Collections of living organisms are reservoirs of biological knowledge that operate across times and places. From the mid-20th century, scientific institutions dedicated to the cultivation of such collections have routinized and professionalized their care. But “care,” for these collections, is focused not just on individual organisms—instead, a principal aim of a curator is to maintain the integrity of a reproducing “strain,” “variety,” “line,” or “stock,” and the composition of a collection as a whole. This paper explores the forms, the material (...) dimensions, the temporalities, and the values of that care, to recover the conditions under which scientist-custodians maintain continuity of research over many decades. This paper does so by focusing on two rather different kinds of scientific collection: that of Drosophila fruit flies on the one hand, and plant seeds on the other. Their comparison is valuable because their vastly different needs and life cycles engender very different practices of care. Comparing the materialities, life cycles, needs, and values of these divergent collections helps to draw attention to the routine and the apparently mundane. First, the paper asks: what kinds of work go into managing such collections—that is, the day-to-day management and cultivation, surveillance, and administration of information? Second, it asks: how do these practices maintain the integrity of the strains and stocks, and the collections themselves? What kinds of value does this work create? Third, what are the future imaginaries that are rhetorically drawn into the funding strategies of these collections, and how do they envision future use, ownership, and control? (shrink)

From industrial psychology and occupational therapy to the laboratory bench and scenes of “heroic” fieldwork, there are important connections between the science of labor and the labor of science. Participants in the 2022 Gordon Cain Conference explored how greater attention to these connections might deepen historical understanding of what constitutes “science” and what counts as “labor.” Our conversations circled around themes of vulnerability (of systems, individual bodies, historical testimony), affect (pertaining to historical actors and ourselves), and interdependence (e.g. across human (...) groups, species, political boundaries, and time). For the members of this group, which grew out of a panel discussion, these themes and motivations coalesced around a topical focus on invisibility, which helped us to articulate – in the form of a co-created syllabus – research questions about science and labor from multiple angles pertaining to practice, archival preservation, and scholarly representation. This syllabus is organized into six thematic modules that aim to challenge and historicize the concept of invisible labor by facilitating comparisons across geographic, temporal, conceptual, and disciplinary boundaries. The goals of this collaborative syllabus, in sum, are manifold: we seek to facilitate more inclusive histories of science through critical engagement with “invisibility” and thereby promote a more expansive understanding of what constitutes scientific labor; to highlight the constitutive role of gendered labor practices in the scientific enterprise; to draw attention to interdependencies that make all forms of production (knowledge or material) possible; to elucidate systems of remuneration for scientific labor over the longue durée and through pointed comparisons; and, finally, to promote self-reflexivity about the methods we use to narrate the history of science and make sense of our own labors. (shrink)

This book explores how and why some people and practices are made invisible in science, featuring 25 case studies and commentaries that explore how invisibility can bolster or undermine credibility, how race, gender, class, and nation frame who can see what, how invisibility empowers and marginalizes, and the epistemic ramifications of concealment.

In the early twentieth century, the United States Department of Agriculture funded international expeditions with the aim of finding plant specimens for introduction into the agricultural landscape and the new experimental projects in hybridization. One such agricultural explorer, noted for his eponymous lemon, was Frank Nicholas Meyer, an immigrant from the Netherlands whose expeditions in Asia have brought to the United States celebrated fruit and toxic weeds. Neither professional botanists nor farmers, plant hunters like Meyer worked by taking advantage of (...) historical allegiances to academic programs, while leaning on the authority of their newer national institutions. In addition to plants, through photographs that transposed Chinese landscapes to U.S. environmental counterparts, Meyer contributed to the imagination of the agricultural promise of the American West. The era of these plant explorers has ended but their material trace remains in a variety of spaces and modes of existence that have hitherto been disregarded. Reading Meyer’s letters shows the authority and discipline behind his transformation from gardener’s apprentice to professional plant collector. I argue that photographs and plants are understudied material traces that enable historians to re-examine the means by which credit was received, given, and exchanged. By drawing together these traces, I chart the continued importance of exploration and collection in the twentieth century and show the epistemic continuity between nineteenth-century natural history and twentieth-century experimental science. (shrink)