cocktail table, all but incidental interactions among the members of the

party being effected through the computer. The other combines an actual,

physical framework or setting -- for example, a room full of manipulable

objects -- with interactive computer-program control. The latter

arrangement is attractive to groups of people who have not had much

experience together in interacting with art, for they find that the

"real" framework facilitates their entrance into the group experience.

The interactive museum is also a studio, a school, and a

library. Many artists find the museum's facilities superior to the

facilities they can afford individually. The school is a composite of

ideas already suggested and ideas from the field of computer-aided teach-

ing and learning. The library is a development of the Project INTREX

theme, specialized for art instead of science and engineering. But I

shall not tax your patience by trying now to develop these three projec-

tions.

The consoles, not the computers. The museum's computer may not
be physically in the museum, and in any event any professional artist
could have his studio console connected to the museum's computer through
a coaxial cable.

A research project at M.I.T. See C. F. J. Overhage and R. J.

Harmon, eds., INTREX: Report of a Planning Conference on Information
Transfer Experiments, The M.I.T. Press, Cambridge, 1965.

300
 The Time Scale

Are the notions I have been suggesting mere fantasy? Are they

plausible projections, but into some far distant future? Or are they

possibilities of this generation or decade?

Mere fantasy I have tried to avoid. I think all the suggestions

I have made are plausible and possible. The question of proximity or

remoteness in time depends mainly on you. I think there could be an

interactive art museum in 1980 if creators and purveyors of art set out

with determination to build one and program it. There are many computer

people who would gladly help, but they cannot reasonably take the lead.

If there were an interactive art museum in 1980, appreciators of art

would overwhelm it, but appreciators cannot be expected to demand the

creation of a thing they have no experiential basis for imagining. That

leaves museum people, art-producing artists, and whatever governmental

agency it will turn out to be that will bear to the coming crisis of

leisure the relation that the WPA bore to the great depression. Waiting

for such an agency would delay things distressingly. My wish is that at

least one of the first two groups will seize upon the idea of interaction

and develop it in the context of art and in the interest of the enrich-

ment of human life.

If my wish is granted, then -- to reaffirm my specific answer to

the question of time scale -- I think we can beat George Orwell by about

four years.

301
 Discussion following paper by J. C. R. Licklider

Mrs. Lourie: You talk about narrowing the gap between the appre-

ciating artist and the generating artist. Are you really emphasizing the

process of selection in creativity and the definition of creativity?

Mr. Licklider: No, I don't mean that. There is a formal sense

in which creating something, no matter how complex and out of the ordin-

ary, is only selecting that thing from an almost infinite set of things.

But I wasn't aiming to stress that at all.

Consider the productive, generative, creative acts. The artist

is in art because it gives him the opportunity to engage in that activity,

which is tremendously reinforcing, exciting, and pleasant. The viewer

has some opportunity to do that with art, as we know it, but much less, I

think, than the artist. That is why everyone in this world enjoys con-

versation with another person, but only three or four or five per cent

really come to look at paintings or any other art form.

The only interaction we have in art is really the interaction

through projection, and one gets that more in the performing arts than in

the visual arts. This interactive character will dominate the kinetic

effect, it will dominate color, it will dominate 3 D. It will dominate

everything else. It's the most important thing in human behavior, and

now there can be more of it in art - - o r over the years there will be.

302
computerized museum networks M
 COMPUTERIZED MUSEUM NETWORKS

Introductory remarks by chairman of session:

William D. Wilkinson

Metropolitan Museum

Although this panel on museum computer networks has the smallest

number of speakers, the topic is concerned with many of the subjects

already discussed. Indeed, some of the earlier speakers, especially

those on the Documentary Applications panel, might well have been speaking

here. Systems design and other problems presently to be discussed were

major considerations of Professors Lindsay, Green, Chenhall, and Ricciar-

delli. Messrs. Gardin and Paisley also touched upon areas of concern to

us. Perhaps some of the schemes previously discussed will ultimately have

their greatest significance when considered within the context of com-

puterized museum networks.

Here in the New York area, some of us began to consider the pos-

sibilities of a network for museum data banks at least as early as 1965,

and specific planning began as a result of a series of meetings held at

the Whitney Museum in February and March of 1967. Representatives of

fifteen leading museums and cultural institutions in the New York area

participated in these talks. Out of them developed the Museum Consortium

for a Computer Network.

The Consortium appointed a steering committee and charged it with

outlining an intensive study of the problem. As a result of grants from

305
the New York State Council on the Arts and the Old Dominion Foundation,

the steering committee was able to establish a more formal organization,

and Everett Ellin, formerly Assistant to the Director of the Solomon R.

Guggenheim Museum, was made Executive Director for the project, which now

became known as the Museum Computer Network.

The steering committee became the administrative committee, the

general executive authority to which the Executive Director is responsible.

The present administrative committee includes Allan D. Chapman of The

Museum of Primitive Art, Frederick J. Dockstader of The Museum of the

American Indian, Richard H. Koch of The Museum of Modern Art, and your

speaker. The committee was structured to represent the several functions

and disciplines within a museum, that is, the curatorial and academic,

cataloguing and registration, general administration and library. Thanks

to the cooperation and generosity of The Museum of Modern Art, we were

able to obtain office facilities there for the period of research and

study. Now halfway through its first year, the Museum Computer Network

is presently concerned with completing the study undertaken.

Since its inception, the Network has had the enthusiastic

collaboration of ^r. Jack Heller, Director of the Institute for Computer

Research in the Humanities at New York University. Dr. Heller has con-

tributed a substantial effort toward the design and development of the

computer techniques that will be required for the operation of the network

system.

Our panel will explore the broader problem and implications of a

computer network from the museum side, and also some of the technical

considerations from the point of view of the computer scientist.

306
 THE VALUE OF A COMPUTERIZED DATA BANK

AS AN ADJUNCT TO A CARD CATALOGUE

by

Jack Heller

Institute for Computer Research in the Humanities

New York University

Card catalogues for archives, libraries, museums, and other

repositories of information and objects were historically conceived to

indicate the existence, extent, and location of the holdings of institu-

tions. At the present time the more venerable institutions find that

their card catalogues are difficult to use and to maintain. These diffi-

culties are a consequence of the vast increase in the number of holdings

and a parallel growth in the demands made upon the institutions by an

ever-increasing number of users. The original card catalogues were con-

ceived and organized for use by a small group of selected individuals who

readily found their way around the relatively small mass of data describ-

ing the holdings of a single library, archive, or museum.

Such institutions have now greatly increased in size, and will

continue to do so. At the same time their materials are increasingly in

demand not only by scholars and specialists but by lay users as well.

This paper will devote itself to the consideration of a hypothetical but

realistic representative museum and demonstrate how a data-processing

system can be used as an adjunct to the museum's card catalogue in order

307
 board of
directors

director

administrative
comptroller director

curatorial
registrar department

conservation history exhibition

treasurer

administration acquisition
cataloguing answering
accounting records

FIGURE ONE ORGANIZATION CHART OF THE HYPOTHETICAL MUSEUM

to improve its usefulness and efficiency. The administrative, curatorial,

scholarly, and lay uses of such a catalogue will all be taken into account.

1. A Simple Model of a Card Catalogue. Let our hypothetical

institution be denominated the Museum of Ancient and New Sculpture, Paint-

ings, and Artifacts (MANSPA). The card catalogue, under the jurisdiction

of the registrar, has as its function the servicing of the four mentioned

groups of users. The registrar has a cataloguing and an answering section.

The card catalogue is organized in two distinct sections, the

treasurer's and the curatorial. The treasurer's section is hierarchically

organized by accession number and contains information limited to:

Accession number

Purchase price

Date of purchase

Present insurance price

Present insurer

Purchase fund information

The curatorial section is organized hierarchically under these

departments of MANSPA:

Western European Art

Near Eastern Art

Ancient Art

American Art

Prehistoric Art

The objects are classified under the name of the artist, if known,

or the accession number if the artist is unknown. In the curatorial sec-

tion index cards describing accessions will presumably contain this infor-

mation:
309
 Accession number

Artist

Title

Medium

Ex-collection history

Previous shows

Scholarly references

Comments

Condition of object

Authenticity

Slide numbers

Reproduction numbers

Photograph numbers

Iconographie information

Curatorial remarks and

Date of construction

Although there exists a vast store of complete information about

the art objects, it is, in practice, impossible or difficult to answer

many questions that might be posed by art historians, curatorial staff

members, administrators, or others. The difficulty lies in the fact that

the hierarchical organization of the card catalogue is more often than not

in direct opposition to the implied hierarchical organization of the parts

of the question.

Let us simulate a request from the museum for a list of all

northern Italian Renaissance paintings of the fifteenth century in which

there are represented a lute and a harp, or a lute or a harp. It is fur-

ther requested that these paintings be listed chronologically by year and

310
alphabetically by name of artist. Also to be included are the titles of

paintings, the accession numbers, photograph numbers, and references.

Under the present organization of MANSPA's catalogue the answering depart-

ment would have to search the cards in the catalogue section of Western

European Arts for paintings and fifteenth-century northern Italian paint-

ings. If these paintings included, as well, the representation of a lute

and/or a harp, the following information would be recorded on a 3 x 5

card:

Date of construction

Artist

Title

Accession number

Photograph numbers

References

After the Western European Art's catalogue section is searched

and the pertinent information reocrded on 3 x 5 cards, the cards must be

arranged in chronological order and for each nonunique date, in alphabeti-

cal order under the artist's name.

Two cumbersome difficulties become evident at once. One stems

from the fact that a great deal of searching has to be done because the

question implies the hierarchy of chronology followed by iconographie

information, a hierarchy not implicit in the organization of the card

catalogue. The other difficulty is inherent in the process of copying,

typing, correcting, and reproducing the list.

Yet another organization is implicit in the following information,

which might be requested by the treasurer's office:

311
 Which objects have been purchased from the ABC fund since

1949? List them by date of purchase, artist's name, date of

construction, title, and indicate in which shows, if any, the

object has been exhibited.

A request emanating from the office of the administrative director

of the museum might be:

Construct a chronological listing of all objects that were

prized possessions of British royalty. List the date of con-

struction, the title, the artist where known, the accession

number, and the size of the object.

An inquiry from a college department of art history might read:

Please list all cubist paintings to be exhibited at the

museum during the coming Christmas holiday week, and specify

for which there is a slide and/or reproduction available.

A computerized date bank containing a portion of a card catalogue

could facilitate the granting of such requests and information, and could

immeasurably reduce the tedium involved in searching, copying, and sorting.

There are available bulk-storage devices that can be attached to computers

for the storage of the textual content of a card catalogue within a mere

cubic foot of space. If the information is properly organized, all tex-

tual information for each 3 x 5 card answering the typical questions posed

above can be found and copied onto other storage devices at the rate of

better than one a second. These retrieved items of information can be

sorted in a matter of minutes and the desired information, titles, and

page numbers printed in a matter of tens of minutes. At present the only

information from the museum catalogue that cannot readily be stored on

312
devices attached to a computer are visual. However, within a decade even

visual retrieval will be possible.

2. Conversion of Textual Data into Computer Readable Form. In

order to take advantage of the power of data-processing equipment in the

searching of textual data concerning art objects and their history, it is

necessary to convert the data encompassed by the card catalogue into

computer-readable form. There are several methods of converting textual

data into computer-readable form, but I will discuss only two.

The Museum Computer Network, a group including fifteen museums

in New York City and the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C, is

beginning to convert its diverse textual data into a consistent computer-

readable form so that with the aid of data-processing equipment it will

be able to construct one master catalogue within the data-processing sys-

tem. This single computer-readable catalogue is being referred to as a

data bank. The technique is to copy information from the catalogues onto
2
work sheets (Figures 2, 3, 4, 5) that are organized into specific classes

of information. These classes are given in the left-hand column of the

work sheet. The numbers on the extreme right are used by the programs

within the data-processing computer to identify the class, for example,

author or title or credit line -- information that is filled in by the

collector of the information. Obviously, not all of the classes of infor-

mation need be filled in, for not every class of information applies to

every art object.

Director, Everett Ellin, The Museum of Modern Art, New York, N.Y.
2
Designed by David Vance of the Museum Computer Network.

313
FIGURE TWO-MUSEUM COMPUTER NETWORK DATA SHEET FOR THE DRAWING
COLLECTION OF THE WHITNEY MUSEUM OF AMERICAN ART
march 1968 page one

ACC#

Key punch Whitney Museum of American Art 2

operat or
disregard New York, N.Y. 4
this column.

3 Drawing 36

4 United States 76

5 Artist 70

6 Title

7 (cont.) 31

8 Minimum date + 82

9 Date 83

10 Maximum date + 84

11 Medium

12 (cont.) 47

13 Important
material 48

14 (cont.) 48

15 (cont,) 48

16 Size 51

17 Credit line

18 (cont.) 5

19 Donor,
lender, 12
legator
20 (cont.) 12

21 Accession # WMAA 6

22 Negative #'s 61
FIGURE THREE-MUSEUM COMPUTER NETWORK DATA SHEET FOR THE DRAWING
COLLECTION OF THE WHITNEY MUSEUM OF AMERICAN ART
march 1968 page two

ACC#

1 Special
exhibition 92

2 92

3 92

4 92

5 92

6 92

7 92

8 92

9 92

10 92

11 Award 96

12 n 96

13 Related work 98
u it
14 98

15 n u 98

16 Published
reference 94

17 94

18 94

19 94

20 94

21 94

22 94
FIGURE FOUR MUSEUM COMPUTER NETWORK DATA SHEET FOR ARTIST BIOGRAPHY
THE WHITNEY MUSEUM OF AMERICAN ART march 1968

Keypunch
1 operator Artist 200
disregard
2 this column. United States 208

3 Name 202

4 Other name 202

used

5 Minimum birth + 212

date

6 Dates of life 213

7 Maximum death
date + 214

8 Former
nationality 210

9 n H
210

1 Artist 200

2 United States 208

3 Name 202

4 Other name 202

used

5 Minimum birth + 212

date

6 Dates of life 213

7 Maximum death
date + 214

8 Former
nationality 210

210
316
FIGURE FIVE-MUSEUM COMPUTER NETWORK DATA SHEET FOR THE DRAWING
COLLECTION OF THE MUSEUM OF MODERN ART
march 1968 page one

1 The Museum of Modern Art 2

2 New York, N. Y. 4
3 Drawing 36
4 X-ref. 36
5 " 36

6 Artist Grosz, George 70

7 Nationality United States. 76

8 Museum # MOMA 4.29 6

9 Title Portrait of Anna Peter.
10 (cont.) 31

11 Min. date + 82
12 Date 83
13 Max. date + 84

14 Medium Pencil.
15 (cont.) 47
16 Material(s) Pencil. 48
17 etc. 48
18 etc. 48
19 etc. 48

20 Size Sheet 26 5/8 x 21".

21 (cont.) 51

22 Credit line Gift of Paul J. Sachs.

23 (cont.) 5
24 Donor(s) Sachs, Paul J. 12
25 etc. 12
26 etc. 12
27 Date acpt. Accepted 11-19-29.
28 PO, trans-
29 action, TR 3
30 Vendor 14
31 Restriction
32 (cont.) 7

33 Negs. & Ph. Leica 115c. Juley 544. Sunami 7566.

34 source 61

35 Status 10
317
 The work sheets are checked at the local collections point, then

taken to a central keypunch group. This group converts the textual data

into computer-readable form onto data-processing punch cards. These

punch cards can be run through the computer and a printed listing of the

contents of the cards (Figure 6) can be made for proofreading to detect

key-punch errors. During the process of listing, a data bank of this

information can be constructed and stored on a device attached to the

computer. If keypunch errors are detected, the corrections can be key-

punched and under computer control inserted into the already established

data bank (Figure 7). This procedure of inserting corrections can be

performed at any time and whenever needed.

$THE $MU3EUM OF $MODERN $ART 2-íj>NEW $YORK, $N. $Y. k-.

ipDRAWING 36-$GROSS, ipGEORGE TO- ^UNITED .^STATES 76-$$M0MA ¡+.29 6-
$ PORTRAIT OF $AMA $PETER 31~* ^PENCIL kj-* $PENCTL 1*8- $SHEET 26 5/8 X 21".
51-- $GIFT OF $PAUL $J. $SACHS. 5- $SACHS, $PAUL $J. 12-$ACCEPTED II-I9-29.
3-»$LEICA 115c. ÇJULEY 5kh. $SUNAMI 7566.-'-«

FIGURE SIX A COMPUTER PRINTOUT OF THE DATA INPUT CARDS

A second feasible method of preparing textual data for computer

input is essentially the same as that described above except that the

keypunching process is replaced by directly putting the information

into the computer through a typewriter terminal connected to the

318
 collect data
from catalogues
onto work sheets

Ï
proofread and
correct work sheets

input data into

computer data bank

print data listing

from data bank

are there errors

no
in the data bank
due to key punching?

I yes

key punch corrections

insert corrections
under computer control

£
insert data
into data bank

FIGURE SEVEN THE LOGIC BEHIND THE COLLECTION OF DATA AND

THE CONSTRUCTION OF A DATA BANK WITHIN A COMPUTER

319
computer through a data phone link. The data phone link can be con-

trolled by the computer and some checking of the input data can be per-

formed at input time.

3. Uses of a Data Bank. Although it will be feasible, even-

tually, to have all the textual data from a large card catalogue put

into computer-readable form, in the initial stages a selected portion

of the data will be introduced into a computer data bank. However, even

a partial bank is of great value and can be used as an index to the card

catalogue.

Consider, for example, the request from the college department

of art history given previously (a listing of all cubist paintings for

which there is a slide and/or reproduction available and which will be

on exhibition at the museum during the Christmas holiday). If this

information is ordered by the name of the artist followed by the rest

of the required information, the selected information in this listing

will have the same hierarchical organization as the card catalogue. Any

further information about these cubist paintings can easily be looked up

in the card catalogue, for the listing is by artist and the curatorial

sections of the card catalogue are organized under the name of the

artist. From this point of view the listings produced as an answer to a

question produce a selective index to the card catalogue as well.

There are many other possible uses of computer-based data banks

containing part or all of the textual data of a card catalogue. Statis-

tically, properties of the classes of data and the individual textual

strings of data can be counted and displayed in lexical or numerical

frequency order. For example, a count can be made of all the different

types of media represented in the data bank (Figure 8 ) . In the

320
 Frequency Dictionary - MATERIAL used, by R.G. i n h i s work in I981*

1 Ash
1* Cardboard
3 Cardboard black
1 Cardboard, red
2 Cord
1 Copper mesh
12 Copper wire
5 Gold sheet
1 Lucite
1 Maple
2 Oak
1* Oak tag
1 Pine
1 Platinum
2 Paper blue
1 Paper yellow
1 Plaster
5 Sea shell
21 Steel
2 Steel mesh
5 Steel wire
2 Rubber
1 Ruby
3 Volcanic ash
1* Wood

FIGURE EIGHT A PORTION OF A TYPICAL FREQUENCY DICTIONARY

i l l u s t r a t e d case, only the media connected with sculpture of a p a r t i c -

ular a r t i s t were included in the frequency dictionary.
Frequency dictionaries are also useful for purposes of proof-
reading. Words used but once can be checked for correctness. The fre-
quency count of words used in a card catalogue can be indicative of the
wealth and density of the museum's holdings.
Treasurer's reports can be produced once the information r e l e -
vant to purchases and funds is introduced into the data bank. Encoded

321
keys can be used to impede the extraction of confidential and restricted

material from the data bank by users who should not have access to the

material. Accounting reports of purchases can be produced and listed

under the name of the appropriate fund or by object, or by any other

class of information within the data bank.

Selective indices of the holdings of our hypothetical museum can

be produced in a matter of a day or two. These indices can be used as

checklists reflecting the holdings of the museum or the state of the

catalogue entries. Any class of item requested for the index that is

not present in the data bank will appear as a blank for each object in

the index. Sparse textual information in an index will indicate a

limited quantity of catalogue information within the data bank.

4. Visual Retrieval. If large bulk visual stores with repro-

duction capabilities can be placed under computer control, the answer-

ing techniques described above can be used to retrieve microminiaturized

images, and to produce enlargements together with the textual informa-

tion about the object. Rudimentary devices for these purposes are

already being constructed, and if museums are to utilize and profit from

these technological advances, it is necessary that conversion to

computer-readable form of portions of their card catalogues begin now.

van Dam, Andries, and Evans, David. SHIRTDIF -- A System for

the Storage, Handling and Retrieval of Technical Data in Image Format,
Proc. Am. Doc. Insti., Vol. V, No. 1 (October, 1964).

322
 INFORMATION SYSTEMS AND THE HUMANITIES:

A NEW RENAISSANCE

by

Everett Ellin

The Museum Computer Network

Museology may not be the oldest profession, but it can make a

legitimate claim to an early liaison with the science of information.

The affair began two thousand years ago when the first museum appeared --

as an annex to the most extraordinary archive of the ancient world, the

great library of Alexandria. Founded by a Greek ancestor of Cleopatra to

house a study collection of botanical and zoological specimens for the

scholars who used the library, this precocious institution flourished

until its destruction by Arab conquerors in the seventh century. During

the Roman Empire, and through the Middle Ages, there were no museums in

the modern sense, that is, no buildings or places in which works of art,

scientific materials, and other objects of permanent value were kept or

shown.

It was not until the reawakening of intellectual curiosity in the

Renaissance that man's inquisitive instincts were given expression once

again in the acquisitive act of collecting. Art, oddities, and flora and

fauna were gathered by the leisure class in a ceaseless quest for knowledge.

Great service was paid to the didactic value of these collections by the

select audience of merchant princes, royalty, and scholars for whose use
323
they were maintained. With books in short supply, the holdings of the

Wunder-Kammer and the palace museum were Cineramic illustrations of the

new concepts for which they stood: three-dimensional encyclopedias in

which example merged with its literal context. The collected work or

specimen served the beholder's hunger for ideas, and word and image joined

in a display environment that functioned as an efficient information

system.

But this idyllic union of fact and artifact was regrettably short-

lived. The democratization of museums and the coincident strides of print

technology soon put an end to the romance. Once Napoleon opened the doors

of the Louvre to the people of France, the palazzo became the public

museum. While the citizens stormed the galleries, the scholars retreated

to the cellars and took their data with them. Learning moved from vitrine

to written record, from plinth to printed page. Books proliferated and,

in the pristine world of the museum, cognition gave way to contemplation.

As collections were purged of their textual significance and information

was distilled into a discrete archival commodity, the convenient object-

oriented retrieval system that had worked so well in the cloistered days

of the Medici disappeared. Data, alas, were left to their own devices.

The shift was hardly noticed, and visual control of information faded

quietly away.

Although the nineteenth-century museum inherited some highly dis-

ciplined manners from its Renaissance predecessors, its sense of order was

lavished on the tidy sequential placement of collections. Anarchy in the

archives persisted. The factual revelations of the Industrial Revolution

were quite enough to assimilate and, with few exceptions, the information

services of the museum dwindled to a medieval form of inventory control.

324
The museologist was content so long as his special universe remained within

his ken. Scholars became specialists, not from zeal but for administrative

necessity, and research was reduced to the level of passive reconnaissance.

The museum visitor became a flaneur, and the information system became

nonsystemic.

As museums proliferated and collections grew, the sequestered base-

ment archives formed a discontinuous labyrinth in which facts were hard to

come by. We fell in love with custodianship and neglected our traditional

responsibility for the management of information. Free access to the data

uniquely within our charge has increasingly become less a matter of right

and more a question of privilege. The museologist now inhabits a perverse

republic in which knowledge, where it exists, is still a luxury -- for the

man with time to burn, a staff to command, or the means to travel. With

the burgeoning records of our museums widely dispersed in the files of

several thousand institutions whose methods of registration and cataloguing

have changed little in the past hundred years, it is small wonder that the

American museum establishment is finding it increasingly difficult to

serve its own needs for information, not to mention the stepped-up demands

of a society tuned to higher thresholds of communication.

Our priceless asset of information must be marshaled and conserved

with the same care shown the works themselves. If we are to save it from

the atrophy of disuse and endow it with the fuller expressive powers of

accessibility, we must consign it to more efficient storage. If we are to

discharge our duty to education and scholarship and develop our unrealized

potentials, we must reconcile ourselves to the cooperative formation of

central repositories of information with facilities for handling inquiries

from many classes of users reflecting varying levels of acuity or

325
professional interest. What is called for is the establishment of com-

prehensive information systems as an integral aspect of museum services.

The means to achieve these ends -- through the imaginative appli-

cation of computer technology -- is presently at hand. Storage devices

already exist that could, for example, reduce the complete catalogues of

all the art museums in New York City to a space no bigger than a desk

drawer, with full and instantaneous access to any item in the file assured

under a broad range of search criteria. Large bodies of textual material

can be perused with the same sensitivity and interplay that the scholar

enjoys in scanning his own familiar array of index cards. The computer

can be made to organize data, to generate and print reference lists, and

disseminate abstracts of periodical literature selectively to a large

readership based on individual user profiles. New apparatus now in the

developmental state may soon permit images to be compacted and stored

digitally as easily as text, for handy recovery. Although the technical

problems involved in assigning our more laborious tasks to the computer

are not to be underestimated, the machine capabilities for a utopia of

scholarship are well within reach. The extent of what we may presume to

do is rather a function of the financial resources that we can hope to

command and our own ingenuity in adapting the new technology to our emerg-

ing needs.

The computer is admirably suited to the task of organizing, and

storing in highly accessible form, vast amounts of information. Dramatic

advances in the development of techniques for processing humanities data,

as effectively as scientific or numeric information, now make it possible

to construct a computer-directed archive -- with associated communications

facilities -- which can accommodate all types of records and reference

326
materials with which museums customarily deal. Such an archive or "infor-

mation system" should be maintained, ideally, at a headquarters location

from which the stored information would be retrieved and distributed on

request to a great number of users over a network of terminals strategi-

cally placed in museums, libraries, and educational institutions through-

out the region which the archive serves. The actual assembly of data for

such a "data bank" is generally preceded by a feasibility study culminat-

ing in a systems design as well as a general plan for the eventual imple-

mentation of the system proposed. Any such enterprise within the frame-

work of the American museum community should, most likely, be organized

and operated by the group of museums whose information resources would

form the system's data bank.

One museum project of a consortial nature, directed to the forma-

tion of a computerized information system on a national scale, is already

under way. Known as the Museum Computer Network project, this undertaking

(under the sponsorship of a representative group of institutions through-

out the country) is laying the groundwork for the establishment of a data

bank of the country's public art collections. The project, now in its

second year, has already made substantial progress toward its announced

objective of completing an intensive study leading to the design of the

system envisioned. This work is proceeding under grants received from the

New York State Council on the Arts and the Old Dominion Foundation. As

this work advances, it is becoming increasingly evident that studies of

this nature cannot be pursued beyond a preliminary investigative stage

without considerable financial help in excess of what the museum establish-

ment can itself supply. Once such studies are completed (they may require

two years of experimental activity), funding would have to be provided to

327
finance (1) the further technical development costs, including the neces-

sary programming, of such a system, (2) the eventual purchase of the

essential computer equipment and communications facilities, and (3) the

expense of assembling data over a period of several years during which

this field activity would take place. In addition, monies will be even-

tually needed to subsidize the early years of the system's operations.

There is little doubt that the expense of creating one data bank,

embracing all collections throughout the country representative of any

segment of the museum community, would be substantially less than the

overall cost of several smaller regional archives of the same total scope.

The systems development expense, and the initial investment in the basic

computer equipment required to drive a data bank, are largely independent

of the quantity of information to be stored. Similarly, the communication

facilities for data dissemination do not vary appreciably with the size

of the territory served (unless interrogations are conducted "on-line"

over a network of terminals connected to the central computer; however,

aside from a very few of our largest institutions, it seems unlikely that

the volume of use or the urgency of response in any museum-oriented infor-

mation system would warrant the markedly higher cost of operating in a

"real-time" mode for perhaps ten years to come). The major cost item that

is a variable and directly proportional to the amplitude of the system is,

of course, the actual expense of collecting data.

A comprehensive information system for our nation's art museums

would require half a million dollars to develop and design, and at least

three million dollars to outfit, were it to include a minimum configura-

tion of terminals. An even larger sum would be consumed in the process of

gathering data for assembly of the data bank itself. The painstaking
328
conversion of existing museum records and related information into machine-

readable form is itself a prodigious and costly effort. If the public art

collections in this country were found to include six million objects -- a

not unlikely possibility -- and museum records could be translated into

proper format for computer input at the rather optimistic rate of five

minutes per object, twenty thousand man-weeks of cataloguing time would

be involved in carrying out the task. Were this work to be done by speci-

ally trained curatorial teams commanding an average individual salary of

$250 per week, this aspect of the project would alone cost five million

dollars.

Substantially more would be needed to establish a comparable sys-

tem for the nation's science museums, whose universe of data is far greater.

The Museum of Natural History of the Smithsonian Institution has, for

example, a collection of some fifty million specimens that grows at the

rate of one million accessions every year. That museum is already faced

with the necessity of creating a computerized cataloguing system for its

own holdings. Should it elect to convert its present records to machine

storage, a sum far in excess of its annual operating budget would have to

be spent simply for the transposing of files into computer form.

Closer analysis of the technical considerations involved in organ-

izing discrete bodies of museum data of seemingly divergent characteris-

tics for machine input points to many unsuspected areas of similarity or

coincidence in the requisite computer methodology. This suggests that

consideration be given to the design of a single information system serv-

ing all museums of the United States, in which the records of art, history,

and science, and those of specialized institutions, would be stored at

one large computer headquarters in separate but compatible data banks

329
differentiated on the basis of the nature of the information contained.

Aside from the obvious philosophical advantages of creating a single sys-

tem that permits free communication across disciplinary lines, the possi-

bility of substantial cost savings argues persuasively in favor of recon-

stituting the information services of the entire museum establishment with

a single thrust.

The sponsorship and funding of any museum information system of

national proportions -- whether intradisciplinary or cross-disciplinary --

is necessarily a formidable undertaking. Aside from the overwhelming

expense of getting under way, one must allow for deficits in the early

years of operation when no such system could hope to pass on any substan-

tial share of its running costs to outside users. Although museums can be

expected to contribute to an operating budget by diverting to it funds

otherwise spent on housekeeping tasks which could be performed far more

economically on the system's computer equipment, such contributions would

not cover the full expense. The participating museums would also be

asked to provide services, curatorial facilities, and eventual system

supervision, but the financial support for the formation and early opera-

tion of such an enterprise must come from other sources. It should be

equally apparent that the venture is too ambitious to be funded initially

by even our largest private foundations without the assistance of the

Federal establishment.

As the cost of any plan for conserving and developing the natural

resource of information charged to the custody of our museums approaches

the fiscal dimensions of other programs of social significance, its worth

must, of course, be tested in the market place of the greater society

which we aspire to be. The value of a museum communications system --

330
and its own pursuasiveness as a measure worthy of public support -- will

derive from its synergistic potential for the advance of knowledge in the

broadest sense. The access to valuable neglected archives, the upgrading

of institutional services, and the general enhancement of traditional

activities in education and research that depend upon the data to which

museums are privy, state the obvious case for such a system. Yet do they,

when measured against other pressing needs of our society, give sufficient

justification for the appropriation of the vast sums that will be required?

The ordering of a body of information, regardless of the sanctity of its

source, is a means not to be confused with larger ends, and cannot be

assigned its priority solely on the promise of added efficiency in admin-

istering the daily affairs of the system's principal users.

It would be somewhat of an exaggeration to contend that the museum

world, like the hard sciences, is floundering dangerously in a sea of

information. (This is not to say that the steadily accelerating demand

for information may not soon put us in this position, as latent records

are given fresh vitality,) With the possible exception of our brethren

in the natural sciences, we are not yet threatened by the condition that

engulfs the scholar who should read thirteen hours a day just to keep up

with the literature of his specialty. Improved access to our information

reserves does, however, hold the key to a more real and pressing dilemma.

As the population curve, the implosion of leisure time, and the static

physical facilities of our institutions close on a collision course, and

the demand for direct confrontation with our collections approaches satur-

ation, the secondary evidence of these holdings takes on new significance.

The exponential growth of attendance will soon dilute the museum visit to

an experience of diminishing returns. There is a finite limit to the

331
number of persons who can gain admittance to a museum space in a given

day, yet the public that may interface with our dominion of information

-- through new communications media -- is theoretically unlimited.

A recent survey of New York's Regional Plan Association, concerned

with patterns of museum use in the Metropolitan Region, speculates that

half a million people will want to visit the museums of this area on a

typical Sunday thirty years from now, compared to the two hundred thousand

who visit them today. This frightening prediction is based solely on

extrapolation from population curves and changing traffic modes already

in evidence. It makes no allowance for the shrinking work week that

awaits us, and its certain impact on recreational habits. The culture

boom is lowering much faster than we are willing to admit. To anyone with

courage to face the facts and the initiative to venture new solutions, it

should be clear that systemization in handling the information that is now

only theoretically at our command will bring with it the capability of

structuring our audience, in ways that today seem scarcely possible, by

providing us with a logic source for programming other museum activities.

By this means, we might hope to orient and serve the museum visitor in a

variety of modes keyed, under computer control, to his individual require-

ments. It is not at all far-fetched to envision the time in the not too

distant future when the museum will offer not only such facilities but a

broad spectrum of experiences ranging from the pedagogical and classically

contemplative to the most fanciful of audio-visual, interactive environ-

ments; nor is it outrageous to dream of the day when museum information

may be delivered electronically from a computer center directly to the

home or classroom.

332
 A polity threatened with alienation and the vagaries of automation

must look more reassuringly to its bootstraps of cultural and educative

resources. We can drown in the confluence of the communications current

and information overload, or channel the stream to turn new wheels. Des-

pite our best intentions to set matters right in the house of the Muse,

the incentive for dramatic and innovative change will only come when our

constituents demand of us a new democracy of communication in which the

ideas and values reflective of our holdings are distributed in a more

meaningful context amongst a broader electorate. Must we not consider,

in the final analysis, the application of new computer-based information

technology to develop a network of interconnected information systems

encompassing the full spectrum of man's achievements? It is this step to

the further reaches of the electronic age that may bring us to the edge

of omniscience.

A recent report on information retrieval speaks eloquently of

this potential: "Those who envision what our technology could even now

make possible foresee a linking of many specialized information centers

at their points of overlapping interests into an information network, each

able to refer a query it was not equipped to handle to the appropriate one

of the others . . . a linking not only of user to libraries and library to

library, but of users who share interests. At this juncture information

ceases to be merely archival, but a thing in process, a view that emerges

from considering how it is used. It is the raw material that is woven

into a coherent pattern, expressed in a theory or natural law, a plan for

action, a design, a strategy. Once settled upon, the theory or law or

design becomes the principle by which further information or data is

shaped. . . . And while the principle that guides the shaping falls
333
within the unchallenged province of man, relieved by the machine of

plodding manipulations, he is free to give more attention to his higher

activity."

It is the time-sharing aspect of the computer -- its capability

to serve many interrogators simultaneously -- that opens to us the possi-

bility of information interchange between a group of users in which the

machine functions heuristically as the medium of the exchange. The real-

ization of the on-line intellectual society, and its concomitant "utility

of information" in which knowledge may be transmitted to point of use with

the same ease as electricity, is the higher purpose that should inspire

our present efforts. Any information system of museum resources that we

propose should, therefore, be conceived as an integral component of this

larger enterprise. Needless to say, we should settle for nothing less in

the process than a system intended to serve as a prototype for comparable

ventures destined to follow, a system designed to be the "computer ana-

logue of the available, intelligent, and informed colleague." "Such an

ideal colleague would read widely, have total recall, evaluate what he

read; he would be able to organize materials, recognize fruitful analogies,

and synthesize new ideas." Moreover, he would be "accessible to all,"

"sensitive to . . . research workers' needs" and "aware of the general

2
interests and current problems" of each person who chose to consult him.

On this bold premise might we address ourselves to the task. Let

us accept our responsibilities for a grand design: the true community of

Lawrence Sandek, "Man's World of Facts," Data Processor, Vol. X,

No. 4 (1967), p. 33.
2
National Academy of Sciences, Communication Systems and Resources
in the Behavioral Sciences (Washington, D.C, 1967), p. 46.

-334
scholars in which man may once again -- with renewed confidence in his

inherent worth -- find for himself a measure of general excellence and a

new Renaissance.

335
 Discussion following papers by Jack Heller and Everett Ellin

The Chairman: Before I open this up to questions, let me say

that it has become obvious during this conference that many people have

been working on projects we have not heard about. We would like to know

more about them. There isn't going to be time between now and tonight to

get together with everybody informally. Therefore, during the next week

or so we are going to send questionnaires to those who are on our list.

We hope that you will return them, giving us an idea of the projects you

are engaged in or are planning.

Secondly, I would like to remind you that Professor Rabin out at

Queens College has been working very hard to act as a communications link.

For some time now he has been publishing a periodical entitled Computers

and the Humanities, in which he has been listing projects that he hears

about. If you can keep him up to date, this is another way that we can

learn about what is going on.

Now, are there questions for Dr. Heller or Mr. Ellin?

Dr. Heller: I have a question, if nobody else has one. It has

been implied by the different indications on when and how people are

collecting data. I'm talking about a person who is not an expert in the

museology field. Is it necessary to have defined all of the terms that

you are going to use in your data bank before you start collecting the

information?

Some say yes, some say no. Three or four of us here attended a

conference on Data Retrieval of Natural History Museums, held in Mexico

City a few months ago. Perhaps they carried away a different idea from

that conference, but these were my conclusions: that your basic input

should be shallow (in other words, it's unnecessary to go to the same

depth of information in all categories) and that your input should be

designed by what your needs are. Furthermore, you should have an open-

ended system, because no matter how well you plan it, it is going to come

apart at the seams in practice.

I think in Mexico City most of the people who had systems in

progress reported on what they were going to do next to overcome the prob-

lems that they had discuvered in utilizing their system. From most of

what I have heard at this present conference -- aside from the research

programs, which are specific -- I forsee similar problems coming up.

But if the initial research itself is shallow and the system is

open-ended, you have an escape hatch in both directions. The Museum Com-

puter Network is going in just that direction. They are starting off

with a limited amount of information, but there is an open-endedness in

that you can continue to add as you learn about the information you have

collected.

Mr. Ellin: Could I add something, Dr. Heller? One feeling I

have consistently had in the conference sessions up to and including

today, is a sixth-sense awareness of intimidation on the complexities of

the computer technology involved. I think this is something that should

be better understood. Mr. Dauterman of the Sevres porcelain project is

what I am speaking of. If you recall his presentation, it is apparent

that he did not immerse himself in the details of computer technology.

He kept only sufficient knowledge of those aspects of it to supply the

necessary data to Dr. Heller and to outline the parameters of his own

requirements. But he left the computer technology to his technical col-

laborator.

337
 It is in this spirit that the Museum Computer Network project is

being conducted. Our administrative committee consists of people from

the museum profession, and although we have acquired, I would say, more

than a modicum of acquaintance with computer techniques, we are not com-

puter scientists, nor do we aspire to be. We deliberately stay out of

the detailed considerations involved in programming and manipulating data.

I think it is important to understand computer science in much

the same way as we know how to use an electric typewriter, or perhaps in

much the same way that the museum director of fifty years ago had to

learn the capabilities of the telephone. It's something we should under-

stand in its broad strokes, but we should not be intimidated by its com-

plexities or its details, most of which can be assigned to our collabora-

tors.

I think we are very fortunate to find within our computer science

people like Dr. Heller and Edmund Bowles, and IBM's interest in general

in our problem and in sponsoring this conference, demonstrates that com-

puter scientists are delighted and challenged by our problems, and willing

to contribute to us the practical knowledge we need. But we should keep

a firm grip on our substantive demands, and learn only enough in the com-

puter area so that we can translate these demands to the computer tech-

nician in something akin to his own vocabulary. But his own vocabulary

is also a natural language. It doesn't take long to get onto it, and I

think those of us who don't have this language should begin to learn it,

so that we may use this valuable tool constructively for our own purposes,

and in planning the larger projects that are before us.

The Chairman: Do we have any more comments or questions?

338
 Mr. Frank Sommer [Winterthur Museum]: We have run a project --

construction of a photographic index of American art up to 1900 -- for

about five years, now. We use a system for information retrieval which

is actually prehistoric -- the key-sort system. We have another system

based on the Termintrex.

As I was saying to a couple of people here, I rejoice in having

the five cataloguing systems all going at once. I would like to have

one, but it is very difficult for an outsider to learn anything about the

subject. Could the sponsors of this conference send to the participants

a basic bibliography, at least, after the conference is over, so that we

could learn something on our own?

The Chairman: As a point of information, we intend to publish

the proceedings of the conference, and it is our plan to add a bibli-

ography. Everett, you also have some material that you might be able to

add?

Mr. Ellin: I was going to add that the Museum Computer Network

has been collecting materials, and as part of a report it will presently

publish -- a report to the museum community, assessing the current status

of the project and its future -- there will be a bibliography specifi-

cally pointed to the needs of the museum professional. The report will

be distributed, of course, to the twenty-five or so museums that are

actively engaged in the project. But I think a broader dissemination

would be desirable. Perhaps we could use the mailing list of the American

Association of Museums. We have funds in our budget for the printing of

this report -- and in large numbers. It would just be a question of send-

ing it out to a sensible and complete list, which we will take the respon-

sibility of doing.
339
 Mr. David Vance [Museum of Modern Art] : I would li1,e to try to

say something about Jack Heller's question on definition of terms of

input, because I think that is very important. One thing that has come

out of this conference is the importance of this point.

One other thing that to me, at least, has become very clear is

that we are talking about two different kinds of operation. For example,

the computer network, which we are all working on, is essentially an

inventory of holdings. It has to be constructed from records that exist,

records in which terms are not really defined or consistently used. Such

a data bank will be useful in preparation of catalogues, finding materi-

als for research, in general survey. It's an index. It's a basic tool.

But it will never be a tool for the kind of project that Dr. Bird des-

cribed, or the kind of project that Mr. Dauterman described. The infor-

mation simply is not there. It never could be there, because such a

project is always going to involve looking up some object that has never

been examined before. So these other projects, I think, will require

special data banks, perhaps based originally on material found through

the general data bank, and in those, all the terms would have to be as

carefully defined as they possibly can be.

The Chairman: Everett, do you want to comment on that?

Mr. Ellin: That's an important distinction. Mr. Vance very

wisely points out the distinction between the use of the computer to

assemble central archives or data banks for general use, and its use to

assemble a special data bank for purposes of a narrowly defined project,

such as Dr. Bird's analysis of Peruvian textiles. The latter data bank

would have to have very explicit parameters in order to be useful for its

purposes.
340
 Dr. Barnett: Do the panelists think that there will be a need

for museum people to get involved, at some junction, in the planning? I

believe it has been a quite wide experience in scientific applications of

computers that people started off with the idea the scientist would pre-

sent the program to the computer expert. The trend, however, has been

for the scientist to do his own program. Do you see a possible analogy

here?

Dr. Heller: Yes, I have gone through this. The scientists who

originally came on the scene were confronted with a language that was

quite foreign to the way scientists were used to thinking. It was really

the way the engineers who built the computers were used to thinking about

the computer. That's where the language came in.

One of the major steps in the whole development of the computer

industry was in the formation of languages that were common to the

classes of users. The early languages -- like Fortran, which stands for

Formula Translation, or Cobol, which stands for Commercial Business

Oriented Language -- were languages that people could write in, which

were essentially the kind of jargon that they were used to using in their

field. As soon as these languages came onto the 360 and the computer

could interpret them and then perform the kinds of operation that were

directed by them, people learned the languages in a very short time

because it was the way they were used to describing things, anyway.

The same thing may conceivably happen in the humanities area.

There are experiments, now, where people are writing libraries of routines

which are in the form that they are used to thinking in. When the program

talks about sorts, when it talks about print, rearrange, replace, and so

on, these are the kinds of words that the humanities people are using.
341
If these languages get sophisticated enough and can be pretty close to a

one-to-one correspondence to the language people are already using, then

it may be that people may learn this language in a natural way with very

little effort. Then they may start programming it. At the present time,

the languages are such that they are more concerned with the way business

people think about file management or scientists think about numerical

analysis and linear algebra.

Mr. Mezei: You always have to be careful who the experts are

that you ask. You may learn to program one or two programs and know

absolutely nothing about computing. On the other hand, you may not

bother to learn actually writing a program, but there is quite a lot of

studying you have to do to figure out what the computer could or could

not do for you. So there are two sides to it. In the language, for

example, that did my pictures, you write the program by saying, "You

rotate," or "You move"; you can learn that easily. But there are a lot

of people who think they know about computing, and all they know is how

to program some very simple problems.

Dr. Heller: I think that's the language level that general users

will learn. It's only the computer systems engineers who will learn more.

Dr. Squires [Museum of Natural History, Smithsonian Institution]:

To comment on David Vance's point, in our own project at the Museum of

Natural History, we found very early that it was necessary to distinguish

between the research project and information storage and retrieval. The

research project was in too much depth. In every instance it requires

too much information to be prepared and stored and filled and contained,

for practical purposes, in providing an entrée to the information content

of the collections. When possible, one should use the general information
342
system to get the entrée, and thendevelop a more detailed bank of data.

We have not had an application of the two concepts except in the most

general way.

I would like to comment further on the implications of museum

networks. I have just returned from England, where I have been in con-

versation with the British Museums Association, which has now taken over

the function of coordination of information processing in all of the

museums of Britain. They are moving ahead on the premise that the

science, the history, the technology, the art museums, as well as his-

torical houses, et cetera, are all one kind of thing, and that there

should be a common information store for all of these. In so doing,

they faced a problem that I think is perhaps more significant in the

fields of countries that in the arts -- though this may be an extension

of my own ignorance. The problem, that is, of deciding when an object is

of sufficient value to be catalogued for inclusion in a national-scale

data bank. Perhaps one could add to this the very interesting question

of the validity of the information about the specimen.

There will be further information at meetings this fall regarding

the international invocations of data processing, and this will raise

what is going to be a red herring, I'm certain, in the very interesting

question of languages, for we shall almost certainly have to consider

output in multiple languages as a part of an international network.

In the area of natural history we have been very fortunate. Our

own primitive network, which consists of Mexico, Canada, and the United

States, is concerned with only three languages, one of which is not

recognized as a science language. Happily, through careful selection of

abbreviations of such things as museums, specimen, catalog, et cetera, we

343
can get away with a single output. This will be difficult when one

begins to deal with Slavic languages and so forth.

The Chairman: Thank you very much, Dr. Squires, for bringing us

up to date.

344
 new approaches
in museum education
 NEW APPROACHES IN MUSEUM EDUCATION

Introductory remarks by chairman of session:

Harry Parker III

Metropolitan Museum

Welcome to the panel on New Approaches in Museum Education. This

is the last of the panels of the conference. It is also the least in

terms of time alotted, so we will begin forthwith.

347
 THE COMPUTER: A FLEXIBLE GUIDE TO AN ART MUSEUM

by

Donald L. Bitzer

Director, CERL, University of Illinois

As the concept of the museum's role in society has changed, the

museum has evolved from a type of storehouse for art works to a cultural

institution which utilizes its art treasures to educate the general pub-

lic and to stimulate appreciation and involvement in the arts.

Museums' efforts to reach the public seem to have been success-

ful. No longer are the museum curators and their objets d'art spending

quiet Sunday afternoons with a few patrons. Museums have been dis-

covered! People are streaming through the halls; even the crowd at a

Sunday-afternoon baseball game cannot match their attendance records. A

challenge facing museums today is how to make these Sunday afternoons

exciting and educational occasions for the casual visitor. The ever

increasing number of visitors has already stimulated museums to search

for new methods of communication to supplement educational aids now in

use.

In this era of automation, when many aspects of our lives have

already been altered by computers, it is only natural to evaluate the

computer's role as a guide in the museum. The Metropolitan Museum of

Art and the University of Illinois are now conducting a preliminary

study to determine if a "computer-guide" can assist the museum in

349
arousing the visitor's interest in art. The two main objectives of this

study are: 1) to develop unique and effective methods of presenting art

material via a computer terminal; and 2) to determine the technical

specifications of the terminal, communications channel, and computer

needed for museum usage. The principal components of the study are

PLATO, a computer-controlled teaching system located at the University

of Illinois, and the Bury St. Edmunds cross, a twelfth-century ivory

exhibited at The Cloisters. The Bury St. Edmunds cross has been the

object of intense study. The information acquired in this research can

be presented to the visitor in a way which allows him to discover for

himself the fascinating story of the cross.

The University of Illinois has been conducting experiments in

computer-based education for the past eight years. PLATO, an acronym

for Programmed Logic for Automatic Teaching Operations, has evolved from

a single student station connected to the Illiac I (a medium-speed com-

puter built in the early 1950s) to a complete 20-terminal classroom con-

nected to a CDC 1604 computer. A block diagram of a single student

station in the PLATO teaching system is shown in Figure 1. The system

provides for communication in two directions. Each student is provided

with an electronic keyset as a means of communicating with the central

computer, and a television screen for viewing information selected by

the computer. The student's keyset resembles a typewriter keyboard;

however, the keys can be assigned any function that the instructor

desires. Usually, the alphanumeric characters are assigned positions

similar to those on a standard typewriter keyboard, while punctuation,

special characters, or special control functions are assigned to the

extra keys.
350
 (electronic book j

(electronic blackboard)

storage
device

student

FIGURE ONE EQUI PMENT DIAGRAM FOR PLATO

 There are two sources for the information displayed on the

student's television screen. Referred to as an electronic book and an

electronic blackboard, they are diagrammatically shown in Figure 1. The

electronic book consists of a bank of slides prestored in an electronic

slide selector. This is controlled by the computer. The information

stored in the slide selector is the type that would usually be found in

a textbook. The slide selector is shared by all of the students. They

can all view the same slide at once or each one can look at a different

slide.

The electronic blackboard consists of a computer-controlled

storage tube for each student station. Diagrams, symbols, and words are

plotted in a point-by-point fashion on the student's storage tube. This

arrangement permits information that cannot be predetermined (such as

information generated during the lesson) to be presented to the student.

For example, the system can display a sketch of a student-requested

experiment or a student-composed answer, neither of which can be antici-

pated. The images from the blackboard and from the electronic slide

selector are superimposed on the student's television display. Thus,

both computer-generated graphics and pictorial information can be dis-

played on the screen simultaneously.

The manner in which a student utilizes PLATO is dependent upon

the type of program in the computer. More than twenty-five different

methods of computer controlled teaching have been tested during the past

eight years. One method teaches in a tutorial fashion with the computer

leading the student by giving him facts, examples, and questions he must

answer. For the most part, this approach is computer-directed. In con-

trast to this tutorial approach, the inquiry method is largely student-

352
directed. The student may be presented with some facts and examples,

but for the most part, he must determine the correct answers to ques-

tions by performing simulated experiments or by requesting information.

In addition to generating and retrieving information for the

student, the computer performs two other important functions: 1) the

processing of student responses, and 2) the recording of all interac-

tions between the student and the computer. The computer records both

the time and the sequence of each button pressed by the student. This

information is available in two forms; one form is a printed history of

events that can be immediately scanned by the instructor; the other form

is stored on magnetic tape and can be processed by the computer for

detailed statistical analysis.

Student responses are processed in many ways. Whether the

student indicates his answer in alphanumeric symbols, geometric fig-

ures, or complete sentences, the computer can judge his response. In

addition to informing the student whether his response was correct or

incorrect, the computer indicates the degree of acceptability of the

response. It may, for example, designate misspelled words, mark out

incorrect terms, or point out an incomplete answer.

Valuable information has been gained from the 50,000 hours of

student data collected while teaching on PLATO. Subject matter has

included electrical engineering, library science, biology, mathematics,

nursing, language, and behavioral science research. The recorded

student data has been useful both in improving lesson material and in

designing a flexible, inexpensive system.

The knowledge and experience gained from these studies have

proven helpful in designing the strategy which we will use to present

353
museum information. Unlike an instructor who has a captive audience in

his classroom, we must engage the interest of the museum visitor in a

very short period of time. The terminal must be simple to use, yet

flexible enough to accommodate and display many types of information.

It must provide enough depth and scope of information to challenge the

visitor without confusing him. It must involve him in gathering infor-

mation and answering questions without frustrating him.

Our initial design of a museum guide plan is illustrated in

Figure 2. Buttons on the keyset will be arranged in a similar fashion.

The visitor begins by pressing the STORY button. This initiates a short

sound film which highlights some of the unique aspects of the art object.

It is hoped that this brief introduction will stimulate the visitor to

acquire more information.

Nine main areas of investigation are provided for the more

inquisitive visitor. The DETAILED VIEWS button provides close-up illus-

trations of the object. Other buttons provide information concerning

MATERIALS AND TECHNIQUES used by the artist, the STYLE, and HISTORY of

the object, information on RELATED OBJECTS, SUBJECT MATTER, and INSCRIP-

TIONS on the object. A definition of terms is available with the

GLOSSARY button. SOCIOLOGICAL BACKGROUND offers some perspective on the

forces present when the object was created. Each of these areas may be

further subdivided to meet the particular requirements of various art

objects.

Problems presented when the QUESTION button is pressed provide

an opportunity for the visitor to test his knowledge. The CLUES button

provides hints on how to solve the problem. An ANSWERS button is avail-

able for those who desire the answer but do not wish to do the detective
354
 glossary detailed views

materials and
inscriptions
techniques

subject matter ^ style

sociological W related objects

background

history comments

FIGURE TWO "MUSEUM GUIDE STRATEGY FOR P L A T O

355
work to find it. In addition, a COMMENTS button is available for anyone

who wishes to share his ideas and opinions via the computer. These com-

ments can be used to improve the method of presentation.

The museum guide strategy will be programmed and tested during

the next few months at the University of Illinois Computer-based Educa-

tion Research Laboratory. The model is expected to change as a result

of the preliminary testing, altering the selection of material and

changing the strategy of presentation.

Although the project is still in its initial stages, and indeed

we are relying heavily on experience gained thus far in the PLATO class-

room, we anticipate that museum information can be presented effectively

by computers.

Looking toward the future, it is becoming technically feasible

to produce computer terminals inexpensive enough to be used in homes.

In research laboratories there are already flat panels of glass on which

the computer can write information and draw diagrams. In addition, it

is possible to superimpose color slides over the computer generated

information. The projected cost of these terminals approximates that of

an expensive color television set. Thus, preliminary work done now in

using the computer as a guide to an art museum may have important appli-

cations for future programs designed to take certain aspects of an art

museum into the home.

Acknowledgements

The author wishes to express his appreciation to Miss Nancy

Risser and Mrs. Muriel Scheinman for their suggestions and assistance in

the preparation of this paper. The project to study the use of PLATO as
356
a guide to an art museum is supported by a grant from the Metropolitan

Museum of Art. The PLATO classroom was developed with support from the

Joint Services Program-Army DAAB-07-67-C-0199, and the Behavioral

Science Division of ARPA-NONR 3985 (08).

Bibliography

Arora, B. M. , D. L. Bitzer, H. G. Slottow, R. H. Willson, "The Plasma

Display Panel -- A New Device for Information Display and
Storage," CSL Report R-346 (1967),

Bitzer, D, L., E, R. Lyman, and J. R. Suchman, "REPLAB: A Lesson in

Scientific Inquiry Using the PLATO System," CSL Report R-260
(1965).

Bitzer, D. L., E. R. Lyman, and J. A, Easley, Jr., "The Uses of PLATO:

A Computer-Controlled Teaching System," Audiovisual Instruction
11-1, 16-21 (1966).

Bitzer, D. L., and P. Braunfeld, "Description and Use of a Computer-

Controlled Teaching System," Proceedings of the National Elec-
tronic Conference, 787-792 (October 1962)

Bitzer, Maryann, "Self-Directed Inquiry in Clinical Nursing Instruction

by Means of the PLATO Computer-Controlled Simulated Laboratory,"
CSL Report R-184 (1963). Also appears as "Clinical Nursing
Instruction via the PLATO Simulated Laboratory," Nursing
Research, 15-2, Spring 1966.

Easley, J. A., Jr., H. Gelder, and W. Golden, "A PLATO Program for
Instruction and Data Collection in Mathematical Problem Solving,"
CSL Report R-185 (1964).

Hoving, Thomas P. F., Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, Vol, XXII,

No. 10, pp. 317-340 (June 1964).

Lyman, E. R., "A Descriptive List of PLATO Lesson Programs, 1960-1967,"

CSL Report R-296 (July, 1967).

357
 THE ELECTRONIC MUSEUM AND INFORMATION DISTRIBUTION

by

Allon Schoener

New York State Council on the Arts

Since art museums were established in the nineteenth century as

public collections of artifacts, they have been primarily concerned

with fostering direct responses to works of art. Great museums like the

Louvre and the Metropolitan have prided themselves on their collections

of masterpieces. In recent years, temporary exhibitions of original arti-

facts have become as important to some museums as their collections.

Museum education has been primarily concerned with developing appreciation

of the artifacts in the museum's collection or a particular exhibition.

Interpretation or education has until now been considered secondary to

artifact collection. This has changed. Now, there is increasing emphasis

on interpretation and less on artifacts. The progressive growth of the

importance of interpretation is directly related to the growth of new

audiences. Museum attendance has grown tenfold in the last twenty years.

New communication media -- films, slides, filmstrips, video tape, and

television -- have generated a whole new range of educational opportuni-

ties. The traditional approach to museum education focused on object

recognition. Educational policy has been a reflection of museums' major

concern -- collecting artifacts. Therefore, educational programs have

359
consisted primarily of gallery talks, lectures, and publications devoted

to telling people more about specific objects.

There is hardly anyone associated with an art museum in the United

States today who does not comprehend the revolution that has taken place

in styles of painting and sculpture during the last one hundred and

seventy-five years. During this period, we have seen art expression move

from representational realism through impressionism to cubism and beyond

to present-day avant-garde styles. The viewpoint system of perspective,

which evolved in the fifteenth-century Italian Renaissance, was shattered

during the first decade of the twentieth century by cubism. A whole new

framework of relationships emerged. The single focal point was replaced

by a multiplicity of focal points. Visual images were no longer conceived

as descriptive objects; they were conceived as dispersed images. Artists

did not describe objects or situations in finite detail; they preferred

to suggest the sense or the essence of something with visual forms.

Object recognition was replaced by pattern recognition. The early abstract

paintings of Kandinsky, the geometrical abstract paintings of Mondrian,

the abstract expressionist paintings of Pollock, and the optical geometric

arrangements of Vasarely can all be classified as visual patterns. In

visual communication processes, which can be considered the basis of

artistic experiences, object recognition involves receiving a visual mes-

sage. This means that the person who created the object has by his act

of creation preselected the images that you experience. The role of ob-

server is reduced to accepting the direction of an outside force. Pattern

recognition, which is the way that people view works of art today,

involves the direct participation of the viewer in the process of experi-

encing a work of art. With impressionist painting, the eye of the viewer

360
creates a recognizeable pattern from organized visual images. The work

of art is made in the eye and the mind of the viewer. The viewer has

become an active participant in artistic processes. Although museum edu-

cators are busy explaining modern art and what it means, they have failed

to relate the revolutionary idea of modern art to their educational meth-

ods. Museum people have been content to interpret twentieth-century

artistic ideas with nineteenth-century techniques.

For years I was troubled by the problem of clutter -- the avail-

ability of too much information without any recognizable structure. I

thought that clutter was bad and a manifestation of our sick society. I

am not convinced that this is not partially true; however, the dominance

of clutter has generated totally new communication techniques and responses.

Today, no one gets information from one source at a time and in logical

progression. Verbal, visual, and auditory messages are thrust on us in a

bewildering variety of situations without warning or preparation. Communi-

cation is no longer logical and sequential. Communication today is as dif-

ferent from nineteenth-century communication as James Rosenquist's F-lll

is from Jacques Louis David's Napoleon.

In our present-day society -- for better or for worse -- informa-

tion is communicated through a cluttered, overloaded environment in non-

sequential patterns. All of us learned in different ways that Dr. Martin

Luther King, Jr., had been assassinated. As I emerged from Pennsylvania

Station, having just returned from Washington, I was told of the tragedy

by a cabdriver. When I got home, I discussed it with my wife. She told

me what she had seen and heard on radio and television. I spent the rest

of the evening listening to the radio and watching television. The fol-

lowing morning, I read The New York Times. All of these sources -- the
361
chance informant, my wife, radio, television, and the newspaper -- com-

municated bits of information about Dr. King's murder. My knowledge of

the situation was a collection of these varied bits of information

received under a variety of conditions in different places at different

times.

An art museum is like our total environment -- cluttered and over-

loaded with visual stimuli. Just think of what happens when you walk

through this museum; it is completely impossible to respond to all of the

visual stimuli that surround you. I have probably spent somewhere

between a thousand and fifteen hundred hours in the galleries of the

Metropolitan at various times in my life, yet I hardly know what is here.

Last summer the Museum arranged to have a brass octet play in the great

medieval hall. My wife and I spent two hours in that part of the Museum,

and I think that I truly saw it for the first time. The music forced us

to reduce our normal pace of looking, which is typically twentieth-century

frenetic, and compelled us to conform to the tempo of the Museum, which

is slower and more orderly. In a sense, the music exerted an external

control on our experiences and helped us to get more out of our visit.

Accepting museums as cluttered communications environments does

not preclude effective distribution of information. In fact, the clut-

tered riches of museums suggest great opportunities. Returning to my

belief that the object is secondary to interpretation, the possibilities

for communication become limitless. You can appreciate objects more

fully by understanding the culture in which they were produced. Con-

versely, you can appreciate a culture more fully by knowing its artifacts.

Since I contend that it is pointless to know objects without knowing the

culture in which they were created, I see that it is the museum's

362
responsibility to produce a total environmental experience. Therefore,

museum galleries should never be silent. As much and as often as pos-

sible, documentary sounds -- music, literature, voices -- and documentary

evidence -- photographs, letters, diaries, statements -- should be asso-

ciated with artifacts.

Where does the computer come into this picture? If one thinks of

a museum in terms of a library, as a vast reservoir of audio-visual infor-

mation, the bewildering variety of bits of information about an infinite

variety of subjects must be stored somewhere efficiently. Hence, the

computer should serve as an educational-program-center storage mechanism

from which an infinite number of bits of information can be withdrawn by

videophone at the same time for use in galleries, at home, in libraries,

in schools, and in universities.

With new technological developments -- video tapes, audio tapes,

microfilms -- records can be stored by computer and made available for

retrieval by a variety of means. It is unnecessary to discuss the tech-

niques; they have been described already by other participants in this

conference. However, I want to emphasize that the availability of the

computer and its information storage and retrieval mechanism must affect

the philosophy of museum education. No longer object recognition, museum

education has become information distribution. Accepting the multiple-

access potential of the computer, information distribution in museum gal-

leries can become marvelously overloaded and cluttered to the point at

which an environment can be simulated. Such information environments can

be endlessly varied, drawing upon the vast resources of computerized

information. The information input to the gallery can be constantly

changing and as varied as moments in time -- which is the world of

363
reality. Museum personnel -- those who accept the object as paramount --

are trained in connoisseurship. To be more adept in information distri-

bution, they could profit by training in a television studio. Information

distribution to individuals both inside and outside the museum should be

different. Cluttered communication works with crowds in galleries; indi-

viduals prefer focused communication. Both are possible with computers.

If visitors entering the museum were to fill out a visitor profile ques-

tionnaire giving age, education, and interest, it would be possible to

personalize their experiences. When they went on to the Egyptian galleries

with their personalized visitor profiles, for example, they would go to

the information outlets and get information that matched their personal

differences. A six-year-old schoolboy would get different information

from a college professor.

The computer has not yet been used either widely or effectively

in museum education. However, it makes sense now to think of the ultimate

application of the computer to museum education so that it is possible to

plan with an eye to the future.

Here is one of the ways in which the new devices can affect work-

ing methods. Yesterday, Harry Parker and I were witnessing a demonstra-

tion of some of the IBM equipment in the next room. In particular, we

were fascinated with the microfiche -- the film negative that stores

ninety visual images in the space of a standard punch card. Next year,

the Metropolitan Museum will present Harlem on My Mind, an exhibition I

am organizing that documents the sixty-eight-year history of Harlem, the

cultural capital of Black America. Harry was anxious to have our research

material made available to members of the Educational Department staff as

well as other museum personnel. We decided to produce a visual catalogue

364
on IBM microfiche of all the photographs that have been assembled for pos-

sible inclusion in this exhibition. By utilizing the microfiche on the

reader-printer, I discovered that this ended up being the cheapest method

for getting photostats of our research material. Such photostats are

going to be of great importance to the design team responsible for plan-

ning the installation of the exhibition.

I think that our discovery of the practical value of these various

pieces of equipment demonstrates one of the most important things that

museum people can learn about computers -- that they are part of a total

system. Therefore, any information distribution system that is planned

must be conceived on a systems basis. This simply means that every com-

ponent is conceived and designed to relate to a total system. However,

this does not mean that you must utilize every component in the total

system to benefit by the efficiency that a systems approach brings with

it. In this particular case, it is possible to make use of the microfiche

and reader-printer at a low level of sophistication, which simply means

using it as a photocopy system even though it was designed as a component

in a larger and more complex system. What I am trying to say is that

design on a systems basis creates end products that are more efficient

than the products that are created as end in themselves.

This principle holds true for everything that is being planned by

museum curators, art historians, anthropologists, and everyone using com-

puters for artifact research. The end product of the research must have

as much to do with the design of the information system as the immediate

need. Therefore, it becomes increasingly apparent that artifact interpre-

tation or education -- which is the end product of research -- must not

only be given wide distribution but will to a great extent determine the

character of the research and the accumulation of related statistical data.

only be given wide distribution but will to a great extent determine the

character of the research and the accumulation of related statistical data.

366
 THE FUTURE OF THE MUSEUM AS A LEARNING ENVIRONMENT

by

Robert S. Lee

IBM Corporation

In any discussion of the future role of the museum it is impor-

tant to recognize that in addition to its curatorial and scholarly

activities, the museum has always been concerned about public education

and enlightenment -- the museum has always been a learning environment.

Today, with the continual rise in popular education and the marked

increase in museum attendance, the educational value of museums is

widely appreciated -- museums are giving greater attention than ever

before to their educational role, and they are becoming increasingly

bold and imaginative in facing up to the challenge and in reassessing

their traditional values and priorities.

Yet, despite all of this, I think that we still grossly under-

estimate the potential contribution that the museum can make to American

society. We have seen only the beginning of what the museum can be as

a learning environment. My own view is that the museum is a seriously

underdeveloped national educational resource -- that with a major

research and development effort aimed at exploiting the electronic com-

puter, we can turn our museums into highly powerful centers of popular

learning that can complement our schools and that can advance signifi-

cantly the nation's cultural development.

367
 If we look at the museum in light of some of the new discoveries

and ideas in the field of education and human learning, there is reason

to believe that, potentially, the museum may in certain ways be the most

advanced of our educational institutions, and that schools in the years

to come may well borrow techniques and model themselves after museums so

that they become something like museums as places of learning. I am

quite aware that this is a rather farfetched statement when we look at

most museums and schools as they are today. However, these institutions

are changing. In the years ahead I think that they will come to resemble

each other and that the school of the future may become more like the

museum of the future than the other way around.

What I shall do in this talk is examine certain new ideas about

the role of the environment in learning, and then analyze the character

of the museum as a learning environment. I shall then tell you about

our research investigations on the feasibility of the computer as an

instrument to create exhibits that could produce highly powerful learning

benefits for visitors.

If we look at education in the broad sense, it is apparent that

learning does not require either schools or teachers. Most of what we

learn is from living -- from our experience in and with the environment.

Probably the greatest intellectual achievement in the lifetime of a

human being occurs in the first two or three years of life. During this

brief period, the infant learns to master the entire basic language

structure of the culture around him. He learns to function with highly

abstract concepts and complicated usage patterns such as the words "you"

and "me," which refer to quite different things, depending on who is

368
talking. This enormous amount of learning takes place whether or not

there is any formal attempt to teach the child. Primarily, the infant

teaches himself through meaningful interaction with his social environ-

ment. He does this with great efficiency by actively exploring, by

testing, and by searching out new ways to use the exciting tool of

language.

Contemporary research strongly indicates that a rich and stimu-

lating early environment may be a critical factor leading to intellectual

growth in children, not only in terms of verbal development, but also in

terms of other kinds of intellectual and social functioning. In line

with these findings, there is a growing body of evidence that the learn-

ing problems of underprivileged children are primarily due to the lack

of adequate intellectual challenge and stimulation in the home during

the first five years of life. An impoverished home environment produces

a child whose ability to function intellectually is already blunted when

he first enters school.

Not only does a great deal of learning occur outside of school,

through life experience in interaction with the environment, this appears

to be what is going on in school as well. A monumental research study

sponsored by the U.S. Office of Education, based on data collected on

nearly 600,000 schoolchildren, strongly indicates that the quality of

the child's social environment may be much more important in determining

what he gets out of school than are traditional indicators of school

quality such as facilities, class size, and expenditures per pupil. The

study suggests that the amount of learning that a child takes away from

his school experience, particularly in terms of verbal skills, is

strongly dependent on (1) the extent of rich intellectual stimulation

369
provided by his family environment, and (2) the extent to which he is

surrounded in school by other youngsters who come from advantaged home

settings. Thus, for example, the study found that lower-class children

-- regardless of race -- achieve considerably more if they attend a

school where most of the children are from advantaged homes. The per-

formance of other lower-class youngsters, who more typically attend

schools with a predominantly lower-class student body, is substantially

lower. What evidently happens is that the peer environment in the school

serves as an important source of stimulation -- the youngsters learn

from each other. This is particularly true for language skills and for

attitudes toward learning itself.

It should be pointed out that while the more advantaged young-

sters do not suffer in such circumstances if the school is one where

they are in the clear majority, their learning is adversely affected if

they attend a school composed primarily of lower-class children. The

effect of the peer environment can work either way.

These recent studies, although controversial and still subject

to debate in scientific and educational circles, all point to the pre-

viously unrecognized importance of the learning-from-the-environment

process. Accepting the idea that people learn from their environments, a

small but significant number of educators and behavioral scientists have

been experimenting with the notion of creating environments deliberately

designed so that students will learn as a result of their own explora-

tions and discoveries. In these experiments, the teacher is not so much

a presenter of material as he is a manager of the learning experience.

Teaching is subordinated to learning -- the teacher serves, to a large

370
extent, as a coach and as a resource person. He sets up conditions and

then tries to step aside to interfere as little as possible with the

student's learning process.

These seemingly advanced notions -- so much at variance with

daily practice in most public schools -- have a considerable history in

the field of education. Maria Montessori, who was Italy's first female

physician and who was also a psychiatrist, did her pioneering work using

these principles with slum children in Rome shortly after the turn of

the century. She developed what she called "prepared environments,"

based on her assumption that things are the best teachers. As you

probably know, she invented a wide variety of games and puzzles ingeni-

ously designed to let the child work at his own pace and with a minimum

of help. In the Montessori classroom, the preschool child is free to

choose, to explore, and to work on his own. In the process he learns

various useful things -- not only how to button his clothing and tie

his shoelaces, but also reading skills and mathematical concepts.

An important feature in the Montessori approach is that there

is no distinction between play and work -- the educational activities

are carefully designed both to be enjoyable and to contain built-in

learning experiences. In a contemporary Montessori classroom, one

might, for example, see children building towers and castles with

Cuisenaire rods. These are rods especially constructed and color coded

according to length so that the child will develop, through direct

experience, an intuitive appreciation of numerical relationships. An

extensive series of interesting games, puzzles, and exercises has been

worked out for the rods so that they can be used not only at the pre-

school level, but also to help older children learn more advanced topics

such as algebra.
 Despite the fact that Montessori did her basic work five decades
ago, we are only now beginning to see the s t a r t of a serious trend in
the use of self-directed inquiry and discovery in prepared environments
as a way to make learning happen. More recent developments along these
lines range from inexpensive children's toys such as the popular Creative
Playthings stool that has, in i t s seat, a large b u i l t - i n magnifying
g l a s s , to Omar Moore's well-known talking typewriter with which the
child learns to read and to touch-type by playing a cleverly constructed
series of games on a computerized typewriter keyboard. At Berkeley,
Richard Crutchfield and Martin Covington have developed a set of c h i l -
dren's books designed to be used as an independent self-study program
in inquiry s k i l l s . The children are taken through a series of i l l u s -
trated detective stories in which they get the opportunity to actively
apply certain principles of creative problem solving. The program is
designed to encourage youngsters to r a i s e fruitful questions, to d i s -
cover problems, to defer judgment, to develop s t r a t e g i e s of inquiry, to
t e s t out ideas, and so forth. These are considered by the authors to
be the basic a t t i t u d e s and cognitive s k i l l s needed for l a t e r work in
science, c r i t i c a l scholarship, and the creative a r t s .

In our own educational research and development work at IBM, we

have become quite interested in prepared environments and simulated s i t -
uations, both with and without the use of the computer. In one of our
courses designed for the presidents of customer companies, the students
live through and personally experience the history of computing during
a week-long day-and-night immersion program. Four thousand top corpor-
ate o f f i c i a l s in the United States and Europe have now been through this

sixty-hour course. We are also developing a follow-up seven-day course

372
on management science techniques, built around a simulated business

environment in which the students have to organize themselves, make

decisions, and experience the response of the environment to their

actions.

Simulation games for schoolchildren are being actively explored

by us and by others in the areas of mathematics, chemistry, biology,

and physics. The approach appears to be especially promising for such

studies as economics, history, and sociology.

The Museum Visit as a Learning Experience

The point of all this, and its relevance for museums, is that

the type of learning experience that visitors engage in when they visit

a museum is intrinsically much closer to these learning-from-the-

environment situations than it is to the formal teaching-learning pro-

cess in schools.

In the more traditional learning situation, the usual approach

is to first expose the student to lectures and reading assignments, and

then to test him. There is great emphasis on the spoken and written

word, on the memorization of facts, and on rules and procedures. Except

in the most advanced schools, and despite all the publicity about inno-

vation in the field of education, there is normally very little stress

on conceptual understanding, inquiry, and exploration. Also, students

are generally taught about things -- there is not very much in the way

of direct experience with the phenomenon being studied.

From the point of view of the typical museum visitor, be he

child or adult, the museum as a learning environment is completely dif-

ferent from school. The main distinction is that in the museum

373
setting the learner is in a free-access voluntaristic situation. There

are no classrooms and no teachers -- there are no extrinsic coercive

forces such as compulsory attendance, or the need to get a good grade

to please teachers and parents. The visitor comes to the museum for

reasons of his own; he explores the environment at his own pace and in

his own terms. His motivation is intrinsic -- he is interested in

furthering his own self-development in a way that is enjoyable to him.

When he no longer finds the experience meaningful and pleasing, he dis-

engages and leaves the museum.

Another important difference between the school and the museum

is in terms of the educational goals of these two institutions. The

objective of a museum exhibit is not to create subject-matter mastery,

but to accomplish certain appreciative goals -- to awaken interest, to

broaden perspectives, to induce deeper understanding, to enrich aesthetic

sensitivities, and so forth.

Corresponding to this, there is a difference in method. In con-

trast to the public school -- an environment dominated by words, rules,

tests, and a coercive social structure -- the museum provides a rich

opportunity for direct meaningful experiences with things. It is a

setting where experiential learning can take place. For example, one

can truly get a feeling for the massive size, the power, and the essen-

tially social character of a herd when confronted with an entire herd

of stuffed elephants at the American Museum of Natural History. As com-

pared with books, lectures, or pictures, exhibits can offer the drama

of firsthand contact, of a vivid, immediate experience, and of the

reality of a phenomenon.

374
 In the school situation, the student generally proceeds into

the subject matter in an orderly way determined for him by the curricu-

lum plan. The approach is axiomatic -- the presentation, first, of

principles, then of specific examples. This is not so in the museum,

which is normally highly unstructured and where the learning process is

inductive. The museum visitor behaves as an investigator -- an explorer.

He chooses what to look at and what not to look at. To a great extent

he can even determine the actual sequence of his experiences.

A further characteristic of the museum as a learning environment

is that visitors are very diverse in terms of age, background, and the

orientations and attitudes they bring with them. Visitors usually come

to the museum in small groups, continually interacting with each other

as well as with the exhibits.

To summarize at this point, the great strength of the museum as

an educational institution is that visitors are free to explore and to

discover things on their own in an environment where they can have direct

experiences that are enjoyable and that also serve their needs for intel-

lectual and cultural growth. This self-directed learning resembles

learning from life. It can therefore be deeply personal, rich, and

highly rewarding.

Some Problems in Trying to Teach through Exhibits

There are certain problems, however, that make it difficult to

significantly improve visitor learning in the exhibit setting. We dis-

covered much about this in our basic research study on the exhibit

medium, conducted by Weiss and Boutourline at the U.S. Science Exhibit

at the Seattle World's Fair in 1962. The results of our studies and
375
others made by the University of Washington, based on interviews and

observations of more than nine thousand visitors, indicate that what

people take away from the exhibit experience is often quite different

and frequently much less than what the exhibit designers intend. In the

Weiss-Boutourline study, we found, for example, that there was even

greater competition for visitors' attention than had been thought.

Almost all of the exhibits studied held people for an extremely short

period of time -- about forty-five seconds on the average. We also

found, under these circumstances, that unless the visitor came to the

exhibit with a fair degree of prior knowledge of the subject, he was

likely to appreciate its main point only. The typical visitor usually

missed the details and nuances that designers had hoped to communicate.

Experiments with Computer-based Exhibits

A review of these findings in light of theoretical considerations

about the learning process suggested to us that there was a great dis-

parity between the prevailing state of the art and the potential for

exhibits as an educational medium. We therefore conducted a series of

exhibit development experiments in the children's section of the U.S.

Science Exhibit to see if we could combine what we had learned from the

research with certain advances in computer-based educational technology.

The research team obtained permission to experiment with an

exhibit that was reputed to be the poorest one in the hall. It was on

crystallography, and consisted of a projected image of crystals melting

and recrystallizing. There was also a placard with a vague explanation,

and a notice that a paperback book on the subject could be purchased

upstairs. That was the entire exhibit. Measurements showed that only
376
10 per cent of the passing youngsters stopped to look at it, and that

those who did stop stayed for an average of only ten seconds. The

corresponding figures for the surrounding exhibits were much higher.

The researchers then attempted to test out various ideas by

modifying the exhibit and getting feedback through observation and

measurement. The exhibit that emerged from a series of developmental

trial cycles consisted of a small table in front of the original display

on which there was a spotlighted telephone and a box with buttons and

colored lights. By means of a controlled tape recorder attached to the

telephone, the young visitor was given a programmed sequence of informa-

tion about the subject as well as guidance on how to observe the crys-

tallization phenomenon. After each short segment of information, the

visitor was asked a question. If he pressed the right answer button,

he heard a bell sound over the telephone and a green light was displayed.

If he answered incorrectly, he saw a red light and heard a Bronx cheer.

The visitor was involved here in a responsive interaction sequence --

very much like a conversation. At certain times in the program, the

visitor could also press a special button to receive a sample rock that

he could pick up, feel, and examine as part of the learning experience.

This modified exhibit invariably engaged passing youngsters. And, in

contrast to the original ten seconds, it typically held them in meaning-

ful interaction for twenty minutes -- the maximum length of time pos-

sible, considering the program built into the exhibit.

It is unlikely that sheer novelty -- or the use of lights,

movement, and the telephone -- can adequately account for the holding

power that was achieved with this exhibit. After all, novelty is quite

common at a world's fair where many exhibits make use of lights,

377
movement, and even a telephone but without obtaining this degree of

visitor attention. We have come to believe that interaction was the

key -- not the superficial mechanical interaction of pressing buttons,

but the more engrossing interaction of cognitive and emotional engage-

ment with a responsive environment. The visitor did not just look at

the exhibit, or just touch it. The interchange was much more psycho-

logically dynamic. The visitor made something happen -- and it made

something happen back to him. We also believe that the youngsters were

significantly learning about crystallography through this exhibit.

Unfortunately, we cannot document this because the test questions proved

to be inadequate.

In this first experiment, for reasons of economy and convenience,

we did not use an actual computer to control the exhibit -- instead, we

simulated the functions of the computer. We have, however, made use of

the machine to control responsive exhibits in our more recent experi-

ments in the laboratory. These studies indicate that it is technologi-

cally feasible to have, in a gallery or even in an entire museum, many

different interaction exhibits run by a single computer. Furthermore,

it may be possible for the computer to gather information about the

visitor so that it can adapt the responsive interaction sequence to the

individual's particular interests and background knowledge about the

subject. Also, it should be possible for the machine to keep a detailed

record of all interactions at each exhibit station and to provide the

museum staff with periodic summary feedback information that can be used

to improve existing exhibits and to guide in the development of new ones.

In considering the computer-based exhibit environment of the

future, some of us have come to feel quite uneasy about the Seattle

378
exhibit as a model for what might be done on a larger scale. For one

thing, there is the problem of capacity with a programmed instruction

type of exhibit -- the exhibit deals with only one person at a time.

Also, in this type of exhibit, the visitor is psychologically, if not

physically, quite separated from his companions, and this is undesirable.

Furthermore, the straightforward didactic approach can too easily be

used in an authoritarian and overbearing manner.

Our recent studies lead those of us who have worked on this

project to prefer information-retrieval or simulâtion-type exhibits

utilizing sound recordings, slides, short movies, and other graphic dis-

plays. In a science museum, for example, there might be an exhibit

designed to bring out graphically the relationship between conic-section

curves and the underlying algebraic formula. By meaus of a computer-

controlled cathode-ray tube and a light pen, the visitor can change the

values in the formula and see the consequences immediately come alive

on the display. In effect, the exhibit would convert this area of

mathematics into a phenomenon that you can prove and experiment with.

The museum visitor can test out various ideas and, in a few minutes,

develop a rich appreciation of certain fundamental relationships in

mathematics.

With the aid of the computer, the science museum of the future

would be able to extend its coverage to the various social sciences.

We may eventually see museum halls devoted to disciplines such as

economics, psychology, history, and political science. As an illustra-

tion of how this can be done, I offer an example of a simulation-type

exhibit that might be developed in sociology -- a field that does not

normally lend itself to museum exhibiting.

379
 One of the serious problems in the teaching of social studies

is that, unlike the physical sciences, there is no laboratory in the

school where the student can directly deal with the phenomenon to become

familiar with it and to test out various hypotheses. At Johns Hopkins,

James Coleman and his colleagues are developing an academic game

designed to show how people's lives are affected by certain sociological

conditions and by key decisions that they make for themselves. The cur-

rent version of this "Life Careers Game" is played without a computer --

with the computer it could become a highly powerful museum exhibit. Two

or three visitors would play the game together as a team. They are

given certain information about the background and interests of a boy

named Mike from a low-income family. The players make decisions for

Mike: whether he stays in school or takes a job, how he allocates his

time to various activities, whether he marries the girl or doesn't, and

so forth. The game starts when the boy is sixteen, and it continues in

cycles for twenty years. The purpose is to get as many life-satisfaction

points as possible for Mike over the twenty-year period.

After each yearly decision cycle, the computer would calculate

Mike's satisfaction points, based on actual sociological data collected

in various empirical studies. While the outcome would depend on scien-

tifically established probabilities, certain chance factors would also

be incorporated to make the game realistic. In addition, the players

could get dramatic feedback as to what happens to Mike as a result of

their decisions, through filmstrips and audio or by means of short movie

segments.

The significance of this type of simulation as a learning situa-

tion is that, after a particular game, the players could try again to
380
see if they can make better decisions to gain more life-satisfaction

points for Mike. One team of players, for example, discovered that they

could have Mike join the Army and exploit the Army's evening educational

resources. In this way, they gave him training for an occupation that

would otherwise be beyond his reach. This difficult but not unrealistic

life path was wholly unanticipated by the authors of the game.

Another way the simulation could be used is to have the players

manage the lives of different kinds of people -- an upper-class girl

with career interests, a disadvantaged youngster with musical talent,

and so forth. Through such simulation game experiences, it is possible

to learn something about the possibilities, the constraints, and the

realities that affect the life chances of people at different positions

in society. In effect, this type of computer-based exhibit will allow

the museum visitor to explore the nation's social structure.

To see what potential there might be for information retrieval-

type exhibits, we have experimented in a preliminary way with an exhibit

on the anthropology of Ceylon. Here, the visitor is presented with a

map on which the island's seven cultural regions are delineated. To

find out something about a given region, the visitor touches that sec-

tion of the map and also one of a number of buttons to select a topic

that may be of interest, such as the economy, the people, daily life,

or religion. Immediately following each selection, a color slide or a

short series of color slides would be projected, accompanied by the

music of Ceylon. Occasionally, a multiple-screen presentation could be

given showing the colorful religious festivals of that region. If the

visitor chooses, he might press another button to call in a short audio

commentary on the slide presentation. The visitor has the option

381
to explore one topic, such as the economy, by comparing the seven dif-

ferent regions. Or, he can stay with a single region and explore it

as an entity in terms of the different topics of interest.

This sort of approach, of course, requires modern technology --

hundreds of quickly accessible slides and audio segments would be

required for the exhibit to be continually rich and open-ended. An

interesting feature of this format is its great flexibility. If

properly designed, it should be easy to change the slides and the audio

segments. This means that such an exhibit not only could be modified

and updated, but that it could be completely transformed without any

major change in physical construction or in the computer program. The

Ceylon exhibit, for example, could be converted into an information

retrieval exhibition on how a number of major artists or periods of art

have handled various classical subjects, such as still life, portraits,

landscapes, and the nude. It also should be possible to easily repro-

duce the slides, audio segments, and the computer program, so that the

exhibit can be exported to other museums with parallel computer-based

exhibit stations.

Information retrieval exhibitions are, as a class, easier to

develop and to modify than are the highly didactic programmed instruc-

tion type of exhibits of the kind we experimented with in Seattle. They

are also more efficient in handling the capacity problem, as they do not

require the break-up of natural visitor groupings. More important, with

information retrieval, the visitor dominates the machine -- not the

other way around. Here the computer becomes a tool that magnifies the

ability of the individual to explore and to discover things by himself.

382
This is an extension, both in method and in spirit, of the self-

directed learning that is already a salient feature of the museum visit

experience.

The Individualized Museum Environment

So far, I have discussed what exhibit designers might be able

to do with the aid of a computer at a single exhibit location. But

there are larger implications. With the computer, the entire museum

visit as a total learning experience can be radically transformed.

Let us consider, for example, a visit to the art museum of the

future. The entrance hall, as is often the case today, might be devoted

to setting the mood and orienting the visitor to the diverse possibili-

ties open to him during his stay. On a high wall at the rear of the

room, the visitor would see an ever changing kaleidoscope of projected

pictures of paintings, sculpture, and other art objects currently on

exhibit throughout the museum. A closer examination of the hall would

show that these changing pictures are generated as a result of various

choices that visitors make at a number of individual exhibit stations

placed throughout the hall. These are special stations where the incom-

ing visitor can make inquiries and get a preview of what is on display

in the museum galleries. He could, for example, touch a particular

gallery on a map of the museum to call forth a series of slides and com-

mentaries on what he might see there. He would also provide information

on his background and his interests, and would give his personal reac-

tions to pictures of various art objects.

At the same time that the visitor learns about the museum

through interaction with this orientation exhibit, the computer system,

383
by recording his choices and his responses to various questions, would

be learning about the visitor. Privacy would be scrupulously protected

-- the visitor would never be asked to give his name and he would, of

course, be fully informed in advance as to how the information is to be

used.

At the end of the inquiry session, on the basis of the profile

developed on him, the visitor would get a personally tailored set of

suggestions as to how he might most benefit from and enjoy his visit to

the museum that day. In addition, the visitor would get an individually

unique "key card," which he could use to start any of the interaction

exhibits that augment the art objects on display in the specialized

museum galleries. By means of this key card, the visitor's information

profile would be available to all of the computerized exhibits through-

out the museum. Each of these gallery exhibits would then be able to

tailor its content and its style of presentation to suit the needs,

wishes, background, and even the personality of the individual visitor.

Not only would the connoisseur be treated differently from the novice,

each connoisseur and each novice would be treated differently from each

other one. By exploiting the adaptive capabilities of the computer, the

museum of the future can become a place where every visitor, in a very

real sense, creates his own learning environment.

While the type of museum that I have just described does not now

exist, it is something more than speculation. All of these things are

possible within the scope of today's computer technology.

Mere technical feasibility alone, however, will not bring the

power of the computer to the museum visit experience. Someone has to

start toward that goal. Someone has to take hold of the possibilities
384
and initiate a program of research and development. The early work

along these lines might best be done in a laboratory-like setting --

possibly in an experimental exhibit gallery where it would be relatively

easy to try out new things and to test new ideas. The staff should have

a small computer completely at its disposal for experimental purposes.

Our own experience indicates, however, that control of exhibit research

and development should not be given over to a group of computer tech-

nicians. Museum professionals themselves can learn the basic fundamen-

tals of computing in a week. It certainly will be easier for them to

assimilate the necessary computer expertise than for computer techni-

cians to obtain the required scholarship and sensitivity to the exhibit

environment. A sound conceptual understanding of the computer will per-

mit museum professionals to communicate with their technical support

personnel and will put them in a position to maintain intelligent con-

trol of the project.

The museum appears to be a singularly appropriate place for the

next major advance in educational technology. It is already a free-

access exploratory environment, and because of this, museum people who

understand this type of learning situation are already in a good posi-

tion to greatly extend and magnify its value with responsive computers.

Schools, on the other hand, may find it difficult to work with a tech-

nology based on these concepts because they have a strong book-centered

didactic tradition that runs counter to the idea of self-initiated

learning from direct environmental experiences.

In light of the possibilities inherent in modern technology,

museums are clearly an underdeveloped national resource. With a major

research and development effort, the museum can become a highly powerful
385
learning environment that can significantly advance the nation's cul-

tural development. The museum as an institution now has a unique oppor-

tunity to make a far-reaching contribution of profound and lasting

importance both to the field of education and to American society.

Selected Bibliography

Berelson, B., 1964. In the presence of culture .., Public Opinion

Quarterly, 28, 1-12.

Boocock, S. S., and E. 0. Schild. Forthcoming in 1968. Simulation

games and learning. Sage.

Bruner, J. S., 1966. Toward a theory of instruction. Harvard.

Chambers, C. E., 1964. The Cuisenaire-Gattegno method of teaching

mathematics. Educational Explorers, Reading, England.

Chein, I., 1954. The environment as a determinant of behavior.

J. Social Psychology, 39, 115-127,

Coleman, J. S., et al., 1966. Equality of educational opportunity.

U.S. Government Printing Office.

Covington, M. V., R. S. Crutchfield and L. B. Davies, 1966. The

productive thinking program. Brazelton Printing Co., Berkeley.

Foote, N. N., 1966. The new media and our total society. In The new
media and education, ed. by P. H. Rossi and B. J. Biddle. Aldine.

Hunt, J. McV., 1961. Intelligence and experience. Ronald.

Johnstone, J. W. C., and R. J. Rivera, 1965. Volunteers for learning.

Aldine.

Lee, R. S., 1967. Contrived social environments. Public Opinion

Quarterly, 31, 467-469 (abstract of conference session).

Montessori, M. , 1966. The secret of childhood. (J, Costelloe, trans.)

Fides.

Moore, 0. K. , 1964. Autotelic responsive environments. In The revolu-

tion in the schools., ed. by R. Gross and J. Murphy. Harcourt,
Brace, and World.

386
Pines, M., 1967. Revolution in learning. Harper and Row.

Shulman, L. S., and E. R. Keisler, eds., 1966. Learning by discovery:

a critical appraisal. Rand McNally.

Taylor, J. B., et al., 1963. Science on display: A study of the United

States Science Exhibit, Seattle World's Fair, 1962. Institute for
Sociological Research, University of Washington, Seattle.

Weiss, R. S., and S. Boutourline, Jr., 1962. Fairs, pavilions,

exhibits, and their audiences (privately printed).

Weiss, R. S., and S. Boutourline, Jr., 1963. The communication value

of exhibits. Museum News, Nov. 1963, 23-28.

387
 THE CONCEPT OF ENVIRONMENTAL MANAGEMENT

by

Serge Boutourline, Jr.

Interaction Signal, Inc.

I am here today as a spokesman for several disciplines not

usually seen as relevant to humanistic institutions like the Metropoli-

tan Museum of Art. I am neither a curator nor an art historian, nor,

as I have learned from many years in the field of computer technology,

am I an information-processing expert. I shall speak on this occasion

from the viewpoint of management, considering the museum as an organiza-

tion devoted to meeting human needs. I shall speak from the angle of

vision of the new communications disciplines, and as a researcher who

has studied people's use of exhibit settings. I shall speak about

environmental management, a discipline which,formally and informally,

has been growing in recent years, and has been enriched by a number of

interesting and possibly useful research findings.

Environmental management is that set of decisions whose objec-

tive is to increase the value of user experiences in an existing facil-

ity.

The museum director who installs better lighting in a display

case is making an environmental management decision. So, too, is the

person who picks out museum personnel uniforms. Even the staging of an

event in the museum is an environmental management decision, for one is

389
affecting the perceptions and associations people have about the museum,

hence one is affecting the value of future visitor experiences in the

museum facility. Clearly, the director who institutes an education

program in a museum is not only creating brand-new experiences available

to some museum visitors, but is also affecting the experiences of these

same visitors (and their friends) in the existing areas of the museum.

The objective of environmental management can be (1) to change

the quality of experience of existing users, (2) to change the kinds of

users, (3) to increase the number of users, or (4) to increase the num-

ber of experiences present users have. In all cases managerial action

is evaluated in terms of the total primary and secondary benefits that

are expected to all classes of users of the facility or facilities

affected by that action. In all cases the environmental manager tries

to start thinking from the concrete minute-by-minute experiences that

individual users develop as a result of managerial action, and to iden-

tify the positive and negative benefits to the user and to others of

these specific minute-by-minute experiences. Thinking in environmental

management terms encourages people making decisions in museums to make

explicit predictions of user experiences and their value relative to

other possible experiences. One advantage of making such predictions

is that it allows museum management to begin evaluating their perform-

ance, that is, the relationship between the goals that were set and

what actually happened. Another advantage is that it helps create an

orientation toward users rather than merely toward the economics and

conveniences of operating procedures and physical installation. Lastly,

an environmental management orientation helps the entire staff of a

390
museum to communicate better with each other as to objectives, priori-

ties, and how the various parts of a museum should work together.

The increasing number of users of museum facilities is now

raising questions of priorities within museum organizations and generat-

ing a need for additional sources of funds for the support of museum

activities. Both outcomes are forcing an evaluation of what the func-

tions of museums have been, what they are now, and what they might be in

the future. These questions have, in turn, placed an entirely new set

of demands upon museum boards of trustees, directors, and the entire

executive group. For the very asking of these questions presupposes

that the executive group of a museum is taking a management role rather

than merely administering a preset, preestablished organization struc-

ture whose profile and objectives are determined by charter or by the

directives of donors or trustees.

The concept that museums can be managed may seem obvious, yet

very little attention has been given to this subject in the literature,

in schools, or, in fact, in general discussion in the museum associa-

tions. Furthermore, it is by no means clear that the concept of manage-

ment is particularly widely accepted by most museum executive groups or

is very broadly interpreted.

Although there are exceptions, the typical museum of today is

directed within what could be termed an administrative or custodial

philosophy rather than a managerial philosophy. The concept that it is

possible for an executive group to manage the institutional resources

aggressively and imaginatively is today often discouraged by the rela-

tively few dimensions of decision allowed executive groups by boards of

trustees or by the institution's charter. Museum executives often find

391
themselves at the head of an institution that owns and controls rela-

tively large resources, but with very little discretionary monies or

other resources that are in fact open to change or to managerial con-

trol.

What, then, is the difference between the custodial and manage-

ment orientation? The main difference is in the amount of actual dis-

cretionary control and initiative available to those who direct the

activities of the museum.

A museum executive staff may be in charge of substantial budgets,

but if the application of every budget is committed by charter, trustee

actions, or other factors outside the discretionary control of the

museum director, then that museum director is not really in a good

position to manage the museum. He is essentially maintaining -- but not

managing -- a preexisting structure whose form and actions are only mar-

ginally under his control.

Perhaps the most important feature of the management orientation

is a commitment to the concept of the value that facilities, services,

and people have to others. If one does not make an evaluation of the

value of actions to others, the process of management cannot take place.

As the rate of change in society goes up, the process of setting

goals, taking actions, and evaluating the relative effectiveness of

actions must take place more rapidly, more explicitly, and in a fashion

more communicable to others. The concept of effectiveness -- the cost

of the action versus the incremental value generated by that action --

must be more explicitly shared by the many people in an organization who

are responsible for the success of the many programs and policies of

that organization.
392
 Thus, in this time of change and challenge to the museum as an

institution in our modern society, the central question seems to be not

what museums should do but whether or not museum executive and trustee

groups will accept in a broad sense that it is possible and desirable

that museums be managed. Included here is the question as to whether

adequate authority and means will be given such executive groups to

successfully develop the abilities and techniques and the means of suc-

cessfully managing museums in what is clearly emerging as a new era in

the public and private life of these institutions.

Once the commitment to manage museums has been made, it should

be realized that no single museum institution is quite like any other,

so that universal formulas for improvement are neither available nor

usually desirable. Each institution requires its own line of develop-

ment based on its values and the kind of opportunities it is exposed to

or can help create for itself. Offered here are merely what are believed

to be useful ways of looking at the museum management situation and some

conclusions our firm has come to in the past few years of work in this

field.

There are a number of ways in which museum facilities and staff

have been of value to society. One has been as a repository of objects

of value. In effect a museum is a file or "library" of objects that are

then an important record of the activities of either previous or contem-

porary societies. Included in this general object-library function is

the curatorial function of determining the identity and authenticity of

the objects stored, developing new ways of thinking about and classify-

ing objects, and helping the many people who wish access to the object

library in their thinking and object-examination process.

393
 A second function has been that of an academy for people whose

work requires them to be frequent users of the object library. These

users are made up of representatives from almost all the social sciences.

Included here are those whose intellectual work is about the object

library itself or the objects contained therein, as well as those whose

work is about those societies and activities of which the object library

is a record. As an academy, the museum is a fiscal structure through

which funds and support services can be provided for such work as well

as a setting in which people whose financial support comes from outside

the institution can meet, exchange, and present ideas. For this purpose

lectures, seminars, and a variety of publications have long been a part

of many museum activities. On an informal level museum curators and

librarians are almost always valuable sources of information as to who

is doing what research and thinking on what topic. Thus the informal

"invisible college" that today is -- as it was in earlier days -- the

principal organizational vehicle for communication and cooperation in

intellectual and scientific endeavors often utilizes the museum institu-

tion and its personnel as a nodal point.

A third function is that of a showcase where the ideas of schol-

ars and curators are presented in the form of special exhibitions and

where contemporary artists and other producers of objects can publicly

display their work. Because the museum contains many of the most tan-

gible records of previous and even present times, such presentations

also relate directly to the conceptual fabric of contemporary society.

Although in our increasingly future-oriented culture statements about

the past may seem to have less relevance to our present lives, we must

not forget the age-old human experience that those in a position to

394
rewrite the past are in a position to control perceptions about the

present and the future as well. From this point of view the museum is

not only a vehicle whereby scholars and curators can communicate intel-

lectual and aesthetic discoveries; it can be seen also as an institution

through which a form of social control can be achieved. It therefore is

not surprising that various sorts of influence and control over museum

institutions are desired and achieved by various social groups.

What is occurring at the present time is an expansion of the

total number of people utilizing each of the functions of the museum.

This is causing both an evaluation of the relative value of each func-

tion and a further definition of these functions by museum people. On

the other hand, more serious definition is being given to various propos-

als whereby more efficient performance can be achieved within each of

these functions.

One such proposal is associated with improving the retrieval and

classification of information about the object library. Much of the

present planning of the Museum Computer Network is directed toward the

more efficient utilization of this library by an expanded number of

people. Other proposals involve limiting access to certain portions of

the object library (in response to a larger number of total museum

facility users) and perhaps evaluating the user's need to achieve such

access.

Another proposal is that associated with the introduction of

orientation centers into museums. This is an attempt to extend the

meaningfulness of the museum experience for nonprofessional visitors

and, on the other hand, to increase the capacity of facilities by

395
encouraging museum visitors to be self-programming and developing their

ability and motivation to fully utilize the museum's object library.

Still other proposals call for extending to the public itself

some of the information access and retrieval facilities that are cur-

rently being proposed for the professional users of the museum informa-

tion file. The staff at Interaction Signal, Inc., have for the last

four years been developing prototypes, both utilizing time-shared com-

puter facilities and not, for use both in orientation centers and else-

where in the museum's public places. This work has been done on an

experimental basis and has now developed to the point where significant

museum installations can be developed using the equipment and concepts.

The most significant new feature of the museum visitor's experience with

such devices and in such environments is that he has an active and often

creative control over the information that is coming to him and is not

merely a passive consumer of predetermined presentation.

But there are some areas where the influx of more users presents

greater problems. For instance, the exhibition, as a communication form

using objects as its primary medium and focus of attention, cannot be

indefinitely extended in capacity, for a number of reasons. One limita-

tion of the museum exhibition, when it is extended to the general pub-

lic, is the demand many museum exhibitions make that viewers understand

the historical time and artistic context within which the show finds its

theme. Very few people, even when "well educated," have such knowledge.

Thus, while the museum show on the surface seems to have broader mass

appeal than the individually displayed object, more special kinds of

perceptions are often required if one is to respond meaningfully to a

show.
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 Perhaps the greatest limitation upon the show is that it is in

fact a show. As such it must be prepared carefully and objects purchased

or assembled carefully. Yet when shows are asked to compete in frequency

and novelty with shows of other types now available in our society --

movies, theater, television -- the quality of presentation and prepara-

tion of the museum show decreases. Its level of preparation cannot com-

pete with those types of shows which can be reproduced and play to, and

be paid for by, very large audiences.

The influx into museums of substantial numbers of visitors may

confront that institution with still another limitation: that increas-

ing the size of the object collection to keep pace with the growth of

attendance is not probably feasible without markedly decreasing the

standards by which objects are evaluated for acquisition. For there is

no evidence that the number of objects which would be deemed valuable

by most museum institutions is growing at the same rate as the increase

in audience. In addition, there is no reason to believe that ever

larger collections are the solution to absorbing and serving ever larger

influxes of gallery visitors. For the limitation upon museums to absorb

and interest large numbers of people is not linked merely to numbers of

objects and floor space but primarily to the depth and variety of per-

ceptual experiences people can bring to perceive the objects themselves.

If an audience sees very little, then increasing size of the collection

has a very marginal impact on the amount of variety and attractiveness

available to such audiences from the museum as a whole. If a museum

attempts to achieve novelty in this way it is fighting a losing battle,

for this sort of novelty is the mere novelty of acquisition, and once

397
the object is seen, its "novelty" (within the framework of an audience

which is seeing very little) is soon dissipated.

A more economically practical and ultimately more enduring way

of achieving novelty is to enhance the audience's ability to be actively

inventing perceptions about the object library which is the museum.

This route to novelty depends not so much upon the novelty of the

object as upon the novelty of perceptions available when people them-

selves are allowed and encouraged to invent such perceptions. Since

there is no reason to think that human perceptions are not infinitely

various, there is no reason to believe that the novelty available from

the object library of the museum is not infinitely extendable.

Such an approach means abandoning the concept that novelty can

only be presented to audiences. This approach not only commits the

museum to a burden of providing a presentational schedule in competition

with the now highly developed presentation media (movies, television,

radio); it also can have the tendency to "turn off" the audience's own

considerable ability to invent meaning by showing them such well worked

out concepts and categorizations that their own roughshod intuitive

developments seem inadequate. In this sense the traditional function

of the museum as a stage for presenting exhibitions that express the

advanced concepts of scholars and museum curators can be thought to work

against the greater objective of audience perceptual invention.

Encouraging the audience to participate and interact more per-

sonally with the object library need not involve actual changes in the

physical structure of museums or the kinds of objects that are collected

by museums. Rather, we are talking about the kinds of visitor percep-

tions that museum managements should encourage.

398
 One way management can encourage broadened visitor perceptions

is to create orientation centers that will emphasize the active, creative,

participative role which museum visitors must play in order to achieve

interesting experiences in museums. But the installation of orientation

areas cannot be the only step. A whole series of steps can be taken

within the framework that I have labeled environmental management, to

support the museum visitor's role as a source of perceptual innovations.

For, if the perceptions of visitors of the museum as a whole do not

change, the value of a single orientation area would be marginal.

One line of management action involves opening up museums as

places where the community can stage concerts, meetings, festivals, and

other events. Another set of proposals calls for the staging of events

that deliberately attack the question of widening the perceptions of

visitors. Students could be encouraged to do slide shows of the

museum's object library, invent stories, and otherwise use the material

creatively and in nontraditional ways. The object library can and

should advertise itself as a setting wherein perceptually inventive

people come to create, rather than merely a place where verified and

legitimized cultural experiences are prepared by professionals and pre-

sented to nonprofessionals. A great many other lines of management

action could be taken to encourage the more active and creative use of

the object library. My suggestions simply sketch some of the possibil-

ities.

I should like to point out that this set of ideas is increas-

ingly being tested and applied in the museum field. Imaginative and

vigorous leadership is increasingly exploring the possibility of regen-

erating, of making resonant, the museum as a total aesthetic resource

399
for the community. You, and others like you, are moving forward on a

broad front, and I am aware that my voice is at best a very small con-

firmation of your activity and ambition from the point of view of the

communications disciplines. I would like, however, to urge you to

accomplish what you can without costly change in the facilities and

collections of your institutions, but rather through the strategies of

deployment and allocation of resources and a responsiveness to users,

all of which I have called environmental management.

400
 CONFERENCE PARTICIPANTS

Junius Bird. Curator, Department of Anthropology, American Museum of

Natural History, Central Park West at 79 Street, New York, N.Y.
10024

Donald L. Bitzer. Director, Computer-Based Education Research Laboratory,

University of Illinois, Urbana, Illinois 61801

Serge Boutourline. President, Interaction Signal, Inc., 113 West 42 Street,

New York, N.Y. 10036

Edmund A. Bowles. Industry Marketing Representative, Humanities,

Libraries, Arts, IBM Corporation, 1825 K Street, N.W., Washington,
D.C. 20036

Virginia Burton. Assistant Curator, Department of Egyptian Art, Metro-

politan Museum of Art

Robert G. Chenhall. Research Associate, Department of Anthropology,

Arizona State University, Tempe, Arizona 82581

Carl C. Dauterman. Associate Curator, Department of Western European

Arts, Metropolitan Museum of Art

Everett Ellin. Executive Director, The Museum Computer Network, 27 West

53 Street, New York, N.Y. 10019

Herbert Freeman. Professor, Department of Electrical Engineering, New

York University at University Heights, New York, N.Y. 10453

Stephen E. Fürth. Manager, Information Systems Marketing, IBM Corpora-

tion, 112 East Post Road, White Plains, New York 10601

Jean-Claude Gardin. Director, Centre D'Analyse Documentaire pour

L'Archeologie, Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique,
31 Chemin Joseph Alguier, 13 Marseille 9e, France

Dee F. Green. Assistant Professor, Department of Sociology and Anthro-

pology , Weber State College, Ogden, Utah 84403

Jack Heller. Director, Institute for Computer Research in the Humanities,

New York University at University Heights, New York, N.Y. 10453

Thomas P. F. Hoving. Director, Metropolitan Museum of Art

James Humphry III. Chief Librarian, Metropolitan Museum of Art

Robert S. Lee. Consultant, IBM Corporation, Corporate Headquarters,

590 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10022

401
J. C. R. Licklider. Professor, Department of Electrical Engineering,
Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 77 Massachusetts Avenue,
Cambridge, Mass. 02139

Kenneth Lindsay. Chairman, Department of Art and Art History, Harpur

College, State University of New York, Binghamton, New York 13901

Janice Lourie. Scientific Staff Member, New York Scientific Center, IBM
Corporation, 590 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10022

Leslie Mezei. Associate Professor, Department of Computer Science,

University of Toronto, Toronto 5, Ontario, Canada

Joseph V. Noble. Vice-Director for Administration, Metropolitan Museum

of Art

William J. Paisley. Associate Director, ERIC Clearinghouse on Educational

Media and Technology, Stanford University, Stanford, California
94305

Harry S. Parker III. Chairman, Department of Education, Metropolitan

Museum of Art

Alex F. Ricciardelli. Chairman, Department of Anthropology, University of

Oklahoma, Norman, Oklahoma 73069

Allon Schoener. Visual Arts Director, New York State Council on the Arts,
250 West 57 Street, New York, N.Y. 10019

Jeanette Wakin. Assistant Professor, Department of Middle East Languages

and Culture, 500 Kent Hall, Columbia University, New York, N.Y.
10027

William D. Wilkinson. Registrar, Metropolitan Museum of Art

402