Arts Commentary & Writing, No. ❹
Way Back: Archival Photographs
Snapshots in Time: Unearthing 125 Years of Brown Alumni Magazine Archives
Edited by Louise Sloan and Pippa Jack; Produced by Courtney Cheng
STARING AT PAPERS, NOT PHONES
PHOTO: BROWN ARCHIVES
A tabletop radio for music and news, a small magazine rack by the radiator, a quill pen tucked into the corner for correspondence or notes, and a handmade doily framed as wall art. This mid-century dorm room feels worlds away, reminding us of a time when music and news came through static and writing still involved ink. The furniture is sturdy, classic New England: a wooden desk, a Windsor chair, and a patterned bedspread that looks as if they’ve seen everything from hurried mornings to lazy afternoons. But the scene itself is as familiar today as it was then. Three friends sit together, one in a chair with a book, the others cross-legged on the rug, huddled in conversation over course notes, a manuscript, or something of the sort. Not all that much has changed. We crowd into small rooms with oversized furniture, lounging on rugs—only now, with laptops instead of notebooks and Bluetooth speakers in place of radios. In most cases, the skirts and cardigans have been swapped for sweatpants and hoodies. And curtains are banned as fire hazards. Yet in the dorms, timeless rituals endure. Some things, thankfully, stay the same.
Short Hair, Long Game: Resistance, ’70s Style
| PHOTO: MICHAEL BOYER / BROWN ARCHIVES / BROWN ALUMNI MONTHLY VOL. 70, NO. 8, MAY 1970 |
In May 1970, Brown students—supported by most of the faculty—overwhelmingly voted to strike to protest the Vietnam War. Sparked by Nixon’s invasion of Cambodia and the killing of four students at Kent State, thousands at Brown joined a nationwide protest. Everyone showed up in their own way: some fasted (for 72 hours!), others leafletted factories, and a few even skipped finals. Even the faculty got in on it—many final exams were made optional. Students were gearing up to knock on doors and canvas across Rhode Island. But before they hit the road, they realized something: if they wanted to win over suburban hearts, they might have to lose the hippie hair. Long locks signaled counterculture on College Hill—but out in the ’burbs? Not exactly the look of trustworthiness. Enter the pop-up barbers. Pembrokers picked up scissors and gave shaggy manes a respectable trim—50 cents a snip. Proceeds went to the strike fund (which raised over $7,000), and the clippings? The sign behind the barbers said it all: “Save the hair and send it to Nixon!”
Read the original May 1970 BAM article here |
This Is Not a Gazebo. (Wriston, 1952)
| PHOTO: BROWN ARCHIVES / BROWN ALUMNI MONTHLY, MARCH. 1952, VOL. 52, NO. 5 |
That charming little “gazebo” on Wriston Quad? The one between the dorms that looks like a place to sip tea and read Pride and Prejudice?
It’s not a gazebo. It never was a gazebo. It’s a ventilator shaft. Specifically, it’s a disguised exhaust tower for a series of underground electrical transformers—basically a brick chimney in colonial cosplay. Built in the 1950s, it was part of Brown’s post-WWII campus expansion. The new dorms on Wriston Quad needed a serious electrical upgrade, but Providence city code said transformer vents had to be at least seven feet tall. So instead of ruining the vibes, the architects slapped a cute little roof on top and called it a gazebo. Problem solved.
And yes, it still works. Beneath that “summerhouse” is a humming power core straight out of a Bond villain’s lair. The whole quad was part of President Henry Wriston’s big master plan—complete with many Georgian-style dorms and a courtyard meant to look like an Ivy League utopia. But this one weird brick hat remains the ultimate campus catfish.
Hopefully next time you pass by, you won’t look as baffled as the three gentlemen once caught staring up at the little gazebo-in-disguise. |
IT WAS ALMOST CALLED “THE JOHN”
| PHOTO: BROWN ARCHIVES / BROWN ALUMNI MONTHLY, OCTOBER 1962, VOL. 63, NO. 1 |
1964: It Was Almost Called “The John”
Before Brown got its sleek new library in the ’60s, it was just a big ol’ crater where buildings used to be. In 1962, pictured above, you could’ve mistaken it for the set of a disaster movie—working title: Indiana Jones and the Missing Frat House. Seriously, Delta Kappa Epsilon disappeared from campus a year later, never to come back.
From that giant pit of rubble sprang a library so massive, it could hold 1.5 million books, nearly twice the University’s entire collection at the time.
The official name was The John D. Rockefeller Jr. Memorial Library. But students weren’t having it. They took one look at that mouthful and did what students do best—shortened it to something way cooler. Enter: “The Rock.”
The Rockefeller Foundation was not amused. They asked students to please, please, use the full name. Instead, students doubled down… and started calling it “The John.”
The Rockefeller Foundation eventually threw in the towel. “The Rock” stuck. |
CTRL + ALT + REVOLUTION
ILLUSTRATION: VALERIE MARSELLA / BROWN ARCHIVES / BROWN ALUMNI MONTHLY, SEPTEMBER 1983, VOL. 84, NO. 1
In September 1983, BAM published a cover that was both playful and prophetic.
A parade of boxy, grinning computers marches out the Van Wickle Gates—books in hand, screens beaming—as if they’d just earned diplomas in English lit and semiotics. It was charming. It was weird.
But behind the cartoon was a radical idea—and a series of serious questions. What if everyone at Brown—students, professors, staff—had their own personal computer? What would the future of higher ed look like? Would machines elevate or erase the human element of learning?
Remember: this was 1983. The Cold War was still on. Reagan was in office. The floppy disk was still cutting-edge. Most people still thought of computers as mysterious mainframes or the clunky beige boxes slowly creeping into corporate offices. Apple’s new computer “Lisa”—with its friendly interface and sky-high price tag—felt practically sci-fi.
Brown was ready to bet $70 million that computing belonged in the liberal arts—that it could revolutionize teaching and, depending on who you asked, elevate or erase the sacred book. Faculty from every field weighed in. Some were thrilled. Others, terrified. “We’re the one-eyed in the land of the blind,” said CS Chair Andries van Dam. “And we’re about to change everything.”
And change it did. Today, laptops outnumber students. Artists sketch on iPads. CS and quant bros stare into three-monitor setups like they’re decoding the Matrix. VR headsets make casual cameos on College Hill. Professors teach via portals that require two-factor authentication and the occasional call to IT. First-years show up to orientation with MacBooks, AirPods, Smart Watches, and an emotionally codependent relationship with Google Calendar.
And this is just the beginning. As we flip to the AI chapter, machines aren’t just helping us learn—they’re starting to write, teach, and think alongside us.
In ’83, computers were knocking at the Gates. And now, they are on the tenure track.
Read the original article here.
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More Way Backs coming soon.