Beyond Narratives: Interstitial Provenance as a Methodology for Transfers of African Arts

The story of Wellcome material at the Fowler begins in 1965, when the two-year-old museum, then known as the Museum and Laboratories of Ethnic Arts and Technology, received a gift of 30,000 objects from Wellcome Trust in London, England⁴ (Fig. 1). The Trust was responsible for the care and dispersal of countless artifacts, books, manuscripts, and art that was once part of pharmaceutical businessman Henry S. Wellcome's Historical Medical Museum (WHMM). The gift to the Fowler included artworks, material culture, and archaeological objects from Africa, the Pacific Islands, Australia, New Zealand, and Indigenous/Native North and South America. Unlike the Trust's earlier dispersals in the 1940s and 50s, the objects that came to the Fowler were systematically deaccessioned from both the storerooms and registration records of the WHMM. WHMM staff sent copies of the 4-by-6 inch notecards of the object records alongside the works. To avoid confusion about these records, we use Wellcome Collection's term “flimsy card” to reference the original copies still held in London while the copies at the Fowler are “Wellcome cards.” As addressed by information specialist Alexandra Eveleigh and curator Ruth Horry in their contribution to this special issue, these cards include a wealth of information: former WHMM inventory and registration numbers, physical descriptions, descriptions of use, measurements, and in many cases, provenance.

Upon receipt of the gift, the museum organized an exhibition in 1965 titled Masterpieces from the Sir Henry Wellcome Collection (Fig. 2). This exhibition showcased over 400 of the “best” objects from the gift, an initial determination by museum staff that would go on to have a noticeable impact on how the collection was treated in the years that followed. Objects from Wellcome Trust's gift have been in many of the exhibitions organized by the museum in the more than fifty intervening years, a preponderance of which were in the initial exhibition. As of this writing in 2024, nearly one fifth of the objects on view in the permanent collection gallery are drawn from this gift. And while hundreds of pieces from the donation have been extensively researched, the remaining thousands had not received similar attention.

In 2019, the Fowler Museum received a generous grant from the Mellon Foundation to study a subset of the museum's African collection. Fowler curatorial staff began by conducting a survey of the approximately 7,000 non-archeological African works in Wellcome Trust's gift and their accompanying archives to determine research possibilities with a particular eye towards inter- or multidisciplinary work. The grant allowed for the hiring of three additional staff: a conservation fellow (Marci J. Burton), a collections and conservation assistant (Kate Anderson), and a curatorial fellow (Carlee S. Forbes) to work alongside a cross-departmental team at the Fowler including Erica P. Jones (Curator of African Arts), Rachel Raynor (Director of Collections and Registration), Gassia Armenian (Curatorial Research Associate), and Christian DeBrer (Head of Conservation). Jones's initial 2019 trip to Wellcome Collection in London provided valuable contact with those at Wellcome Collection, namely Alexandra Eveleigh and Ruth Horry, and opened the doors for ongoing communication between the London- and Los Angeles-based teams.

As we began examining the objects and their archives, we sought to determine the potential of this material for raising new research questions. What emerged was the potential for several lifetimes of research. The gift from Wellcome Trust includes an expansive array of material from across Africa (although mostly focused on British colonial territories in present-day Ghana, Nigeria, Cameroon, South Africa, and Egypt,⁵ with a large additional subgroup from the Democratic Republic of the Congo) with an incredibly diverse range of ownership histories. The more that we examined the objects, their materiality, and affiliated archives, the more potential lines of enquiry arose. Our questions further compounded as we connected with other institutions holding material formerly from the WHMM. As evidenced by the conversations among authors in this volume, the cross-collection findings will continue to support collaborations for years to come.

As we developed our work plan, we sought to understand how we could trace the paths these objects took: when something was made and used, the circumstances of the work leaving Africa, its movement and interpretation in Europe, transfer to Sir Henry Wellcome's collection, and its history at the Fowler. With so many different options to drive the research forward, we decided on provenance as the most appropriate framework to focus on different moments in an object's history and to create layered, nuanced discussions about the ways in which the object's movement impacted its interpretation, use, and value.

The work of provenance research typically results in recording an object's movement and investigates the circumstances and validity of sequential transfers, as appropriate to the dictionary definition of the term “provenance” (Tompkins 2020: 10). An object's provenance, in practice, may be written as a list of names and dates or in a more narrative format. While these narratives provide a great deal of information (as well as citations outlining available documentation), we find that there is still something lacking. The American Alliance of Museums (AAM) suggests that provenance narratives use semicolons to indicate direct transfer and periods to signal a break in the ownership trail, with footnotes to document or clarify information (Yeide et al. 2001: 33-34). While the practice of adding explanatory notes is expanding (for example, see uses of extended provenance notes in the Yale University Art Gallery's web descriptions), without them, buried among the coded language of punctuation, we lose discussion about the absences. Curator Samuel Bachmann and museum studies specialist Maria Berazategui push to expand the understanding of narrative provenance, arguing that we can contextualize the actors involved, the implications of documentation and classification systems, and highlight the names left out (Bachmann and Berazategui 2022: 21-27).⁶ Our interstitial approach takes narrative provenance one step farther. By turning to the broader context and utilizing an understanding of general trends from the time period, our approach allows for research-based supposition to situate objects within trends, and then provide a sketch of each phase of transfer for the object based on the broader history. This wide-ranging look at provenance involves a multidisciplinary approach that includes analysis of archives, materiality, and oral histories.

Producing an interstitial provenance is as much about gathering information about the object in question as it is to break down and analyze past documentation and classification systems. Often the first step is a consideration of the archives, both in terms of gathering and collating available archives to see what information surfaces, but also a critical interrogation of the available documentation. In our experience at the Fowler, we have seen the immense benefit of revisiting archives, sometimes for the first time in more than fifty years since the initial acquisition, to reveal new names and circumstances of collection that lead to further avenues of research. The archives that accompanied Wellcome Trust's gift were an extraordinary foundation, providing a wealth of detailed data points including the names of donors or auction houses, dates of acquisition, prices, and then the assigned collection numbers. Each of these elements can become a starting point, fueling further research. Auction catalogs may name past owners or assert collection histories. Collections numbers connect objects to other records that reveal aspects of the works’ cataloging, display, and interpretation. And at each step of an object's movement, its descriptions indicate changing and shifting interpretations about the work's function and value. The compilation of these aspects to illuminate complex human interactions during the colonial era reveals evidence of both looting and coercion, agency and self-determination.

As with all archives, these paper trails only record a portion of the objects’ histories. For this reason, it became important to look critically at the archives themselves, acknowledging the absence of certain voices and their function as sources shaped by the culture of their time and thus able to reveal contextual information about collecting processes and preferences (Turner 2020: 4). In this phase, we were inspired by information scientist Hannah Turner's processes to trace the implications of past collecting, cataloging, and digitization efforts both in codifying and excluding certain elements of an objects’ history based on of-the-time decisions and priorities for collections and record keeping (Turner 2020). Archival paper records, as Turner explains, have often replicated “encoded colonial ideologies about race, progress, and material culture into contemporary digital records” (Turner 2020: 26-27). Similarly, in his primer to Nazi-era provenance research, provenance specialist Jacques Schuhmacher asserts the absolute necessity of understanding the context in which something was documented or collected (Schuhmaker 2024: 5).

These insights were key in guiding our critical approach to the Wellcome catalogue and the information recorded within. Wellcome and his staff purchased the majority of the collection from London-based auctions, which are the source of most of the written documentation available to us. Auction catalogs of the time typically included only a short description of the lots for sale, with scant mention of the objects’ past owner or record of movement within Europe among previous owners. Nearly every archival piece of evidence failed to include the names of African makers or sellers, report on the conditions under which an object left Africa, or record indigenous knowledge about the use and significance of the works within their communities of origin. To illuminate and amplify these archival gaps, we had to turn to other sources.⁷

What follows are three instances where our critically expanded methodology for interstitial provenance research enabled us to broaden and nuance the narratives about objects and their movements by analyzing moments of transfer alongside gaps in documentation. The first example, examining two formally similar Yorùbá-style masks from Nigeria, seeks to understand the gaps in the records documenting their departure from Nigeria before they entered the British market. The second case study examines a Nigerian veranda post's movement into successive private collections in England to illuminate movements along secondary markets. Finally, we turn to an example that focuses on African objects that are entirely divorced from any records that could link them back to their point of origin on the continent. The African objects from the collections of surrealist artists André Breton and Paul Éluard underscore the weight and seduction of recognized names and known data, especially when that data links objects to imposing figures of the past.

Within Wellcome Trust's gift to the Fowler are two remarkably similar polychromed Ère Egúngún ọlọ́ dẹ (wooden masks). The two masks entered the collection at the WHMM from two different sources in the same year. Wellcome's staff purchased one from Stevens’ Auction Rooms in London on January 6, 1925⁸ (Fig. 3). The other came from the Nigeria Pavilion at the close of the British Empire Exhibition, a colonial expo held outside of London from 1924 to 1925⁸ (Fig. 4). Given the close timing of the masks’ purchases, as well as their strikingly similar form, the team at the Fowler prioritized research on their possible origins in the hope that their respective paths to Wellcome's collection could reveal information about the original workshop's engagement with the local and international art markets.

Given the similarity in composition, iconography, and materials, it was the notable differences between the two masks that made their comparison especially fruitful (Fig. 5). A close observation of the mask purchased at auction shows clear signs that it was made to be used. Holes around the mask's neck would have allowed a costume to be attached and openings in the pupils of the eyes would have allowed the dancer to see while wearing it. Both ears of this mask show signs of damage from wear, and the breaks were obscured with pigment at some point. This could have been done by the original owners of the mask so that they could keep using it. Alternatively, pigment could have been added before the mask was sold in Nigeria or once it was in Europe, in both possible instances to make it more appealing for sale.

Conversely, the mask purchased at the British Empire Exhibition has no markers of prior use. There are no eyeholes, no holes for attaching a costume, and no signs of wear on the inside or outside of the mask. It is even somewhat unfinished: while painted black on the other mask, the lower rim of this mask is instead left raw. Portions of the edge have drips of paint, as seen below the ear and below the animal (Figs. 6-7). Additionally, although difficult to discern from printed images, the British Empire Exhibition example is marginally smaller than the first. The seemingly unfinished section of the mask led us to posit two reasons for its appearance: the mask was made for sale rather than use, making such finishes as holes for sight and attaching a costume unnecessary, or someone purchased it for the international art market before it could be finished for local use.

While the striking formal similarities between the two masks indicate a likely common point of origin, suggesting that the same individual possibly carved them both, archival and historical research elucidates the cause of these subtle discrepancies between the two masks. On the one hand, we know little about the origins of the mask that shows signs of use beyond that it was sold at a London auction in January 1925. This reveals nothing about the specific history of this mask type, other than the salability of such masks on the UK art market at that time. On the other hand, the provenance of the second, unfinished, mask may open to a better understanding of both works. Purchased at the Nigeria Pavilion at the British Empire Exhibition in 1925, it is possible, if not likely, that this mask was purchased in Nigeria expressly for display at the expo.

The pavilion's primary function was to showcase the natural resources that Nigeria offered to imperial trade partners. A subsection of the pavilion was intended to transport its British visitors to the colony through a display of Nigerian arts that included this mask (Fig. 8). The installation showed arts from across Nigeria, including the recently integrated Nigerian Cameroons. Some of the displayed objects bore clear signs of repeated use and others were made for the tourist trade.¹⁰ It would appear that this mask falls into the latter category. Without purchase records it is impossible to say whether the organizers of the Nigeria pavilion commissioned the mask from the artists directly or purchased it from one of the many sources stocking the tourist and expatriate art market in Nigeria during that period.

Turning to other sources to fill the silences of the archive, the work of many scholars on the Adugbologe family helps to fill in some of the gaps in our knowledge. Both masks were included in the 1971 exhibition and publication Black Gods and Kings, and art historian Robert Farris Thompson identified them as having been carved by sons of Adugbologe in Abeokuta, Nigeria (Thompson 1971: ch. 15, pl. 9).¹¹ This stylistic attribution seems undebated and allows further linkage to the context of the masks’ creation. According to anthropologist Norma Wollf, Adugbologe was a prolific carver who trained his sons and grandsons to continue the practice (Wolff 1985: 118). In 1925, when both of the masks in question came onto the market, the family's carving business was in a moment of transition, as a shifting religious landscape had resulted in declining demand from the local community for religious carvings during the interwar period (Wolff 1985: 117-21). Even as the demand for some commissioned works decreased, it seems that by the 1940s the family was still producing dozens of Egúngún masks for practitioners throughout the country, many in urban centers (Meyerowitz 1943: 66).

How do the works at the Fowler fit within the larger discussion of the workshop's artistic output and trajectory, particularly in the moments around 1925? While little is known about how these two masks were transported from Nigeria to England, the dates provided by the provenance records, in conjunction with the historical narrative about the artists’ workshop, allow for some conjecture about how and why these pieces left Nigeria. Combining the provenance, physical features, and stylistic attribution, we can place these masks within the larger discussions concerning artists’ experience in Nigeria in the first decades of the twentieth century and their ability to straddle different types of customers and markets within Nigeria and beyond. Assuming that the two masks were made by the same artist or in the same workshop, we can use them as an illustration that artists in this moment were, unsurprisingly, capable of working for both local and expatriate or international art markets.

The larger mask that shows signs of use likely indicates a work made for Nigerian audiences. Given the time period when it came to the international market, there seem to be two likely inferences about why it was sold by the previous Nigerian owners: either the owners were interested in selling the mask to raise funds for the purchase of a preferable example that was new and unblemished, or they were among the community of converts divesting themselves of the markers of their previous religious practices. (It should be noted that a sale by previous Nigerian owners is an assumption based on a lack of evidence to the contrary.) The path taken by the mask displayed at the British Empire Exhibition could similarly be linked to the shifting religious trends identified by other scholars as an indication that the workshop may have turned their production to other markets as a means of compensating for the decline in local commissions. Or, it could have been other market forces. In the future, we may be able to clarify these uncertainties if we were to uncover more about the interaction that led to the creation and sale of the mask for the British Empire Exhibition. But at this moment, we are left with a series of proposed hypotheticals for both masks. Constructed from shards of evidence, they produce two related narratives that illuminate multiple possibilities regarding the agency of African makers and sellers.

Our next example, a carved Yorùbá-style (possibly from Ekiti) polychromed post, demonstrates a possibility for provenance research to focus discussions about European markets. Composed in two registers, the upper depicts a seated female with a small figure on her back and holding a second, smaller figure in her right hand. The lower register depicts a second seated female alongside Èṣù playing a flute (Fig. 8). Based upon the configuration of these figures, art historian Robert Farris Thompson surmised that this post originally supported the roof of an Ogboni lodge, a structure where elder initiates of the Ogboni society (a kind of judiciary authority) would convene (Thompson 1871: 6/2).

Research to date has revealed little else about the origins of this work—we cannot name the artist, further refine a place of creation, or concretely determine circumstances under which the post left Nigeria. However, as we will see, this post and its affiliated archives has a great potential for illuminating trends about collecting in Nigeria, markets in Europe, and the internal workings of the WHMM.

The Wellcome card indicates that Charles J.S. Thompson, curator of Wellcome Historical Medical Museum and librarian of manuscripts, purchased the work from a “Mr. Iles of Bristol” in April 1925.¹² Tracing this name in Wellcome collection's archives, we learn that in March 1925, a man identifying himself as “Iles” wrote to the Burroughs & Wellcome company¹³ stating that he had been informed that the museum would be interested in the post and that Iles was offering the work for sale.¹⁴ After being forwarded the request, Thompson then corresponded with Iles to gain further description and evaluation of the work's quality and age (Fig. 10). Iles replied that he had obtained the post

The archives—including letters like this one—provide no exact place of origin or date when the work arrived in Bristol, but they do seem to suggest that it arrived in Europe at the hands of a soldier. This small claim leaves us wanting more information about the context of collecting. Perhaps the materiality, and the presence of the burned area on the legs could offer further information (Fig. 11). Was it a fire in the original context causing the work to be replaced? Was fire a means to deconsecrate the work? An instance of violence that included fire? A fire in transit? Despite these many possibilities, so far we have no concrete answers.

While we cannot know specifics, Thompson's correspondence with Iles and with Sir Henry Wellcome reveals quite a bit about the social-class politics of collecting in 1925. Thompson traveled to Bristol to view the post himself and to assess its quality.¹⁶ Thompson's report to Wellcome about the visit reveals his astonishment at what he found:

Thompson seemed quite surprised to find a quality collection in what he described as a “low class” pub, and even more astonished at the display, “laid out like a museum.” Thompson went on to buy several more objects from Iles over the next decade (mostly weapons from Congo). So far, our research has only been able to confirm Mr. Iles as Isaac Iles, owner of The Queen's Head pub in Bristol. We know nothing else about his possible travels to Nigeria or Congo nor do we have further information about purchases he and his father made in Bristol. Nonetheless, the presence of this group of objects alongside Thompson's assertion of the pub as a “low class” institution helps to further illustrate, via Iles, the collecting habits of a nonelite Englishmen.¹⁸ At the very least, Isaac and his father had enough disposable income to purchase works while abroad and from those returning to England from international ports. Thompson's surprise at the quality of the pieces in Iles's collection seems to indicate that Wellcome and his agents held an elitist attitude that privileged collecting from members of their own educational and financial milieu.¹⁹ They seemingly did not anticipate commensurate value in the dockside trade in objects or collections compiled by working-class enthusiasts. And yet, the desire to collect clearly permeated all strata of society, as the volume of objects available for sale provided for potential acquisitions at a wide range of price points.

The records connected to the purchase of this post indicate the existence of a much broader art market for African arts beyond the London auction houses that Wellcome and his staff frequented. This market was fed by trade in England's numerous port cities. By the first quarter of the twentieth-century, Bristol had long been an important node in the connection between England and the African continent. As Iles's initial communication indicates, along with raw materials, colonial personnel, mail, and other goods and people who passed through this busy port, were people looking to sell the arts (procured by purchase or other, less-ethical means) to a local interested art market. Records show that dealers across Europe were frequenting port cities in search of arts to buy from returning travelers and, as this exchange indicates, there was a local market of enthusiasts who were also interested in buying.

With a collection totaling over one million objects, it has always been difficult to understand what role Wellcome had in building the collection that bears his name, and yet, the correspondence about the purchase of this post provides insight into the level of Henry Wellcome's involvement in some purchases. Leading up to the acquisition, the curator Thompson's regular reports to Wellcome include multiple references to the post, while Wellcome responses are curt—merely stating “noted” for most sections of the report—and approving Thompson's purchases (Fig. 10). He has the occasional interjection, such as saying that he doubted a claim that a work Thompson purchased had been from one of Henry Morton Stanley's expeditions to Congo in the 1870s-80s.²⁰ Thompson dutifully wrote reports to Wellcome, and Wellcome regularly sent his comments and opinions, showing his engagement in the acquisition process.

As for the path this post took from Nigeria to the Isaac Iles pub, and eventually to Sir Henry Wellcome, we again lean heavily on supposition based on archival fragments despite the five years of research into the work. It is exceedingly rare to find any documentation tracing the types of sales that took place at the ports of entry to England or other colonial powers. And yet, raising this possibility is incredibly valuable as a reminder of the casual trade in objects that occurred. This is a trade that could have accounted for the movement of many more objects than will ever be known as they may not have ended up in museum collections, and even if they have, it is exactly this type of exchange that is rarely recorded and can be smoothed over once in the hands of a known dealer.

In a final example, we turn to a group of objects from WHMM and now at the Fowler whose monetary value and perceived historical significance is very closely tied to their provenance outside of Africa. André Breton, an artist and poet, and Paul Éluard, a poet, were among the founding members of the surrealist movement in France in the early twentieth century. This movement, led by Breton, turned to global indigenous arts as a point of inspiration in their artistic practice as well as a general salve on their growing displeasure with the dominant culture of their European milieu (Browne 2011: 246). As objects from around the world flowed into colonial metropoles, many artists, Breton and Éluard included, latched on to these arriving pieces as they sought in them a newfound perspective on how society could function (Breton 1952: 235; Browne 2011: 249). For Breton and Éluard this interest was more than a passing fancy: it sparked a desire to collect, and they began traveling in France, Holland, and England acting as buyers for dealers back in France (Browne 2011: 251). Among those dealers was Charles Ratton, who would later go on play an important role in the history of the Breton and Éluard's collections.

By 1931, both Breton and Éluard found themselves in a dire financial situation (Monroe 2019: 174; Maurer 1984: 546; Browne 2011: 252), and, excruciatingly, they made the decision to sell their collections in a joint sale. Organized by Ratton, the sale took place on July 2 and 3, 1931 at the Hôtel Drouot, and Ratton was optimistic that the excitement about the 1931 Paris Exposition Coloniale would boost sales (Monroe 2019: 195). Titled Sculptures d’Afrique, d’Amerique et de l’Oceanie, the sale included 351 pieces in 312 lots. Of those lots, only thirty included art from Africa²¹ (Fig. 12). Much of the collection sold in 1931, raising 285,290 francs.²² What did not sell was returned to the artists (Peltier 1984: 114). A small number of objects from this sale have ended up in high-profile institutions like New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art and Paris's musée du Quai Branly-Jacques Chirac, but the rest have largely disappeared from the public consciousness. While the sale may receive a mention in texts related Breton's early work, scholars tend not to go beyond stating the fact of the sale and, by extension, the earlier collections’ existence. One possible explanation of the relative silence of this collection, in comparison to the well-documented and much vaunted later collection assembled by Breton, is that at least a quarter of the lots were purchased by one of Sir Henry Wellcome's agents.

It is difficult to state how many lots Wellcome purchased from the 1931 Breton/Éluard sale. According to Fowler records, objects from twenty-seven lots from the sale are currently at the Fowler (Figs. 13-14). In London, Wellcome Collection archive's holding of “flimsy cards” indicate that Wellcome bought ninety-two lots. Yet, there are multiple gaps in this series of records. If the accessioning was truly contiguous, and the missing numbers in the series apply to other lots from the sale, as later Wellcome accessioning logs indicate, Wellcome possibly purchased 161 of the lots.²³ This would indicate that (via his agent) Wellcome was, by far, the largest buyer at this seminal 1931 sale.

In this example, we see the impact of Wellcome's collecting on our understanding of these objects in many ways. Having largely disappeared from the public record while in Wellcome's collection, these pieces are decidedly absent from most of the early and ongoing research on Breton and Éluard. Furthermore, when the objects were dispersed by Wellcome Trust, they went into collections focused on the arts of the region where they originated, again further distancing them from this brief stint in the collections of Breton and Éluard.

Objects from this sale are sparsely discussed in surrealism studies, despite having been collected during the foundational years of the movement. And yet, for these objects, the Breton and Éluard names become strange and powerful markers in their lives in the dispersal museums where they were received. The murkiness of prior ownership and an inability to pinpoint which pieces were owned by which artist furthers the valuation of the two, allowing all objects in the sale to be associated with Breton, the more famous of the pair. Nonetheless, while they lack any provenance documentation prior to Breton/Éluard, and therefore provide little information to provenance researchers, they do retain a cultural value simply by their association with the two surrealists (Fig. 15). Exhibitions, sales, and publications of global objects formerly in the collections of notable European and American artists consistently reference this association, as if the names inherently lend a certain aura or significance to the works.

As recently as September of 2024, an exhibition by H+R Art Consult at the Paris-based commercial art fair, Parcours des Mondes, titled Surréalisme: Zones de contact. L’Afrique, l’Océanie et l’Amérique du Nord comme lieux de dialogue et de friction focused exclusively on the world arts formerly owned by notable surrealists, an indication of the ongoing cultural and monetary value that the associations with the surrealists bring to these objects. As such, it is ambiguity in the history of ownership that creates the odd imbalance in value around these objects. There is a lack of intrinsic research value due to the ambiguity around the time and circumstances of their removal from Africa and a higher monetary value due to the ambiguity around the provenance of their prior ownership in Europe.

The biographies of the objects associated with the 1931 Breton and Éluard sale are dominated by the presence of the French surrealists. These artworks could be recontextualized as representatives of a large body of objects that populated small shops throughout colonizer countries. Or they could become a commentary on the fungible nature of African arts during the colonial period, whose value rose and fell as the public's interest waxed and waned with time and the occurrences of such expos as the 1931 Exposition Coloniale. Yet the broader narrative of the surrealists’ love for such objects remains, something that Breton reflected on in 1948, stating “I am still as captivated by these objects as I was in my youth … The surrealist adventure … is inseparable from the seduction, the fascination they exerted over us” (Breton 1995: 172) (Fig. 16). He characterizes his own experience with these objects as seduction, and it seems that the word could equally be applied to the market and museums today, as we too are seduced by their connection to the famous and widely admired surrealists.

The provenance of these objects is less focused on their origins, as we currently have no shards of information to examine that could reveal the experience or intentions of the works’ original makers, owners, and sellers. In the vacuum created by this lack of information, other narratives subsume conversations about the objects’ creation or use, instead focusing on the ways the pieces lived on in a new, profoundly misunderstood, and yet highly influential way.

The provenance narratives we construct about these works must acknowledge the gaps, as there are many missing voices. Although the narratives necessarily center the perspective of the surrealists, Africa still plays an important role in establishing their importance and their aura, though in this case, the continent is an idea more than a historical location. The surrealists’ ownership and their perspective on the objects are an indication of the value assigned to specific information and how the African voices came to be silenced. It is imperative that museums find ways to convey this imbalance, because until that is done, the stories that the surrealists told about these objects will remain the loudest and most lasting.

These three examples illustrate different ways in which data, information, or lack thereof can help us gain a deeper understanding of objects in museum collections. Interstitial provenance research draws on archival and humanities analysis concerning the transfer of objects alongside an analysis of missing voices to tell nuanced stories about the specific objects, the period in which they were made, and the times when they changed ownership. This approach leaves opportunities for an acknowledgement of gaps and absences, and the necessary contextualization of those absences.

From the shards of evidence, much of what we have laid out here is supposition. It is rare that we can be sure of historical circumstances or motivations. What we advocate for here is not certainty, but the importance of leaning into the unknown to present a range of possibilities. When communicating the provenance of museum objects to visitors, the simplified voice of the interpretive texts frequently hinders our ability to convey uncertainty and nuance. Shining a light on uncertainty as a potentially generative learning opportunity, is an approach that could do much to foster conversation and educate broader audiences. It could help the public understand that certainty is rare, despite the best efforts of dedicated researchers and the unique opportunities such as the Mellon Foundation project undertaken by the staff of the Fowler over five years. An absence of data holds the potential to tell much more than a singular story, as objects, like people, are rarely one thing to everyone and their biographies represent the plurality of experiences that animated and sustained the entangled social, economic, and political landscapes that propelled the movement of people and things across geographies and time.