This chapter focuses on micro encounters engendered by the Yale Peruvian Expedition, exploring via textual and photographic evidence the racial scientific research that shaped encounters in Peru between expedition members and Indigenous and Mestizo peoples, some of whom served as the expedition’s workers and assistants. Reading these sources in relation to the broader context of rural unrest in the Cusco region, the emergence of an urban and university-based indigenista movement that promoted the study of Indigenous peoples, and the rise of American-led expedition science, Warren questions how different groups imagined and contested the moral and ethical dimensions of such work. He argues that when measured and photographed, Indigenous and Mestizo research subjects ultimately subverted the expedition’s efforts to document accurate visual depictions of racial types. Drawing on the concept of ethnographic refusal in Indigenous Studies while also identifying other forms of engagement, Warren criticizes the univocal conception of moral fields as the possession of imperial researchers but not of Indigenous and Mestizo people subjected to their gaze.

Chapter 1 traces the antebellum faith in the non-finality of death and its antithesis in the irreparable change wrought by amputation. In sentimental theology, the dead are never wholly gone – they live on to inspire and save, awaiting reunion with those they leave behind. The dead child embodies the reality of unpredictability and at the same time operates within a narrative that soothes. The author contrasts antebellum postmortem photography and images of amputees and amputated limbs. Postmortem photography of children reinforces the sense that the family has not really been ruptured, that death isn’t really the end. Photographs of amputee Civil War soldiers do quite the opposite. Rather than operating as postmortem photography does, as a mediator between the living child, its dead body, and the family left behind, the portrait of the amputee is insistently in the present, even as the lost limb is consigned to an unrecuperable past. While nineteenth-century pictures of dead children often encouraged the fiction that the photograph’s subject was an ongoing member of the family, amputation photography – both medical and vernacular – insists on the permanence of bodily change.

The 7th of January 1839, the day on which Daguerre’s invention was announced to the public, is just one mark on photography’s long evolutionary calendar. Daguerre and Henry Talbot had succeeded in producing images years earlier using entirely different processes, although, for most of the 1830s, few people had seen them. Plenty, however, had heard about them: words inevitably preceded images. This chapter focusses on letters and other writings in which the concept of photography was taking shape in the decade before photography officially began, and it considers the wider public discourse in which such writing participated. It proposes that photography’s private pre-history reflects epistemological developments and anticipates literary and cultural shifts. While it focusses on English-language letters and draws primarily from Talbot’s correspondence, it also makes use of translated commentaries from periodicals and papers, departing from the tidy conventional narrative of invention and history to consider instead a messier ongoing conversation about something humans very much wanted: something that, throughout the 1830s, didn’t yet answer to the name of photography.

A positive online presence is indispensable in modern life, but establishing one requires thought and strategy. This chapter explores how to use social media to your advantage, with an appealing bio, techniques for posting that attract attention and admiration, which platforms to choose, the power of blogging, the effective use of artificial intelligence, and how to create and incorporate photos and videos to help make an impact online.

The archaic appearance of the Kelmscott Press publications can lend the impression of revivalism in its fundamentalist form. This chapter considers the modern (and partially modern) technologies employed by Morris’s bookmaking venture, ranging from Emery Walker’s method of photographic enlargement in the development of typefaces, to the employment of early nineteenth-century metal presses. The discussion focuses initially on Morris’s broader relationship with technology, including the influence of John Ruskin. As with Ruskin, an initial impression of hostility to all mechanised solutions gives way to qualifications based in the form of energy harnessed, the context of the work, and the relationship with human agency or intelligence. Morris’s account of weaving provides a particularly suggestive basis for rethinking his relationship with technology, and this opens the way for a discussion of two lens-based solutions which he applied to work at the printing press. The first relates to the mediation of the hand by photographic means, most notably Burne-Jones’s hand as designer of the Press’s woodcuts. The second concerns technologies of projection and enlargement, initially employed by Walker at the ‘magic lantern’ lecture that inspired the foundation of the Press, and then in the design of typefaces based on early Venetian models.

The late nineteenth century and early twentieth century saw seismic political and social change in the Philippines. It was a period marked by a series of watershed events: Spain’s ignominious defeat and the loss of the colony in 1899 to the United States; a subsequent bloody war and brutal pacification campaign waged by the US resulting in Philippine defeat and American colonization, the effects of which would reshape local societies and endure well beyond the next half a century. Tracking across a wealth of disparate sources, including colonial missionary confessional manuals and etiquette handbooks, photographs, and popular culture, this chapter explores Manila’s dance halls, brothels, and opium dens, popular folksongs and ballads that celebrated female sexual allure or lamented the mundanity of married life. Who were considered the arbiters and experts of sexual behaviour and what forms were deemed the most dangerous to morality, health, and public order? In the process of examining prevailing anxieties over sexuality, the chapter foregrounds a plethora of erotic intimacies, sexual habits and appetites, pleasures, and practices, and how these were expressed and experienced in a city that bore the brunt of revolutionary upheavals.

This chapter deconstructs the history of erotic art from prehistory to the twenty-first century. Instead of holding as self-evident the meanings of “art” and “eroticism,” it traces a history of how and why some forms of representation have been deemed erotic and the ambiguities of “art” versus “pornography.” Four related phenomena are used as anchors to explore erotic art’s long history: script, sustained long-distance contact, print, and the use of lenses and photography. These relate in turn to three important dimensions of world history: networks, or physical and informational connections between different regions of the world; technologies, mainly the means for creating and circulating visual representations but also including the pivotal technology of contraceptives; and ideologies, or how sex, eroticism, and art are defined and regarded. Contemporary conceptions of erotic art are in many ways directly traceable to key paradigm shifts in sexuality that originated in cultural, intellectual, and material interactions since the early modern period (approximately the sixteenth century). Like human history generally, the history of erotic art has been riven by hierarchies – including gendered ones usually privileging the perspectives of men – exploitation, and violence. But artistic representations of sex have also challenged long-defended hegemonies.

My father, Zack Gibbs, was 44 when I was born in 1951. He died of cancer 16 years later at age 60. Throughout his life he was a tinkerer. He liked to build things from scratch, something he got from his father who grew up on a farm. Both of them made toys for me. Unlike his father who made me things from wood, my dad loved designing and building electrical gadgets. I think he got his start in electronics from working in the 1930s as a technician for Professor Donald Menzel, the first director of the Harvard Observatory.

Understanding contemporary African American literature, this chapter argues, requires accounting for the rich, multifaceted dialogue between Black literary production and the visual arts. This chapter traces what Toni Morrison called the “alliances and alignments” between literature and the other arts by analyzing the aesthetics and themes of contemporary African American writing and examining the cross-arts influences that shaped it. The dialogue between African American literature and visual culture is part of a much longer tradition, and contemporary writers have built on many earlier precedents. But this chapter also unpacks how important historical changes, including developments in media technology and the rise of Black art institutions, have generated new and more numerous intersections between Black literary and artistic cultures since the 1970s. Focusing on three key spaces that provided material support and thematic inspiration for Black writers’ experiments with visual art – the home, museum, and university – this chapter examines how authors working in a range of literary genres, including novels, poetry, plays, screenplays, memoirs, and essays, engaged with a variety of visual arts, including painting, film, sculpture, and photography. The influences and aesthetics of visual culture, the chapter shows, powerfully infuse the work of many writers today.

This chapter takes up the literary reverberations of two types of photography – still and moving – in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The invention and popularization of still photography in the nineteenth century posed a challenge to all existing forms of representation, visual or otherwise: Whereas earlier forms offered necessarily imperfect, inexact, and approximate renderings of depicted subjects, the detached “camera eye” promised total transparency, accuracy, and objectivity. With the invention of silent film and, later, talkies, the camera extended its dominion of objective representation into further dimensions and modalities. Carver reads work by William Empson, William James, W. H. Auden and others to argue that cameras served “not only to make the visible world familiar, as early inventors hoped they might do, but also to make it strange.”

Jazz photographs are evidentiary documents, nostalgic memorials, and contributors to a romantic mythology and mystique. Sight and sound are combined and made more potent by mutual association. But classic jazz photographs do not exist in the realm of myth alone. Jazz photographs intersected with trends in portraiture, documentary, and advertising during the peak decades of the music’s popularity. They described the social contours of the music– the places where it was heard and the communities formed around it. And images helped sell the music, whether promoting performances or recordings. Photographs also made African American artistic innovation more obvious as the drive for equality gained momentum. The symbiotic relationship between the two art forms has been strengthened over more than one hundred years. Publicity portraiture, photojournalism, album cover imagery, street photography, African American photography, and archival and exhibition curation have all probed the music’s deep beauty for visual analogues and associations.

In the last decade, the field of sensory history has made great strides in advancing understandings of the historical and cultural articulations of human ways of knowing. While this body of scholarship has been helpful in broadening our understanding of complex histories infused by the human senses, it nonetheless treats the continents with an uneven hand, largely ignoring the non-Western world. A preliminary ‘history through photographs’, this chapter mobilizes historical sources only recently located and digitally preserved in Mizoram to explore how upland encounters with Christianity were also encounters of the senses. The chapter is organized into six related sections of human knowing: hearing, seeing, tasting, smelling, touching, and the upland harhna (or ‘awakening’). By including a sixth ‘sense’ - the non-biological but still sensory-charged world of the historical upland harhna - we can attempt to approach the earliest Christians on their own terms, remaining attentive both to the diversity of sense broadly defined and to the potential hamfistedness of traditional Western models applied without due reflexivity to sensory cultures in other world regions. Paying special attention to the human senses in zo ram reveals a thicker and more highland-specific understanding of how Christianity in the Lushai Hills became a specifically and overwhelmingly Lushai Hills Christianity.

This epilogue offers a concluding excursus, and looks back at a few key themes established in the collection of essays in Victorian Engagements with the Bible and Antiquity. Its aim is to tease out some further points for discussion concerning what could be described as a Janus-faced tendency within Victorian self-identity – a looking back to the religious and classical past, in the very process of charging forward. This excursus will introduce the conceptual vocabulary of simultaneity and of cultural forgetting, used respectively by Benedict Anderson and Paul Connerton, to facilitate some further reflection on Victorian experiences of time and temporality. It will contend that Victorian cultural engagements with the Bible and antiquity were always mediated via distinctly modern ways of knowing. If the book as a whole details a series of critical engagements with biblical and classical pasts through the long nineteenth century, then in this epilogue, an opportunity arises for analysing the very conditions – the material and epistemological frameworks – which shaped such engagements.

This chapter focuses on the archival challenge of how to frame the time and space of transit – in this case, the two-week journey from Yokohama to Honolulu as Japanese migrant labourers began their new lives in mid 1885. Considering transit as a fundamental ‘in-between’ space in global history, the chapter takes as its empirical starting point a large oil painting by the American painter Joseph Dwight Strong (1853–99). Strong’s painting purports to depict a Japanese family on the Spreckelsville plantation in Maui – the plantation on which the labourer whose gravestone is discussed in Chapter 1 once worked. To contextualize the transit features of Strong’s work, the chapter discusses the wider dynamics of post-1868 economic disruption in Japan on the one hand and, on the other, the post-US Civil War expansion of the sugar industry in the Hawaiian Kingdom. In this way, the chapter unpacks the painting’s wider claims about Japan and Hawai‘i’s respective positions in the changing Pacific world, including a fundamental fiction at the image’s core. It thereby makes the case both for Native Hawaiian voices and for Japanese migrant-labourer voices to be brought to global history’s archival foreground.

This chapter examines the nonfiction subgenre of graphic journalism or visual reportage. It first presents the major forerunners of the genre, including Kurtzman, Crumb, and Brabner and Merkle, then further addresses the characteristics of such graphic works from three perspectives: history, documentary, and authorial presence. The analysis of “history” highlights the difference between journalism as a report on recent, noteworthy events and the more distanced view presented in the graphic novel, which requires extensive research and comes much after the time of the events, thereby adding a historical perspective often lacking in journalism, even when the graphic works include a witness account of the authors themselves, as in Joe Sacco’s work, typically. The chapter studies the “documentary” aspect through the effort to represent the experience of others, with particular attention to the encounter between authors and cultural others. Finally, the chapter examines the pivotal role of the graphic “author-journalist” as curator and sometimes character in their own reportage, either directly (Delisle) or in more understated forms (Backderf).