Permission to Speak Franklin
The image of Benjamin Franklin looms large over Philadelphia – residents and visitors to the city can drive on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway to visit the Franklin Institute, perhaps after driving across the Benjamin Franklin Bridge from New Jersey. A half hour from Center City sits Franklin Mills Mall, which uses a number of Franklin icons to reinforce its regional identity, including a kite and lightning bolt and an enormous mechanical replica of Franklin’s head in the mall’s center court. Clearly, Franklin has a strong hold over his adopted home; the Smithsonian Institution’s Inventory of American Sculpture says that there are 41 statues of Franklin in the city. No other public figure has nearly that many statues devoted to him or her in any American city. There are 16 statues of George Washington in the nation’s capital; 14 of Abraham Lincoln in his home town.
To a Philadelphia native, Franklin’s near omnipresence seems perfectly natural – but as Philadelphia Inquirer writer Carrie Rickey commented in an October 10, 1999 article, “some of us who come from elsewhere are initially overwhelmed by Ben. We suffer from Benphobia. Philadelphia artist Flash Rosenberg dubbed this syndrome “the Bends.’â€? The comment was in part tongue-in-cheek, but it does raise questions. On what is our admiration of Franklin based? What do the images of Franklin convey to those who are unfamiliar? And does the abundance of portrayals of Franklin help give Philadelphians an understanding of the nature of the man and his accomplishments, as well as the revolutionary period in which he lived? A few years ago, I did a bit of a walking tour of the most prominent Franklin displays; I could go on at great length on the subject, but for now I want to focus on the portrayals of Franklin at two major Philadelphia institutions: the Franklin Institute, and the University of Pennsylvania. While certainly not a representative sample, they do illustrate some of the pitfalls of using public art as a means to create public awareness of history.
The University of Pennsylvania contains two public, life-sized statues of Franklin a short distance from each other, on the campus’ Locust Walk. The edge of Locust Walk, and the Penn campus itself, are interesting studies in contrasts, as modern office buildings, stores, and automobile traffic line Walnut Street with the more traditional, park-like elements of the campus (complete with older red-brick buildings) also in view. A few yards into the walk, however, a visitor comes into Levy Park, a small area perhaps four feet wide and 10 or 12 feet long, in front the University’s College Hall, one of the aforementioned red brick buildings that extends for much of the block. A plaque embedded in the ground, surrounded by stone tiles, commemorates the donor who funded the park, and then four benches adorn the length of the rectangle, two on a side.
At the end of the rectangle is a stone pedestal about eight to nine feet tall, atop which sits a life-sized, dark-green metallic statue of Franklin, sitting in a high-backed chair that is surrounded by pamphlets and papers (no neat stacks anywhere to be found) and holding an open book in his hand. He is looking out over Locust Walk, his eyes seemingly focused on the passersby below. From the vantage point it is hard to tell exactly what his facial expression is; it is perhaps somewhat stern, but there is at least the hint of a smile. On the pedestal the following legend is inscribed, although time has worn down the engraving to the point that is somewhat hard to read:
Benjamin Franklin
1706-1790
Venerated
For Benevolence
Admired for Talents
Beloved for Philanthropy
The interesting question that this statue provokes is, is the university trying to confer a status upon Ben, or is it attempting to draw some of that status upon itself? Many of the older buildings on campus prominently feature white signs upon which the name “University of Pennsylvania� is displayed in large letters directly above the words “Founded by Benjamin Franklin.� Since it can reasonably assumed that most people visiting the campus would be at least as familiar with Franklin as with the university, it seems clear that the university is staking its claim as a part of Franklin’s legacy. Depicting Franklin as a revered figure can only enhance that legacy and call attention to Penn’s place in it – after admiring the man, the viewer can look around and admire the creation that endures to the present day.
A fairly sharp contrast with the late-nineteenth-century reverence of the Levy Park statue is “Benjamin Franklin on Campus,� a work that sits a short distance further up Locust Walk. Another life-sized statue, this one in bronze, it features Franklin sitting on one of the many park benches along the walkway, leaning on his cane while also sitting back and looking over an issue of the Pennsylvania Gazette. Franklin may be focused on the paper, or on the bronze bird that sits perched on the bench, or perhaps on the people walking by; his smile is much more pronounced and his pose much more casual. This is Franklin-as-friendly-benefactor, a gentle guiding presence that remains a part of the every day fabric of the university. It is hard not to want to sit down next to Franklin and perhaps pull out a book of your own – because the statue is more directly embedded in the everyday life on the campus (on a pleasant day, the other benches might be filled with modern stay students, teachers and employees reading their own newspapers), it invites the viewer to make himself or herself a part of that everyday life as well. It is a celebration of Franklin to be sure, but it as least as much a celebration of life at Penn. Either way, though, it doesn’t really do much to inform anyone about why Franklin is a figure worth celebrating, or sharing a bench.
While the lack of critical historical interpretation presented by the Penn statues can at least somewhat be excused by claims that the statues are meant to be appreciated primarily as artworks and not as historical texts, that recourse is not available to the Benjamin Franklin National Memorial located in the rotunda of the Franklin Institute. The only congressionally-approved memorial in private hands, the Franklin Memorial attempts to educate visitors about the man and his accomplishments, but does so only superficially. At the center of the memorial is the white marble statue of Franklin sitting in a chair, hands on the arms of the chair, regally looking down at the visitor. The statue is almost 21 feet tall and weighs 92 tons; the highly elevated ceilings, white marble columns and ornate skylight add to the majesty of the surroundings; three large blue banners to the left of the statue bear the logo of the Memorial, and a small plaque in front of the statue provides details of the statue’s composition and a very brief history of the establishment of the memorial by a group of private citizens.
Any sense of wonder or grandeur, however, is diminished considerably by the narration that constantly plays over the loudspeakers in the rotunda. No more than four minutes long, it features as backing music a stereotypical 1700s fife-and-drum track that moves quickly from amusing to distracting to annoying. A female narrator recites a few sentences about Franklin, describing him as a Renaissance man and a man of science, while an actor playing Franklin delivers a few lines that recount moments in his life. There is no flow to this narration; Franklin seems to mention such bits of trivia as his invention of bifocals in an almost random fashion. In fact, the looping seemed to be off, as the narration jumped from time period to time period and from theme to theme.
In addition to the narration and the statue, there are three display cases to the right of Franklin, each one containing artifacts from Franklin’s life, arranged according to a different theme. The three cases are titled “Printer,� “Scientist-Inventor,� and “Statesman.� While the artifacts inside are interesting in and of themselves, they are not placed in any kind of historical context. At the “Printer� case, one can look at a printing press, some hanging copies of the Gazette, and some books, pamphlets and currency printed by Franklin. But there is no information on how the press worked, or what was involved in running it, or what Franklin was required to do in this role. What writing did he do? How did he select which jobs to take? How did the private printing of currencies work in colonial times? Questions such as these are all ignored, and so the objects become mere mementos and trivialities, admired for the connection to a previous time and, perhaps, as a benchmark to evaluate the progression of science. Certainly that would seem to be a major element of the “Scientist-Inventor� display case, which features a few objects like lightning rods but offers little in the form of critical commentary on how Franklin’s inventions were received at the time or even the conditions that led him to investigate the phenomena that he did. We are told of what he invented, but not why it was important that he invented them. In a memorial housed in a science museum, this seems like a particularly egregious omission.
There is certainly a limit to what can be absorbed by looking at a statue or reading an accompanying text. The University of Pennsylvania’s appropriation of Franklin as an icon is likely justified by Franklin’s prominence and his role as the university’s founder; it is the responsibility of academic institutions (like Penn, but also like our elementary and high schools) to provide the historical grounding for viewers to be able to place these iconic representations in perspective. The failures of the Benjamin Franklin National Memorial are more egregious, however; through the display cases and narration, it purports to educate visitors on Franklin and why he deserves to be remembered, but the paucity of information provided, and the means of its conveyance, means that the memorial can not help but fail in its educative mission while also disappointing aesthetically. If public art is to serve as a foundation for public grasp of a common past, it must be better than this.
About Dave Thomer
Born and raised in Philadelphia. Studied philosophy at Fordham University in the Bronx, where I made many great friends and met my wonderful wife. We moved back to Philadelphia, where I studied philosophy some more and became a teacher. Online and off, I'm looking for ways that we can be better citizens and build stronger communities.