Over the last thirty years museums around the world have shown an increased willingness to take on what is often characterized as 'difficult subject matter.' Absent in Anglophone museum studies literature, however, is a sustained discussion on what it is about such exhibitions that render them 'difficult' and, most important, what can be achieved by making painful histories public. This paper sets out to stimulate such discussion, illustrating the relevance of our concerns within the context of a comparative analysis of two recent Swedish exhibitions: The Museum of World Culture's No Name Fever: AIDS in the Age of Globalization; and Kulturen's Surviving: Voices from Ravensbrück . Very divergent in their presentation strategies and in the type of information presented, these exhibitions attempt to position their viewers in relation to violence and suffering of 'others' distant in time, place, or experience. We conclude by discussing the ways in which public history might animate a critical historical consciousness, a way of living with and within history as a never-ending question that constantly probes the adequacy of the ethical character and social arrangements of daily life.

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This article examines the debates that surrounded incidents of honeybee poisoning in the southern Great Lakes region in the 1880s and 1890s. Drawing upon the records of beekeepers and allied entomologists from Ontario and neighboring states, it analyzes the history of insecticide use, knowledge development, and risk calculation in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Here, beekeepers emerge as an important and largely overlooked collective voice in the history of insecticide controversies, contributing as they did to legislation, education, and advocacy efforts on both sides of the US-Canadian border. Their actions in response to a cogent threat to their livelihoods mark them as early advocates for environmental protection. Deeply familiar with the amenities and threats of surrounding land uses for their honey crop, late nineteenth-century beekeepers pressed for prudent insecticide use and “bee-friendly” horticultural practices more than half a century before the more familiar insecticide controversies of the postwar period. By the turn of the century, these efforts had borne some success in reducing incidents of honeybee poisoning. As the frequency, quantity, and toxicity of insecticides increased in the early twentieth century, however, powerful fruit-grower interests left Great Lakes beekeepers (and their bees) to shoulder the risks of an increasingly toxic countryside or to fold their operations, as many chose to do. For environmental historians, their fight presents an early example of the effects of agricultural industrialization, and its associated environmental consequences, on minority producers and the animals they kept.

Every summer from 1927 to 1968, Toronto conservationist Charles Sauriol and his family moved from their city home to a rustic cottage just a few kilometres away, within the urban wilderness of Toronto’s Don River Valley. In his years as a cottager, Sauriol saw the valley change from a picturesque setting of rural farms and woodlands to an increasingly threatened corridor of urban green space. His intimate familiarity with the valley led to a lifelong quest to protect it. This paper explores the history of conservation in the Don River Valley through Sauriol’s experiences. Changes in the approaches to protecting urban nature, I argue, are reflected in Sauriol’s personal experience – the strategies he employed, the language he used, and the losses he suffered as a result of urban planning policies. Over the course of Sauriol’s career as a conservationist, from the 1940s to the 1990s, the river increasingly became a symbol of urban health – specifically, the health of the relationship between urban residents and the natural environment upon which they depend. Drawing from a rich range of sources, including diary entries, published memoirs, and unpublished manuscripts and correspondence, this paper reflects upon the ways that biography can inform histories of place and better our understanding of individual responses to changing landscapes.