"Odeon Hall around the turn of the century." Hurra draussen! Accessed March 23, 2017. https://hurra-draussen.de/was_ich_an_muenchen_vermissen_wuerde/.
On August 29, 1867, Karl Heinrich Ulrichs approached the stage of the Grand Hall of the Odeon Theater in Munich with the intention of urging a room full of strangers to repeal discriminatory legislation that targeted “deviant” sexuality – the German penal code on so-called carnal violations. Ulrichs waited anxiously as the chairman of the Sixth Congress of German Jurists read his request to speak. Calling for a vote as to whether he should be heard, there was a resounding cry of “Yes!” punctuated by some protest. The assembly of over five hundred jurists, elected representatives, and a Bavarian prince turned their attention to Ulrichs as he approached the speaker’s platform “with breast pounding” (Kennedy, 114). He later recalled: "What gave me the strength . . . was the awareness that at that very moment, the distant gaze of comrades of my nature was fixed on me. Should I return their trust with cowardice? . . ." (Lombardi-Nash, 262).
For my final project in Digital History, I will be using 3D modeling software (SketchUp) to reconstruct the Grand Hall of the Odeon Theater in Munich – the site of the first public political protest for "gay" rights. Using drawings, descriptions, and photos (taken at the beginning, middle, and end of the last century), I will extrapolate how the Hall might have appeared to Ulrichs in 1867 as he made his speech. The Odeon was bombed during World War II in an air raid and, as such, both the interior and exterior restorations differ very much from Urichs' time. In attempting to capture this site's former aesthetic, I hope to humanize (perhaps even dramatize) this important moment in queer history for my audience. The tangibility of space is an important and engaging aspect of history that I would like to explore through this project. "Setting the scene" by replicating the Grand Hall allows us to experience history in new, poignant ways.
SketchUp bills itself as "modeling for everyone" – easy to use and versatile. The software has already left its mark on the relatively nascent field of virtual heritage; after some research, I found several projects in which cultural heritage sites are being recreated/reconstructed using SketchUp:
- A "Visualizing the Past" competition at The Center for Digital Initiatives at Arkansas State University
- An Environmental Humanities professor's model of a nineteenth-century Canadian rural mill complex
- A hobbyist's recreation of an entire city (meant to eventually include all phases of the city's development)
- Vermont high schoolers' 3D printouts of their town's historic buildings
- A practicum assignment for students in a Digital Humanities course taught at Minnesota's Carleton College
- Lastly, a partnership between CyArk (a digital archive of the world’s heritage sites founded in 2003) and SketchUp as part of the latter's SketchUp for Nonprofits program
But what differentiates three-dimensional modeling from printed, two-dimensional pictures? The dynamicism of the tools we use to convey complex ideas and arguments is a prevalent theme in the digital humanities. This tool can bring research to new audiences by allowing them to engage with history in new and meaningful ways. We are capable of exploring sites to which we might not otherwise have access – thereby democratizing the physicality/intangibility of the spaces we occupy and to which we form an emotional attachment (if not conjuring questions of "reality" and "presence," as well as the privatization of the tools we use to conduct such exploration). We can also broaden the scope of historic interpretation by appealing to cross sections of learners: those who might benefit most from reading the descriptive text that accompanies the reconstruction (e.g., as above), or from visualizing the space in three dimensions while interacting with the model (e.g., rotatation, zooming). In expanding this project, I might consider other avenues of making my reconstruction more accessible and meaningful; perhaps a booming Ulrichs voiceover that narrates the events of that day, making the audience feel as though they are witnessing the historic moment; perhaps a (miniature) 3D printout that people can touch and examine "in-person."
Queer history needs to be explored with digital tools for three reasons: (1) popularization, (2) canonization, and (3) reconstruction. Narratives of queer politics have long been neglected by our collective historical imagination. Public history is first and foremost an act of publicizing underrepresented histories (making them readily available and understandable for the layperson); it is not simply the interpretation of that which is already well-known and well-documented. Digital tools are crucial in disseminating this "new" information by offering a variety of learning methods that are not restricted to a single location (e.g., a physical exhibit or historic site). As public history seeks to extricate itself from academia (theories and paradigms that are often revealed to be meaningless pretension), it must also disrupt the historical "canon" – a hegemonic intellectual falsehood that gatekeeps our sense of validity by encouraging adaptation and assimilation rather than proclamation and testimony. In parallel, digital humanities scholars have had to contend with similar issues at the foundational level. If both fields unite to address these problems, we may be better able to both popularize and radicalize our histories. Even within queer history itself, we find mis/underrepresentations of POC, trans people, women, the poor and working class. These issues can be exacerbated by a dearth of primary source material. Digital tools can empower us to document our own histories and disrupt dominant narratives within our own communities, while accounting for the losses that our histories have suffered. Even in the case of a nineteenth-century "white" European man like Ulrichs (and other queers of his time), censorship and time have both played a role in diminishing the historical record. It is my hope that this project can reconstruct some of it.
Creating a model of the Grand Hall opens up my research to new methods of analysis by allowing me to depart from prevailing paradigms in traditional historiography that claim "objective truths" and "concrete facts." The concept of a singular, impartial history is an institutionalized myth born of racism, classism, (cis-hetero)sexism, etc. We can humanize important events by engaging site-specific history, by infusing history with pathos – an appeal to emotion, to empathy. As such, my intended audience is the LGBT community, because my primary concern is with demonstrating history as a mechanism of self-empowerment. Peripherally, my audience is also cishets (especially the phobes) because, pragmatically speaking, their education (rather than their spectatorship and animosity) benefits us.