I think I’ve used Wikipedia only a handful of times in my life. I would guess that to most people that sounds like a blatant lie coming from a college student, but it’s been drilled into me by my mom (an English teacher) and my own teachers for so long: Wikipedia is simply not a credible source. (With that in mind, I just didn’t bother using it for much of anything.) I think in many cases that’s still true; most professors are just not interested in seeing a citation from “The Free Encyclopedia” given its mixed reviews and questionable sources. Wikipedia has been working hard to clean up its image, though, and I saw proof of that as I was working on today’s assignment.

Umlauts and the Spanish Civil War

I thought Jon Udell’s video about the Wikipedia page describing heavy metal umlauts was really neat–I continue to be surprised by the cool things tech-savvy people can do (I particularly enjoyed watching the updated posts stream in real-time). One of the things I found most interesting was that even though the topic doesn’t seem particularly scholarly, it was monitored in what I assume is the same way another page with a historical subject might also be: when an act of cyber vandalism was committed, it was corrected within two minutes. That’s a very impressive response time, given the volume of articles linked to Wikipedia (over 4,000,000 in English, according to their home page). It might still be relatively easy for a hacker to change a page, but Wikipedia seems to be making long strides in ensuring that those changes don’t last.

An act of obvious vandalism as noted in Jon Udell’s video seems as though it might be easier to catch than a missing link, a faulty citation, or incorrect information. How do the editors at Wikipedia check for those kinds of misrepresentations? I imagine Wikipedia’s editors, and those who read a particular post, are actively making corrections and adjustments as they read.

I think the Wikipedia entry for “Spanish Civil War” demonstrates the more pro-active role that editors and readers have been taking to make Wikipedia a trustworthy site. The page was clearly well-read; it not only contained a good deal of information, but also pictures, images of documents, flags, and lists of related people and groups, as well as a  “See Also…” section (which included a link to a page about Guernica, the painting that initially made me choose to perform a search for “Spanish Civil War”). I was impressed by what I found; the information provided good background reading for anyone unfamiliar with the topic, and as the University of Maryland’s Library site suggests, the page was organized and easy to use, as a good website should be.

One of the things I found most interesting was that two of the countless links within the article were red, rather than blue like the others (both were names of people associated with the war). I decided to click on those links, and both led to a page which said that the term had not been found, and that the subject should be searched under a different name. I thought the fact that someone had noticed and reported the missing links demonstrated that the site was being monitored and corrected. I was most impressed by the full citations, which included mostly scholarly journal articles or books and even had links to the books’ ISBN numbers! Wikipedia is definitely trying to ensure accuracy and transparency in this way. After watching Udell’s video, I also decided to check the “Recent Changes” section, and I found that a number of modifications had been made only today, September 16.

Fenton and Gardner: Wikipedia’s Predecessors?

I really enjoyed Morris’ three-part series, “Which Came First?” The speculation about the order of  the famous Crimean War photographs involved tactics, positioning, scientific tests, and questions of Fenton’s character, among other considerations.  The fact that the key to cracking the mystery involved something as simple as gravity and rock movement (even though that discovery was a complex process) was  surprising. Morris’ closing remarks, though, highlight the ability for the seemingly irrefutable conclusion to become the subject of further debate in the future:

I spoke with Dennis Purcell recently and asked, “Do you think these essays will put this issue – the issue of which came first – finally to rest?” Dennis replied, “No. I don’t think so. There could be some guy who reads your essays, writes in, and says: ‘You know, there aren’t just two photographs. I found another. There are actually three.’”

Morris’ extensive research and travel to find the solution to this question remind us that we may  not always be able to find the answers to our historical questions. As Roy Flukinger noted, “It’s one of the fascinating things about photo history. It always gives us more questions than answers. Historical photographs may give you the possibility of new facts, and may give you the chance to ask new questions.” In the case of the Shadow of the Valley of Death photographs, the question arose largely because historians and curators debated whether either or both of the photographs had been staged, and if so, in what order.  Staging is the pre-digital equivalent to photoshopping or editing–the photographer modified a particular scene to present a different meaning, to raise a question, or to make a point.

This discussion reminded me of a similar debate I’d come across as a junior in high school regarding Alexander Gardner’s Photographic Sketchbook of the Civil War, which Morris mentions in his article.

Unfortunately, I don’t have my copy with me at school, but I remember the discussion we had about Gardner’s staging weapons, moving articles of clothing, and taking some shots similar to Fenton’s that beg an explanation. For example, the image on the front cover of the book (also shown below), is called “The Harvest of Death”, and shows fallen Confederate soldiers . The second picture, ” Field Where General Reynolds Fell”, is purportedly the same picture taken from a different angle, but Gardner says it shows “our own [Union] men”.

“The Harvest of Death”:

“Field Where General Reynolds Fell”:

Both Fenton and Gardner’s photographs were taken in the 1850s. Even without digital editing, they modified their landscapes to project their own interpretations or ideas–not unlike our modern photoshopping or changing of Wikipedia pages. Unlike the editors on Wikipedia who respond in two minutes, however, we’re only just now recognizing their alterations.