‘Robert Whipple’s most beautiful acquisition’

Can you guess from the picture which instrument the quote above is referring to? Not really a trick question, n’est-ce pas? The equinoctial ring dial on the left was made ca 1715 by John Rowley, “Master of mechanicks to the King.” According to the museum’s label, the instrument on display is similar to the one commissioned by George I as a sumptuous gift to Peter the Great, but personalized for a (wealthy) French client (hence the French inscriptions on the instrument). This is, in short, a very expensive and elaborate sundial, an instrument to measure time.
But what really does this instrument tell us? Is it truly conceivable to think that Peter the Great would double-bend (he was 6’ 8” after all!) over such an instrument everytime he wanted it to tell time? Likewise with the French aristocrat, who bought it with plenty of Louis d’or? Maybe once or twice, for the kick of it—and to show they were not as dumb as they were rich and powerful. Then where would such a ring dial go? Most likely on a shelf, ostentatiously reflecting light from its polished brass, bathing onlookers in the glory of its owner.
Thus, one may ask, what was the “real” purpose of this instrument? Was it a “scientific” instrument, or simply a prestigious object of decorative art? Could it be both? Then again, can it be a “scientific object” if the “user” never employed it to tell time? If the latter is true (as I suspect), i.e. if this instrument was used and perceived as a beautiful and status-granting piece of decorative art, does it really belong in a museum of the history and philosophy of science?
Those are some of the questions that came to mind when I saw this instrument. In fact, they have been with me for a long time. We tend to forget that the majority of instruments found in museums bear a special stamp: they were kept preciously because they were believed to be significant to the history of a scientific discipline (or generally to the history of mankind). This is why we (too often) discover museum catalogues with headings such as Masterpieces (Deutsches Museum), Star items (Hunterian museum), Treasures (Fitzwilliam Museum, Science Museum), etc. They all tell, of course, very interesting stories (and often very important ones). Still, one is left to wonder what happened to “ordinary” stuff of daily life, the simple things—the non-masterpieces, the choses banales (Daniel Roche)—that were used all the time but never made in a museum. If you think, for example, that brass astrolabes are rare in museum collections, think again: paper astrolabes are much rarer. Yet paper astrolabes were in abundance in the Medieval East and in Renaissance Europe, since they were much more affordable (and somewhat easier to produce) than the brass ones. Why then have we more brass then paper astrolabes today in collections? I believe the answer is quite obvious. The tough issue is rather the following: can we fully understand the history of science with the kind of museum collections we possess today? Masterpieces propose valuable narratives for sure, but is it the whole story? Can we fully understand what it meant to do natural philosophy during, say, ancien régime France if we study esteemed objects such as this ring dial?
The equinoctial ring dial pictured below is truly a remarkable instrument, no doubt one of “Robert Whipple’s most beautiful acquisition[s].” The story it tells is one of skilled craftsmanship, patronage, trade, and science. But is it a “scientific instrument”? Visitors would probably recognized it as such if it were displayed in an art museum. Yet it begs the question: what gives it its so-called “scientific” character? Why would visitors state it is scientific in comparison to, let’s say, an early modern automaton? (The Musée des arts et métiers in Paris has by the way the most exquisite gallery of such devices). If the chief purpose of this ring dial was finally to faire le beau on a mantelpiece, as a result of a very complex and influential process of gift-exchange, why should we bestow on it a deeper scientific value than, e.g., Vaucanson’s famous flute player? Are the “users” responsible for making instruments “scientific”? Could it be the instrument maker, on the contrary, who gives an instrument its scientific character? In other words, does an instrument “become” scientific (due to its users), or is scientificity an “in-built” quality (given by instrument makers)? Is this ring dial a representation or an embodiment of science? Therein lies a large part of my sleepless inquiries…