On Saturday, September 19, 2026, the SPARK Museum proudly presents Still Life to Reel Life: A History of Image Projection—an exploration of the technological developments that led to modern motion pictures and some of the world’s most iconic shared experiences.

This new temporary exhibit includes artifacts from SPARK’s collection—many never before displayed—along with select pieces from the Pickford Film Center collection, local collectors, and the historic Mount Baker Theatre.

“People are surprised to hear we even have a collection of motion picture equipment,” says Charlie Bryan, SPARK’s director of operations. “To be honest, so were we.”

The SPARK Museum is known for having one of the largest collections of early electrical devices on display anywhere. What most people don’t know is that the collection is much larger—and extends far beyond the authentic objects currently displayed in the Museum’s galleries.

“Our basement is filled with hidden gems,” says Bryan. “Literally thousands of artifacts and novelty items, including a huge collection of early photographs, glass plates, and image projectors dating back to the 1880s.”

A Collection Waiting to Be Rediscovered

Co-founder Jonathan Winter began collecting early projection equipment in the early 1960s while living the good life in Santa Barbara.

“I love these indescribable photographs, images, and projectors,” Winter says, “and always thought someday they would make a great exhibit.”

Then, recently, collector and SPARK supporter Erick Larson passed away. His family graciously donated his considerable collection of early projection and film equipment, including a marvelous assortment of glass slides and early magic lanterns.

“Now we really felt compelled to do something with this unusual collection,” says Bryan. “So we started looking for collaborators to help bring this exhibit to life.”

Fortunately, they didn’t have to look far.

The Pickford Film Center is literally the Museum’s next-door neighbor—and already a dear friend and frequent collaborator. They, too, have a basement filled with treasures, including a terrific collection of early projectors and film equipment.

“We never miss a chance to partner with our neighbors, especially the Pickford Film Center,” says Abby Whatley, SPARK’s director of programs. “This particular exhibit gives us a lot of opportunities to overlap with films, activities, and special events.”

Another frequent collaborator and great friend of the Museum is the historic Mount Baker Theatre, which is celebrating its 100th anniversary.

This iconic Northwest institution opened as a movie theater in 1927 and possesses an impressive collection of early commercial projectors and film equipment—much of it, sadly, too large for this exhibit.

Still, we’re delighted to include the Mount Baker Theatre and tell its story, along with a brief history of early cinema in Bellingham.

Too Much of a Good Thing

“One thing I really want to impress upon people is that, by this point, we realized we had way too much of a good thing,” says Bryan. “We were only able to display a handful of these amazing artifacts. That’s the not-great news.”

The good-great news is that SPARK has everything necessary to trace the history of image projection—from the late 1800s through the advent of 16 mm film in the early 1920s.

“That became our story,” says Bryan. “Put it in chronological order, highlight some of these awesome images and artifacts, add some interpretation, and share how it all started—before cinema and film and our cell phones and Dick Tracy watches, whether it’s a TikTok or an Instagram Reel.”

Which brings us to SPARK’s other co-founder, John Jenkins.

“John was immensely supportive of this exhibit,” continues Bryan. “He did all this research and quickly discovered just how cool—and rare—these early motion-picture devices really are, including one significant device not in the Museum’s collection.”

One of the most compelling stories in early image projection is that of photographer and inventor Eadweard Muybridge, who in 1879 created the zoopraxiscope, widely regarded as one of the earliest devices for projecting moving images.

This rare and ingenious device used a rotating glass disc containing sequential images that, when projected in rapid succession, created the illusion of motion. Muybridge’s elegant zoopraxiscope made him a crucial pioneer in the development of modern cinema.

“We wanted one,” says Bryan. “So John did some digging.”

Unfortunately, every known original zoopraxiscope—along with the rest of Muybridge’s collection—is housed at the Kingston Museum in England.

That’s it. Every known original zoopraxiscope is on the other side of the Atlantic. Even replicas are rare and highly prized.

“We could tell John was intrigued, especially by how cool and unattainable they were,” says Bryan. “Then, lo and behold, John came to a meeting one day and showed us a picture of a zoopraxiscope. He said he was going to figure it out and craft a fully functioning replica.”

“While this is not surprising behavior from John Jenkins, it was still particularly astounding,” Bryan continues. “So little is known about the zoopraxiscope, and this was a massive undertaking—trying to recreate something that was essentially the first of its type.”

“John’s creation is truly astonishing,” says Whatley. “It’s become a real highlight of the exhibit and something we’re so excited to share with visitors.”

Community Organizer

This story would not be complete without mentioning SPARK’s director of programs, Abby Whatley, who was instrumental in securing the many community partnerships that helped make the exhibit possible—including major underwriting from our neighbors at Saturna Capital, which we greatly appreciate.

“These rotating exhibits wouldn’t be possible without Abby,” says Bryan. “She’s built strong connections with tourism organizations, including State of Washington Tourism, whose funding made the entire gallery renovation possible from the start.”

“She even came up with the title of the exhibit,” adds Bryan, smiling. “She’s great with names.”

Still Life to Reel Life will remain on display throughout 2027 and will feature a variety of special demonstrations and events.

“We have a lot of exciting programs coming out over the course of this exhibit,” says Whatley. “We’re going to partner with the Good Time Girls and create a program centered on iconic film locations and exploring some of the lore of downtown Bellingham and we are looking forward to the return of Dennis James.”

And because there are simply too many fascinating artifacts to display in one exhibit, the story may continue elsewhere in the Museum.

“Since we have so many artifacts, we think it would be cool to create another area—probably in the basement—where we can spread out and demonstrate some of these devices,” says Bryan. “Docents could lead special tours and project images using some of the magic lanterns and hand-crank projectors not normally on display.”

Donor, Member & Supporter Reception

Prior to the public opening on the 19th, SPARK will be hosting a special RSVP only gathering for our wonderful donors, members, and collaborators.

“It’s kind of a preview of the exhibit,” says Whatley. “A nice chance to get special access, have some refreshments, and meet both founders, who will be demonstrating other early film projectors—including John Jenkins’ zoopraxiscope!”

We want events like this to be one more reason to become a member or supporter—and an opportunity for us to show our appreciation by providing special access to SPARK’s many upcoming programs and events.

“But what really makes this exhibit so special is that it started with rediscovering Jonathan Winter’s collection,” says Bryan. “Look how it’s blossomed out to all these remarkable people and organizations.”

Stay grounded.

Going to the movies in 1926 was also a spectacular, sensory-rich event, yet looked radically different from today. It was the absolute peak of the Silent Film Era, and the experience was defined by architectural grandeur, live synchronized music, and a strict social etiquette—no popcorn allowed.

By 1926, movie projection had progressed by leaps and bounds. Gone were the once- popular nickelodeons (considered the nation’s first all-film movie theaters), where—for just a nickel—customers could see a never-ending loop of 10- to 15-minute novelty films  ranging from international travelogs to comedy routines.

“In those days there were no concessions, no showtimes,” says collector and co-founder, Jon Winter. “Nickelodeons were more like an open house for a flat nickel.”

Millions of early moviegoers had flocked to their local nickelodeon to see landmark shorts like The Great Train Robbery (1903), Georges Melies’ A Trip to the Moon (1902), and the massive British hit Rescued by Rover (1905), which helped revolutionize cinematic storytelling and became perennial nickelodeon staples.

By 1926 several critical engineering breakthroughs had occurred making film projection brighter, more reliable, and easier to operate. One of the most significant improvements to movie projection was replacing the original incandescent lamps with more powerful carbon arc projection lamps.

“By passing a large electrical current between two carbon rods, the lamp struck an open electrical arc that emitted an intense bright white light,” says John Jenkins, president & CEO. “The arc lamp is bright enough to project an image hundreds of feet onto a huge screen without losing clarity or looking muddy and dim.”

Theater owners realized they could make more money by seating hundreds—even thousands—of people in a single, large auditorium rather than dozens in a small nickelodeon theater. The opening of the massive, 2,800-seat Strand Theater in New York City in 1914 officially signaled the arrival of the “movie palace”, and by 1926, multi-reel feature films were in full swing, with over 15,000 commercial movie houses attracting millions of American audiences in cities and towns all over the country.

Even though the films were “silent,” the theater certainly was not. Many theatres featured massive, custom-built pipe organs (Bellingham’s Mount Baker Theatre is an excellent example).

“These instruments didn’t just play music,” says Charlie Bryan, director of operations. “They had built-in sound effects to mimic train whistles, thunder, bird chirps, even galloping horses.”

In major cities, musicians would sit in an ‘orchestra pit’ below the screen, playing custom-written scores synchronized perfectly to the movie.

If we went to a full-length summer blockbuster in 1926, like The Son of the Sheik, (starring silent film heart-throb, Rudolph Valentino released just weeks before his untimely death sending ticket sales through the roof), or the silent adventure classic, The Black Pirate, starring Douglas Fairbanks, (and introducing a new two-strip Technicolor process; one of the first attempts at projecting color movies), we’d be getting a lot more than a 90-120 minute feature film.

“You didn’t just buy a ticket for a 90-minute movie,” says Winter. “A 1926 ticket bought you a two-to-three-hour variety program.”

Our full evening of entertainment would include a live stage preshow, a vaudeville comedian or singer, a choreographed dance routine (think 1930s Radio City Music Hall’s Rockettes”), a short, animated cartoon, (probably starring the most popular cartoon character in the world in 1926, Felix the Cat), and the latest two reel comedy short from those “Little Rascals” Our Gang.

Yet, no trip to the cinema in 1926 would be complete without seeing what for many is the highlight of the evening: the newsreel.

For over half a century newsreels were the world’s primary way of seeing current events. World wars, sporting events, natural disasters, swimsuit competitions, travelogues, even animal tricks. If you wanted to know what the King of England looked like, how the Great War was progressing, or what happened after the San Francisco earthquake, the newsreel was how you experienced it.

The newsreel is one of those inventions that feels inevitable in hindsight, but it actually emerged through several decades of experimentation with both journalism and the brand-new medium of motion pictures.

Ironically, the first movies were essentially little newsreel segments. When motion pictures became practical in the mid-1890s, filmmakers had no established language for storytelling. Instead, they pointed cameras at real life.

“They weren’t trying to create journalism as we know it,” says Bryan. “They were simply recording ‘actualities’—events as they actually happened.”

Actualities were little snapshots of life: Workers leaving a factory, a boxing match, a parade, a train arriving at a station. “Just seeing people walk naturally on a giant screen was astonishing enough,” says Winter.

By the late 1890s, cameramen realized that current events sold tickets. “The race to film history was on,” laughs Bryan. “But in effect, they were contributing to the first international visual news network.”

Cameras, (though newly portable), were still heavy, and film stock was fragile. Yet,  despite these obstacles, cameramen became more and more adventurous. Some traveled with armies. Others hung off rooftops. Some sailed on ships halfway across the globe to capture natural disasters. News cameramen quickly developed a reputation for courage, and sometimes recklessness—and people loved what they saw.

The person most responsible for turning these random actualities into the standard newsreel format we know today, was Charles Pathé.

Charles Morand Pathé (1863–1957) was a French visionary and pioneer of the global film and audio recording industries. Alongside his brothers, he founded Pathé Frères, an entertainment empire that became the world’s largest film equipment and production company in the early 20th century.

Among the earliest of Pathe’s innovations was his introduction of the Pathé Journal, the first regularly produced and scheduled newsreel series. “It’s essentially an evening news broadcast in a movie theatre,” says Bryan. “Way before television.”

Instead of selling isolated actuality films of major events, Pathé bundled together several stories into one package: Politics, sports, natural disasters, historic inventions, slice-of-life human interest stories, in a format that feels remarkably familiar today.

Pathé News (or Pathé News Weekly) became the most famous and established name of the time. Known globally for its iconic crowing rooster logo, it pioneered the standardized weekly news format. Soon major competitors appeared, including British Pathé, Fox Movietone Corporation, and International Newsreel, owned by media tycoon William Randolph Hearst, and notorious for their heavily sensationalized style.

The 1920s were really the decade when the newsreel came into its own. Cameras had become more portable, film stocks were improving, and studios had built worldwide networks of cameramen. While the films were still silent (until the very end of the decade), they captured some of the defining moments of the era with remarkable immediacy. Here are a few of the most famous and enduring newsreel images ever preserved:

Perhaps no archaeological discovery has ever generated such excitement as the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb in 1922. Newsreel cameras were there and documented British archaeologist Howard Carter as he uncovered the nearly intact tomb of Tutankhamun. “To American audiences, these images seemed almost magical,” says Bryan. “Suddenly they are witnessing events as people discover an ancient Egyptian tomb that hadn’t been opened for over 3,000 years.”

One of the most haunting American newsreel images of the decade was the great Mississippi flood of 1927. Cameramen were there filming entire towns underwater, houses floating away, families rescued by boat, refugee camps, and endless expanses of flooded farmland. Newsreels helped Americans truly grasp the scale of a natural disaster no matter what part of the country they were from.

There’s no better example of how newsreels helped shape modern celebrity culture, than the 1926 funeral of silent-film star Rudolph Valentino, who died unexpectedly at age 31.

Newsreel cameras caught tens of thousands of mourners outside the funeral home, with women fainting in the crowds—and yes, hysterical women did throw themselves on his casket, while the police struggled to maintain order.

For many viewers, it was the first time they had seen public grief on such a massive scale.

Speaking of international celebrities, if we could pick one newsreel event that united the whole world in the 1920s, it would probably be Charles Lindbergh arriving in Paris in 1927.

After Lindbergh completed the first solo nonstop flight across the Atlantic, cameras captured several extraordinary scenes, including his tiny airplane, the Spirit of St. Louis, surrounded and overwhelmed with hundreds of thousands of cheering Parisians. Massive parades were also held in London, New York, and Washington, and Lindbergh became the world’s biggest celebrity virtually overnight.

Arguably the most famous pieces of footage in newsreel history occurred on May 6, 1937, when the largest passenger airship in the world, the Hindenburg, burst into flames and burned to the ground in just 34 seconds, at Lakehurst Naval Air Station, in New Jersey. All the major newsreel companies were there to record the tragedy.

The visual newsreel footage is permanently paired with broadcaster Herbert Morrison’s emotional, simultaneous radio broadcast featuring his famous cry, “Oh, the humanity!” The shocking images were broadcast globally in theaters within days, and brought the era of passenger zeppelins to an abrupt end.

Before motion pictures, people read about history. After newsreels, they expected to watch it. When television arrived, it didn’t invent visual journalism so much as inherit an audience already accustomed to experiencing the news through moving images.

In that sense, the newsreel forms a direct line from the Lumière brothers’ simple actualities in the 1890s to today’s television broadcasts, online video reports, and even the short news clips that circulate on social media. The technology has changed dramatically, but the basic impulse—to witness events with one’s own eyes, even from far away—hasn’t changed a bit.

SPARK’s newest exhibit, Still Life to Reel Life: A History of Image Projection, highlights many of the developments in projection technology that led to the popularization of newsreels and more. The exhibit opens September 19th, 2026. More information can be found here.

Stay grounded.

Today, moving images are everywhere. What was once confined to movie theaters and home television sets is now streamed worldwide on billions of devices, surrounding us wherever we go. For younger generations, this technology has always existed and can feel almost like a birthright. For nearly everyone else, it has become a necessity.

Yet motion pictures are a surprisingly recent invention, with a fascinating history involving an extraordinary cast of scientists, inventors, artists, and engineers.

Our story begins with a remarkable—if eccentric—photographer, a thoroughbred mare named Sallie Gardner, and an extraordinarily wealthy man’s wager.

Eadweard Muybridge (1830–1904), was born in Surrey, England. In 1850, he immigrated to New York, where he became a successful bookseller. After surviving a nearly fatal stagecoach accident in 1860, Muybridge decided to leave the book business and take up photography. Within a few years, he had transformed himself into a professional landscape photographer and opened a studio in San Francisco.

“He operated under the pseudonym Helios,” says Bryan, director of operations. “It was his photographs of Yosemite that first made him a legend.”

Muybridge became known for using massive glass-plate negatives that yielded exceptionally sharp, detailed prints, capturing Yosemite’s cliffs and waterfalls with unprecedented clarity.

“He took more than 2,000 photographs of the California wilderness and transformed how the world saw the American West,” says Bryan. “You can see how he inspired conservationists and artists like Ansel Adams.”

Muybridge soon began exhibiting his spectacular photographs of Yosemite Valley and selling them in the newest form of mass entertainment: the stereoscope.

Invented by British physicist Charles Wheatstone in 1832, the stereoscope is an optical device that allows viewers to look at two nearly identical photographs simultaneously—one with each eye.

“The brain fuses the two offset perspectives together,” says John Jenkins, president and CEO, holding up the device, “creating an immersive 3D image with realistic depth.”

Between the 1850s and the 1930s, tens of millions of stereoscopic view cards were produced worldwide. People could enjoy virtual travel, historical events, and visual storytelling from their own homes. Muybridge’s photographs were enjoyed around the world, particularly on the East Coast and throughout Europe, where few people had ever seen California’s spectacular wilderness.

The Bet

In 1872, railroad tycoon and former California Governor Leland Stanford (1824-1893), is said to have made a substantial wager to settle a long-debated scientific question.

Stanford was an avid horseman who believed in the theory of “unsupported transit”—the idea that a galloping horse lifts all four hooves completely off the ground at one point during its stride. Most people believed at least one hoof always remained in contact with the ground.

Because a horse’s legs move too quickly for the naked eye to follow, 19th-century artists routinely painted galloping horses in the familiar “rocking horse” pose, with all four legs stretched outward.

Stanford hired Muybridge to prove his theory once and for all. To do it, Muybridge abandoned traditional photography and engineered a groundbreaking multi-camera photographic system.

The experiment began in 1872 at Stanford’s Palo Alto Stock Farm, now the site of Stanford University. It required years of trial, error, and engineering.

“It also required an acquittal,” laughs Bryan. The project came to an abrupt halt in 1874 when Muybridge shot and killed his wife’s lover. After a sensational trial, he was acquitted on the grounds of justifiable homicide. He briefly left the country before eventually returning to Stanford’s project.

“The biggest problem was the shutter,” says Jenkins. “Exposure times were measured too long, turning any movement into a blur.”

Working alongside Stanford’s railroad engineers, Muybridge designed a specialized spring-activated shutter. His double-slotted system reduced exposure times to an astonishing 1/1,000th of a second, allowing him to freeze motion without blur.

Horse in Motion

On June 19, 1878, Muybridge staged the definitive public demonstration at Stanford’s Palo Alto track using one of Stanford’s thoroughbred racehorses, Sallie Gardner.

He lined up twelve specialized cameras inside a custom-built shed running parallel to the track. Each camera was carefully positioned to capture the horse at successive moments in its stride.

To make the horse’s legs clearly visible, Muybridge erected a bright white backdrop marked with evenly spaced vertical lines. He even spread white sheets and lime dust across the ground to reflect as much sunlight as possible and maximize contrast.

To automate the timing, Muybridge stretched fine threads across the track at the horse’s chest height. Each thread was connected to one camera shutter. As Sallie Gardner sprinted past, her chest snapped each thread in sequence, triggering every camera at precisely the right instant.

Jockey, Gilbert Domm, rode Sallie Gardner across the course, at approximately 35 miles an hour.

The resulting photographs formed a visual record of the horse’s stride, revealing details too fast for the human eye to perceive. Stanford won his wager, and the world witnessed a stunning dissection of motion.

The photographs did more than prove Stanford correct. Yes, a galloping horse does lift all four hooves off the ground simultaneously. But the images also exposed centuries of artistic error.

“The pictures laid bare all the mistakes that sculptors and painters had made in their renderings of the various postures of the horse.”—Paul Valéry, assuredly

“For thousands of years, artists depicted galloping horses using the ‘flying gallop’ pose,” says Bryan. “The horse was shown airborne with its front legs stretched forward and its hind legs stretched backward—like a rocking horse.”

“That was the shocker,” says Jenkins. “The airborne moment doesn’t occur when the legs are fully extended. It happens when all four hooves are tucked beneath the horse’s body. Everybody got that one wrong.”

More importantly, Muybridge had unknowingly created the blueprint for motion pictures. By capturing sequential photographs at precisely timed intervals, he demonstrated that still images could recreate movement when viewed in rapid succession.

He knew those photographs needed to be seen in sequence, but existing optical devices such as the zoetrope were small, hand-held novelties meant for a single viewer. Muybridge wanted something much larger—something capable of projecting moving images to an auditorium.

In 1879, he invented the zoopraxiscope, the first motion picture projector.

The zoopraxiscope spun a circular glass disc containing a sequence of images. As the disc rotated, a synchronized shutter rapidly interrupted the light, projecting each image in succession to create the illusion of continuous motion.

“The original photographic images were too dense for light to pass through clearly,” says Bryan. “So, the figures on the glass discs were actually hand-painted silhouettes copied directly from the photographs.”

A powerful oxyhydrogen lantern projected the moving images onto a screen, allowing audiences to watch a running horse or dancing figure come to life.

“Seeing a moving image projected before a live audience for the first time was astonishing,” says Winter. “It was the moment still photographs broke free.”

In February 1888, Muybridge visited Thomas Edison in New Jersey with a revolutionary proposal. He wanted to combine his zoopraxiscope with Edison’s newly invented phonograph to create synchronized moving pictures with sound—what we would now call talking pictures.

The idea was simply ahead of its time. Edison realized the phonograph couldn’t produce enough volume to fill the large lecture halls where Muybridge typically spoke. Electronic amplification was still decades away.

Although the partnership never materialized, the meeting profoundly influenced Edison. He later wrote that Muybridge’s demonstration inspired him and to create a machine that would “do for the eye what the phonograph does for the ear.” Together with William Kennedy Dickson, Edison soon began developing motion-picture technology based on flexible celluloid film.

“The biggest limitation of Muybridge’s system was the rigid glass disc,” says Bryan. “It could only hold about fifty hand-painted images.”

At about the same time, George Eastman had perfected a process to manufacture and commercialize flexible rolls of celluloid film.

“Celluloid was the game changer,” Bryan says. “It could be wound into long rolls and fed continuously through both cameras and projectors.”

Filmmakers could now capture minutes of real-life action, and Muybridge’s spinning glass discs quickly became obsolete.

Edison’s kinetoscope, introduced in the early 1890s, became the first commercially successful machine to display continuous motion using celluloid film.

“He and Dickson standardized the use of 35-millimeter film,” says Jenkins. “It’s still the foundation of modern visual media.”

The kinetoscope was a large wooden cabinet driven by an electric motor that carried a continuous loop of film across a light source. Viewers dropped in a nickel and peered through a small viewing window to watch moving images unlike anything they had ever seen.

“These films were very short, usually twenty to thirty seconds,” says Jon Winter, co-founder and collector. “But people had never seen anything like them. It couldn’t have been more new—or more wondrous.”

By 1893, hundreds of kinetoscope parlors operated throughout the United States and Europe. Millions of people paid a nickel for the chance to witness a motion picture.

Yet, history continues to remind us that success is often fleeting.

“The kinetoscope’s popularity came to a sudden halt only a few years later,” says Bryan. “In 1895, the Lumière brothers projected the first commercial motion picture exhibit before a paying audience, transforming the peep show into the movie theater.”

Stay tuned for another chapter in the fascinating history of image projection and keep your eyes peeled for announcements regarding SPARK’s newest rotating exhibit – Still Life to Reel Life: A History of Image Projection – slated for a Fall 2026 opening.

Until then, stay grounded.

Entire eras of history were named after the substances that transformed them: the Stone Age, the Bronze Age, the Iron Age. Each new material changed not only the tools people carried, but the way they lived, fought, traveled, built, and imagined the future.

Then something extraordinary happened. Humanity began engineering entirely new materials at the molecular level, creating substances that had never before existed in nature.

Plastic is a broad term for chemical materials (polymers) that can be formed and molded under heat and pressure. “We think of plastic as a modern, synthetic material,” says John Jenkins, president & CEO. “But thousands of different plastics exist in nature—humans have been working with materials like horn, hemp, amber, rubber, cotton, and shellac since antiquity.”

The most plentiful natural polymer in the world is cellulose, found in plant cell walls and harvested directly from trees and plants like cotton. In 1869, American inventor John Wesley Hyatt (1837–1920) chemically modified cellulose to create an astonishing new product called celluloid—the world’s first commercially successful synthetic plastic.

“We are talking about chemically altering a natural material and transforming it into something that does not occur in nature,” says Jenkins. “It was an instant hit with manufacturers all over Europe, especially those producing billiard balls.”

By the mid-19th century, the world was searching for alternatives to nature’s most sought-after materials, including shellac and ivory. “Billiard tables were all the rage in Victorian England,” says Charlie Bryan, director of operations. “That meant proudly owning a set of pure ivory billiard balls, each crafted from the finest tusk material available—which suddenly became extremely scarce.”

The demand for ivory was placing increasing pressure on elephant populations in Africa and India, and in 1863 the New York billiard table manufacturer Phelan & Collender offered a staggering $10,000 prize to anyone who could invent a suitable substitute.

Celluloid not only resembled ivory, but it also possessed remarkably versatile properties. “At normal temperatures it was rock solid and permanent,” says Jenkins. “When heated, it softened and could be molded or rolled into thin, transparent sheets.”

It soon became the material of choice for billiard balls, hair combs, collars, toys, and eventually photography and motion-picture film.

Yet the real breakthrough would come more than forty years later. In 1907, Belgian chemist Leo Hendrik Baekeland (1863–1944) successfully synthesized a durable, heat-resistant, electrically non-conductive material that was wholly synthetic: Bakelite.

“Baekeland created the world’s first fully synthetic plastic,” says Bryan. “And for better and worse, opened the floodgates to a new era—the Age of Plastics.”

Unlike celluloid, Bakelite could be molded rapidly, giving manufacturers a tremendous advantage in mass production. “Bakelite is a thermosetting resin—that is, once molded, it retains its shape even when heated or exposed to solvents,” says Jenkins. “And it was cheaper, too.”

By 1910, the General Bakelite Company had been founded to manufacture and distribute the material, officially launching the modern plastics industry.

The Bakelite Corporation adopted the mathematical symbol for infinity as its logo, along with the slogan, “The Material of a Thousand Uses.” In truth, the company recognized almost no boundaries for its remarkable human-made material.

Molded Bakelite soon found its way into nearly every aspect of 20th-century life. From novelty jewelry and iron handles to telephones and washing-machine impellers, Bakelite appeared everywhere, especially in the rapidly expanding electrical and automobile industries.

“Bakelite had extraordinarily high resistance to electricity and heat—perfect for radios and other non-conductive components,” says Bryan. “It seemed like an obvious step up from wood and metal, and suddenly it was everywhere.”

Yet Bakelite had its shortcomings. “It’s brittle, heavy, and prone to cracking,” says Jenkins. “But the real Achilles’ heel was color.”

Early Bakelite used dark synthetic fillers to strengthen the material, limiting most products to shades of brown or black. Eventually the Bakelite formula was used without fillers (Catalin, Plaskon) which allowed for much brighter colors and more intricate designs.

The Museum displays an outstanding variety of historically significant Bakelite radios, along with other novelty plastics from the early and mid-20th century.

Bakelite opened the door to the synthetic age, transforming industry, communication, medicine, and everyday life. It made products safer, cheaper, lighter, and available to ordinary people on a scale never before possible. Like electricity, automobiles, or concrete, plastic changed the world because it solved real problems. It helped pull the twentieth century into existence.

But every technological revolution leaves a footprint. The same durability that once made synthetic materials seem miraculous eventually revealed a hidden cost in a disposable age. Bakelite itself was built to endure; much of what followed was built to be discarded. The challenge today is not to deny the genius of the plastic age, but to learn how to live more wisely with the materials it created.

Below is a selection of some of the amazing Bakelite Radios on display at SPARK:

Top Left: Westinghouse “Little Jewel” Model H-126 (1946). Highly collectible AM radio famously styled to resemble a miniature 1940s Westinghouse refrigerator. Made of molded Bakelite, it featured a prominent illuminated Westinghouse “W” logo on the front grille, a carrying handle, and surprisingly robust audio output for its compact size. The Little Jewel was often given to customers as a promotional gift with the purchase of a full-sized Westinghouse refrigerator and today remains a prized piece of mid-century Americana.

Bottom Left: Remler Model MP5-5-3 “Scottie” Plaskon Radio (1946). This classic vacuum-tube AM radio features a distinctive “waterfall dial” and was molded in Plaskon, giving the cabinet a smooth ivory finish Bakelite could not achieve. Unfortunately, Plaskon was often cast very thin and proved extremely brittle, making surviving examples highly susceptible to stress cracks caused by the heat of the radio’s vacuum tubes.

Center: Radio Displays Co. Model C-500 (1950), popularly known as the “Champagne Music” Bottle Radio, was designed to resemble a giant champagne bottle. Standing nearly twenty-four inches tall and meticulously molded from Bakelite, it was created to capitalize on the enormous popularity of bandleader Lawrence Welk and his signature “Champagne Music” broadcasts. The C-500 remains a crown jewel among novelty-radio collectors because of its monumental size and strong pop-culture connection to the big-band era.

Top Right: The Garod Radio Corp. Model 6BU-1 “The Senator” (1946) is a classic tabletop radio highly sought after by collectors who wanted the high-end performance of a premier 1940s chassis housed in a more modest cabinet style, constructed from compression-molded brown Bakelite.

Bottom Right: The Trav-Ler Karenola Radio & Television Corp. Model 5015 (1947) is a classic mid-century tabletop vacuum-tube radio featuring a distinctive blend of Art Deco and Mid-Century Modern styling, housed in a chocolate-brown Bakelite cabinet.

As always, stay grounded.

“Inventors started applying electricity to hand-crafted glass tubes as early as 1705, when Francis Hauksbee (1660-1713)  first made a rotating glass sphere glow using mercury and static electricity,” says John Jenkins, president & CEO. “What’s amazing is how successful they were—without continuous power, without gases or vapors, and definitely without removing the air from the container.”

Scintillating tubes—sometimes called electric serpents—consisted of a glass tube with small diamond-shaped pieces of tin foil arranged in a spiral along the outside of the tube. When a static charge was applied to brass fittings at the ends, sparks jump across the tiny gaps between the foil—through ordinary air—creating a bright, sparkling light that spiraled down the tube.

“The sparks are produced in the gap between the tin-foil patches,” says Jenkins. “Not in a vacuum, which surprises visitors.”

These demonstrations became popular entertainment in Victorian parlors and lecture halls across Europe—especially in a world still waiting for electric light.

What began as amusement for the well-to-do would someday inspire a cascade of scientific breakthroughs: X-rays, neon lighting, cathode-ray tubes (CRT), radar, computer monitors, televisions, fluorescent lighting—and, ultimately, the discovery of the electron, our favorite subatomic particle, and a key to understanding the hidden structure of the universe.

“Incomparably beautiful.” —Julius Plücker, physicist, 1859

In 1857, German glassblower Heinrich Geissler (1814–1879), working alongside physicist Julius Plücker (1801–1868) and instrument maker Heinrich Daniel Ruhmkorff (1803–1877), took electric lighting to a new—and more recognizable—level.

“Looks like a display case in a 19th-century head shop,” says Charlie Bryan, director of operations. “Not that I would know.”

A Geissler tube is an ornately sealed glass vessel containing a low-pressure (rarefied) gas. When high voltage is applied, the gas glows with a steady, luminous discharge.

Geissler’s tubes were a major leap forward. Most importantly, his improved mercury vacuum pump (1855) allowed for a far better vacuum than had previously been possible. With less air inside, electricity could travel more freely through the remaining gas, producing a continuous glow instead of intermittent sparks.

This partial vacuum—combined with rarified nitrogen, hydrogen, carbon dioxide, or mercury vapor—creates a sweet spot where electrons accelerate and collide with gas atoms, causing them to emit light. Different gases produce different colors.

“The glow’s hue depends on the gas,” says Bryan. “Air glows bluish, neon is red, and hydrogen is pink.”

For added brilliance, fluorescent materials could be incorporated into the glass, producing vivid colors like yellow-green. “What I find most interesting is this was another way to see energy,” Bryan adds. “What was invisible became observable—and even measurable.”

Another key innovation was the Ruhmkorff coil, invented in 1855. “The coil is a transformer that converts low-voltage current into high-voltage pulses,” says Jenkins. “It was designed to generate high voltage for experiments, early wireless telegraphy, and arc lighting.”

Plücker used Geissler tubes in the late 1850s to conduct groundbreaking experiments, including bending glowing discharges with a magnet—an early glimpse into the behavior of charged particles.

Geissler tubes soon became standard equipment in physics and chemistry labs. Some were even sold as educational kits, complete with a battery and induction coil—bringing awe-inspiring light shows into the home long before electric lighting.

Several are on permanent display in the Museum’s galleries—a beautiful reminder of what happens when art and science are allowed to get some time together.

Enter Sir William Crookes (1832–1919): chemist, showman, and owner of one of the most magnificent mustaches in scientific history. Knighted in 1897 and awarded the Order of Merit in 1910, Crookes also achieved something extraordinary—a vacuum of about one-millionth of an atmosphere.

“Crookes essentially created a Geissler tube with a much better vacuum,” says Jenkins. “And that extra evacuation fundamentally changes how electricity behaves inside the glass.”

“Imagine a glass tube where almost all the air has been removed,” Jenkins continues. “Inside are two metal electrodes: the cathode (negative) and the anode (positive).”

When high voltage is applied, particles stream from the cathode toward the anode. With so little air remaining, they can travel long distances without constant collisions, retaining much of their energy. These fast-moving particles shoot across the tube and strike the glass wall, producing a ghostly green glow.

At the time, no one knew what these particles were.

“These Crookes tubes might look like botched pieces of glass art,” says Jenkins, “but they are serious scientific instruments, and led to a whole shopping list of inventions and discoveries: X-rays, fluorescent lamps, cathode-ray tubes (which powered televisions, oscilloscopes, and radar), plasma—the fourth state of matter—and one of the greatest discoveries in physics: the electron.”

It was British physicist and Nobel Prize winner J. J. Thomson (1856–1940) who, in 1897, confirmed that these mysterious particles were negatively charged—and fundamental.

He had discovered the electron, the first known subatomic particle.

Thomson’s work shattered the long-held belief that atoms were indivisible, opened the door to modern atomic theory, and laid the foundation for electronics and the quantum age.

“The Crookes tube led to the discovery of our subatomic universe,” says Jenkins. “It’s just that simple.”

Stay grounded.

In 1931—less than a hundred years ago—if you were lucky enough to afford the very first multimedia home entertainment system, it would feature none of the above.

No streaming. No laser projectors. No 3D spatial audio. No remote control, either.

It would be physical 16mm film, synchronized with 16-inch shellac records. It would be you manually aligning a film frame to a phonograph needle. It would be monophonic, “pure” human voice reproduction through an internal horn. And it would be displayed by projecting onto a pop-up mirror and bouncing the reflection onto a twelve-inch screen.

“Old-school home theatre,” says Jon Winter, collector, and co-founder. “The original multimedia entertainment center.”

The early 20th century brought a parade of astonishing inventions into American homes: record players (1877), broadcast radio (1921), and 16mm home movie projectors (1924). Together, they entertained and informed millions of Americans—even before electricity became widely available.

“It’s true—before electricity, people had wind-up record players, battery powered radios, and even hand-cranked movie projectors,” says John Jenkins, president and CEO. “Electricity replaced the hand cranks and batteries, and transforming these mechanical inventions into more powerful and reliable home appliances.”

By 1930, over half the country had access to electricity, and the home entertainment quickly took advantage of this new and improved superpower:

One by one, these inventions transformed how families experienced music, news, and entertainment. Together, they suggested something bigger—something distinctly American.

“The market is ready and waiting for a new form of home entertainment.”

In 1931, the Sparks-Withington Company—makers of Sparton radios—attempted something audacious: they built the world’s first true multimedia home entertainment system, the Sparton Visionola.

“The SPARTON Visionola is new to the realm of home entertainment and combines a ‘home talkie’ machine completely equipped with its own projector, screen, and sound apparatus!”

“Think what it would be like to see—in your own home—a ‘talkie’ film strip synchronized to a sixteen-inch soundtrack record,” says Winter. “You and your family would be experiencing the future of home entertainment.”

Costing the equivalent of over $20,000 today, the Visionola was no casual purchase. It was a high-end luxury item for those who wanted the very best in multimedia entertainment.

The beautiful ornate walnut cabinet stands just over four feet tall, weighs a hefty three hundred pounds, and contains a complex system of motors, vacuum tubes, optics, and controls.

The radio chassis, powered with ten vacuum tubes, drives a dynamic speaker mounted in the base of the cabinet. A projector and gramophone share a synchronized mechanism in the central compartment, capable of playing both 78 and 33⅓ rpm records—the latter is used to sync 16-inch soundtrack recordings with accompanying 16mm film.

In the upper compartment, a self-supporting mirror slides out and pops-up in front of the projector lens, reflecting the image onto the screen.

“It’s amazing how they got all these new inventions into one unassuming cabinet,” says Jenkins. “The Visionola was way ahead of its time—which was part of its downfall.”

“So simple, a ten-year-old can operate it.”

What could be easier? Lift the lid. Load the film. Set the record. Engage the mechanism.

The Visionola does the rest—and suddenly you have synchronized, high-quality sight and sound entertainment in your home, all from a single three-hundred-pound piece of furniture.

The Visionola brought it all together.

“That’s astonishing for 1931, when most households were only just getting reliable radio,” says SPARK Director of Operations, Charlie Bryan. “Sound projectors had only been installed in movie theaters a few years earlier.”

So, what happened? Why, despite the excitement and apparent demand, did the Visionola all but disappear?

First, the Great Depression was in full swing, and twenty thousand dollars is a lot of money—especially when you’re standing in a breadline.

Second, the Visionola’s biggest limitation wasn’t the machine—it was the media supply system, or lack thereof. Customers sourced content through film libraries and mail-order catalogs. Companies like Eastman Kodak and the Victor Talking Machine Company already supplied 16mm films and soundtracks primarily for schools, churches, and amateur film clubs, so the Visionola just tapped into those sources.

What was the content like?

“It wasn’t Hollywood blockbusters at home—more like YouTube or MTV,” says Bryan. “This was 1931. Content was shorter: travelogues (‘See the Alps!’), musical performances, lectures, demonstrations, comedy routines.”

A typical rental meant browsing a printed catalog, selecting films, mailing an order form, waiting for delivery, watching with family and friends, then returning or storing the reels and discs. “Home Entertainment’s answer to the horse and buggy,” adds Bryan.

Then, in 1932—just one year later—RCA Victor delivered the knockout blow, and introduced the first 16mm sound-on-film projector. By embedding optical sound directly onto the film, it eliminated the need for synchronized records entirely.

“Instant 300-pound dinosaur,” says Bryan. “Sparton immediately discontinued production, and suddenly, this amazing piece of technology became obsolete, and slipped into obscurity.”

“Which is why our Visionola is so incredibly rare,” says Winter. “They made so few, and it was a luxury item only few could afford. That’s how I ended up finding ours—over forty years ago, at an estate sale at (William Randolph) Hearst’s Castle, in San Simeon, California.”

“It was like moving a mountian getting this in our hands,” Winter recalls. “It belongs here where everyone can appreciate it.”

Stay grounded.

For many people, the movies were their first encounter with its ethereal tone — a sound unlike anything else, performed by a musician who appears to pinch and shape invisible notes from thin air.

“They’re almost impossible to play,” says Director of Operations Charlie Bryan, standing beside the Museum’s original 1929 RCA theremin. “There are no strings, no keys, no valves, no frets — nothing to blow into or strike. Just two metal antennas generating an electromagnetic field that interacts with you, the conductor.”

“Not a symphony conductor,” adds President & CEO John Jenkins. “Though you might feel like one when you wave your hands through the air.”

“It’s more of an electronic whoopee cushion than a musical instrument,” jokes Director of Programs Abby Whatley. “About all we can get it to do is make rude noises.”

That’s about to change.

On Saturday, March 28, 2026, at 7:00 p.m., the SPARK Museum of Electrical Invention proudly presents Out of the Air: The Electrifying Theremin — an immersive, projection-illustrated “informance” by internationally acclaimed theremin virtuoso and scholar Dennis James.

“The theremin is the cornerstone of electronic music, with a fascinating history,” says Bryan. “Dennis James does a spectacular job of revealing both the science and the artistry behind our favorite out-of-this-world instrument.”

Dennis James is an accomplished American multi-instrumentalist, preservationist, and one of the world’s leading theremin performers. He is also celebrated for reviving Benjamin Franklin’s glass armonica (more on that later) and other rare period instruments.

“James is also a serious scholar and historian,” adds Bryan. “He specializes in rare and obscure musical instruments, like the Ondes Martenot and the Cristal Baschet.”

(Dennis James and the SPARK Museum are both proud owners of the original RCA theremin, produced in 1929. “It’s a small club,” laughs Jenkins. “They only made five hundred of the original, and that was it.”)

James has performed at prestigious venues including the Metropolitan Opera, Lincoln Center’s Mostly Mozart Festival, and the Tanglewood Festival with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. He has appeared with major ensembles such as the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and is internationally renowned for his work with historic instruments.

He was the final student of legendary theremin virtuoso Clara Rockmore (1911–1989), widely considered the greatest performer in the instrument’s history. Rockmore — and a young Dennis James — were featured in the definitive documentary Theremin: An Electronic Odyssey (1995).

“Clara Rockmore was the first electronic music star,” says Whatley. “Dennis carries that legacy forward, and we couldn’t be more excited to welcome him to SPARK.”

Out of the Air: The Electrifying Theremin blends virtuosic performance with rich storytelling, featuring works by composers such as Josef Schillinger, George Gershwin, and Sergei Rachmaninoff, alongside fascinating insights into the life of the instrument’s mysterious inventor, Leon Theremin.

“Dennis James is the real deal — as rare as the instruments he plays,” says Bryan. “Tickets for the March 28 show are going fast, so contact the Museum soon if you want to attend this very special event.”

“We’d love to have Dennis return next year with his glass armonica presentation,” says Whatley. “We’re obviously big fans of Ben Franklin, and a glass armonica performance at SPARK feels like a match made in heaven.”

“Like peanut butter and jelly,” declares Jenkins.

“Toasted,” adds Bryan.

Stay grounded.

Tickets (while available) can be purchased at:

www.sparkmuseum.org/events/out-of-the-air-the-electrifying-theremin/

Special Encore Event:

On Sunday, March 29, Dennis James and Mark Goldstein will perform a live soundtrack to the silent sci-fi classic Aelita: Queen of Mars at the Mount Baker Theatre. James is internationally renowned for his historically informed live accompaniment of silent films and specialized concert performances.

You won’t want to miss this one either!

Ticket information:

www.mountbakertheatre.com/events-tickets/aelita-queen-of-mars/

“These early radios may not look like much,” says John Jenkins, president and CEO. “But they are the key to understanding today’s wireless technology.”

The first radios did not come in wooden boxes. They were not shaped like cathedrals or tombstones. They had no dials to spin or knobs to turn. The first radios did not have speakers. They did not plug into wall sockets, and they required no batteries or vacuum tubes. In fact, they did not need power at all—because the first radios powered themselves.

“A crystal radio is the simplest type of radio receiver ever invented,” says Jenkins. “It captures radio signals using only the energy carried by the radio waves themselves. No plug, no power switch—just physics doing the work.”

Early crystal radios were little more than copper wire, a couple of chunks of brass, and a unique—some would say magical—stone, often mounted on a piece of wood. They were connected to an outdoor antenna, ideally stretched at least one hundred feet long and fifteen feet above the ground.  

Yet, when everything connects just right, a voice can be heard through the air, out of nowhere. It might be someone sharing the score of a local baseball game, or the sound of a lone violin playing a familiar melody. Because before radio became furniture, entertainment, or background noise, it was a whisper caught from the sky by a kid, a wire, and a stone.

“A classic crystal radio has just a few parts,” says Jenkins. “A tuning coil to select the station, an antenna to catch the radio waves, an earphone to convert the signal into sound, and a ground connection to complete the circuit.”

“Oh, and one more thing,” laughs Jenkins. “The very heart of this radio is a shiny gray mineral—a crystal—that is considered the first mass produced radio component.”

Nature’s rectifier.

“The wire touches the crystal, forming a natural semiconductor,” Jenkins adds. “Like a one-way valve and allows the earphones to reproduce just the sound.”

“Imagine a world before radio or television—no cell phones, no wall outlets,” says Charlie Bryan, director of operations. “Just you and a pair of headphones, connected to a hundred-foot wire strung across a tree, sliding a thin wire over a rock, and suddenly picking-up a voice reading market prices or an orchestra playing from a city miles away. Mind-boggling.”

As with most great discoveries, a single person did not invent the crystal radio. Instead, it emerged gradually, piece by piece, as scientists learned how radio waves behaved.

It began with German physicist Heinrich Hertz (1857–1894), who in 1888 detected the existence of invisible electromagnetic waves, confirming James Clerk Maxwell’s (1831–1879) theory of the electromagnetic spectrum. Hertz saw little practical value in his discovery, famously stating it was “of no use whatsoever.”

Indian physicist Jagadish Chandra Bose (1858–1937) later discovered that galena crystals could detect radio waves. In 1894, Bose effectively identified a natural semiconductor diode.

It was pioneering radio engineer Greenleaf Whittier Pickard (1877–1956) who helped turn wireless telegraphy from a laboratory curiosity into a practical technology.

In 1906, Pickard patented the first silicon crystal detector—the first device capable of rectifying high-frequency radio signals without external batteries. His design used a fine metal wire known as a “cat’s whisker” to touch the surface of the natural semiconductor (often galena), allowing current to flow in only one direction. This effectively chopped half of the AC signal, turning it into electrical pulses heard as sound in a headphone.

His crystals were interchangeable and often shared among operators. By 1920, Pickard’s Wireless Specialty Apparatus Company had sold approximately 100,000 fully assembled silicon crystal detectors.

Millions of crystal detectors and crystal radios were sold by the time broadcast radio became popular in the early 1920s. During this period, countless children and hobbyists learned radio fundamentals by building their own sets. Preassembled or not, for many families a crystal radio was their first experience of voices and music traveling invisibly through the air.

Yet, the crystal radio was far from perfect, and like all new technologies, quickly evolved. To begin with, crystal radios offered no amplification and the signal was weak—far too weak to drive a loudspeaker.

“Also, natural crystals were riddled with impurities,” says Bryan. “Operators had to carefully probe the surface with a fine wire to find the crystal’s “sweet spot,” where it would properly act as a rectifier.”

By the 1920s, natural minerals like galena were largely phased out of mainstream radio receivers in favor of vacuum tubes, and later, semiconductor diodes.

(Crystal radio kits are still available today, often built as educational projects. Modern kits typically use a semiconductor diode as the “crystal,” while authentic or vintage-style kits may include an actual piece of galena paired with a cat’s-whisker wire. These remain especially popular with radio hobbyists, hooked on the sheer delight of hearing sound with no power at all.)

Today we live in a world saturated with wireless technology, all built upon the discovery that information can travel without wires.

“Crystal radios didn’t disappear—they grew up,” says Jon Winter, collector, and cofounder, as he gestures across the Museum’s considerable collection. “What began as a rock and some wire pulling voices from the air evolved, step by step, into the wireless devices we use today.”

“A crystal radio is a handheld miracle,” says Jenkins. “and helped spark our love affair with wireless communication.”

Stay grounded.

The invention of the mechanical sewing machine in the mid–19th century is considered a cornerstone of the Industrial Revolution. Less dramatic than the steam engine or the telegraph, the sewing machine nonetheless profoundly transformed how people worked, dressed, and even how time itself was valued.

For thousands of years, everything from shirts to sails had been produced and sewn entirely by hand—every stitch. Today it is difficult to grasp just how slow and painstaking this labor was. Hand-sewing a single shirt could easily require more than 20,000 stitches—imagine having to sew a ship’s mainsail, one stitch at a time?

Sewing, mending, darning, hemming, and altering were constant household tasks. Every family needed shirts, dresses, trousers, underclothing, linens, curtains, and bedding—and all of it required continual repair. Clothes wore out quickly. Buttons popped, seams split, hems frayed. Nothing was disposable, yet nothing lasted forever.

Tailors worked under brutal conditions. Urban garment workers were paid by piece, bent over hand-stitching for long hours, often by candlelight. Speed meant survival, yet hand sewing imposed strict limits on productivity.

Because clothing was so costly to produce, most people owned only one or two outfits: a weekday set and, if fortunate, a “Sunday best.” Poorly fitted and badly worn clothing was common among the lower classes. In many homes, sewing was a domestic burden—and for women especially, it amounted to a second full-time job.

La Machine

The first practical sewing machine was invented in 1830 by French tailor Barthélemy Thimonnier (1793–1857). His wooden machine used a single thread and a hooked needle that mimicked hand stitching, forming a chain stitch similar to embroidery.

Powered by a hand-cranked treadle, Thimonnier’s machine could triple the output of a skilled tailor. He opened a factory with more than sixty machines and soon secured a lucrative contract to produce uniforms for the French army, but his success was short-lived.

Local tailors, fearing unemployment, rioted and destroyed the factory. Thimonnier lost his business, his livelihood, and nearly his life.

Other inventors continued to experiment throughout the 19th century, but the true technological breakthrough came in 1846, when American inventor Elias Howe (1819–1867) patented a lockstitch sewing machine. His design used two threads—one from above and one from below—to create a strong, reliable stitch that became the foundation of nearly all modern sewing machines. Howe’s early machines, however, were hand-cranked or workshop-powered, not yet suited for domestic use.

Look Ma, No Hands!

That distinction belongs to Isaac Merritt Singer (1811–1875), who in 1851 introduced the first commercially successful foot-powered treadle sewing machine. Singer did not invent the treadle itself, but he perfected its integration. By allowing the operator to power the machine by pumping a large rocking pedal with their feet, sewing became smoother, faster, and continuously leaving both hands free to guide the fabric.

By the 1850s, the treadle had become the dominant sewing machine design. Operators could maintain a steady rhythm for hours. Clothing became cheaper and more abundant. Home dressmaking flourished. Small garment businesses could operate almost anywhere. Projects that once required hours—or days—of hand stitching were reduced to minutes.

“Before electrification, the treadle was the most advanced human-powered mechanism ever placed in a home,” says Charlie Bryan, SPARK Director of Operations

One of the finest treadle machines was produced by the Willcox & Gibbs Sewing Machine Company, founded in 1857 by inventor James E. A. Gibbs and businessman James Willcox. Gibbs patented a unique single-thread chain-stitch mechanism in 1858 that used a revolutionary revolving hook.

Unlike the complex two-thread lockstitch machines of the era, the Willcox & Gibbs design offered simplicity, speed, and reliability. The absence of a bobbin and shuttle made the machine easier to thread, quieter in operation, and capable of remarkable speed for its time.

“Every feed and fertilizer sack in the country uses chain stitching,” says Bryan. “A single pull on the thread opens the bag.”

The simplicity of the mechanism meant minimal maintenance, regular cleaning and oiling were usually sufficient.

(The chief drawback of a single-thread chain stitch is that it can unravel if not properly secured, much like a potato sack. Proper finishing is essential.)

“We have one of the earliest Willcox & Gibbs machines on display,” says John Jenkins, president & CEO. “It was manufactured in 1859, the same year they first started production, and two years before The Civil War.”

“These beautiful machines were lighter, quieter, and smoother than the competition,” Jenkins adds. “Their design was elegant and effective—and it remained largely unchanged for decades.”

Going Electric

The transition from treadle to electricity was as much evolutionary as it was revolutionary. As electrical service slowly expanded across the country, manufacturers experimented with ways to harness this new source of power.   

Singer introduced what many consider the first integrated electric sewing machine in 1889, using a small DC motor to power the mechanism and reduce physical labor. “The device was more experimental than practical,” says Jenkins. “But the race was on.”

Soon, other manufacturers—including Willcox & Gibbs—began attaching small Westinghouse motors to existing treadle machines. This allowed households to electrify machines they already owned rather than purchasing entirely new designs.

Willcox & Gibbs machines, smaller and simpler than many competitors, proved especially popular in the South, where Panama hats were fashionable. Their chain-stitch design was well suited for sewing the natural fibers used in these sought-after chapeaus.

Electricity, however, had its skeptics—and with good reason. Early converted machines had notable drawbacks.

“The early foot pedals were inconsistent,” says Jenkins. “They could be unresponsive or suddenly surge to high speed.”

Original wiring and motors often used deteriorating insulation—sometimes tarred paper or asbestos—and lacked modern safety standards, posing fire and shock risks. Replacement parts were difficult to find, and repairs could be costly.

“These machines were largely made of heavy metal and often mounted in dedicated cabinets,” Jenkins explains, “making them far less portable than later integrated models.”

Still, their rugged construction ensured longevity. Many survive today, passed down through generations. It wasn’t until the 1920s that fully electric machines began to outsell treadles.

The electric sewing machine compressed time, expanded choice, and professionalized home labor. It didn’t command headlines like radios or light bulbs, but it quietly transformed our clothing from a scarce necessity into a plentiful means of personal expression, changing daily life, one stitch at a time.

Stay grounded.

One hundred years ago, 50% of American homes and businesses were being transformed by a new source of energy—not heat, or steam, or gas, but quick, invisible electricity. In 1925, half of the country had access to electric light, and it was only just the beginning. Advertising from 1925 often used words to describe electrical energy like “magical”, “futuristic”, and “marvelous”, not to mention words like “deadly”, “insanity”, “Armageddon”.

“One hundred years ago, electricity was used almost exclusively for lighting,” says Jon Winter, collector & co-founder. “But as soon as it entered the home, other inventors quickly jumped on the bandwagon.”

“Since dedicated wall outlets were still a few years in the future, people had to improvise ways to tap into the power,” says John Jenkins, president & CEO. “The most common method was using a screw-in adapter that fit into the standard Edison light bulb socket. The appliance cord would plug into the adapter, essentially borrowing power from the light fixture, which was often on the ceiling in the center of the room.”

As more and more homes got electrified, Christmas gift-giving became a showcase for the future. Americans suddenly had access to a variety of new home appliances, many of which would become today’s common household items.

The Museum displays a wonderful variety of these early home appliances, many introduced for the first time, making them unique and memorable Christmas gifts for 1925.

Here are just a few of the brand-new holiday gift options for someone lucky enough to have electricity in their home one hundred years ago today:

Smooth Operator

The electric clothing iron may not seem very glamorous, but it is considered the very first electrical appliance to become commercially available for domestic use, and the ideal gift for any busy homemaker pressed for time.

Before the electric iron, people would heat heavy solid irons, or “sadirons”, on a fire or in a stove, making it almost impossible to control the heat. Other methods included an iron filled with hot coals or, later, gasoline!

The electric iron was an immediate improvement as it could be controlled to a much greater extent to avoid scorching clothes and the operator.

Lighting the Tree

In 1919, General Electric had launched their line of decorative, miniature string lamp Christmas kits. These kits were affordable and featured a flame-shaped bulb using a longer lasting tungsten filament. The lights were a hit with the public, and definitely safer than traditional candles with open flames.

A Golden Age for Toast

“Some people can’t imagine life without toast,” says Charlie Bryan, director of operations. “I happen to be one of them.”

“People have been searing their bread long before the first electric toaster,” continues Bryan. The Romans knew toasting food acted as a preservative, making it more portable and especially handy when invading their many less powerful neighbors.

The British developed a fondness for the Romans’ toasted bread, and later introduced it in the United States when they crossed the Atlantic to try and set us straight.

Early Americans would use a long-handled metal fork to hold a slice of bread over an open fire, fireplace, or gas stove burner. Later, options like wrought-iron or tin frames were designed to hold multiple slices of bread in front of a fire or on a wood or coal-fired stove, which required manual rotation of the rack to toast the bread evenly.

That all changed when, in 1909, General Electric introduced the Model D-12, the first commercially successful electric toaster.

No open flame, no stove or hearth.

The GE Model D-12 was a basic, non-automatic appliance that required manual operation. “Manual means the operator does everything,” says Bryan. “No timer, no heat controller, no pop-up bread eject lever.”

The original Model D-12 featured a metal cage-like device surrounding a heating element made of a durable nickel and chromium wire able to sustain repeated high temperatures without burning out, all mounted on a white porcelain base.

“And it only browns on one side, so you have to flip the bread with your fingers,” adds Bryan. “Not exactly the family friendly kitchen appliance we all know and love today.”

The user would place a piece of hand-sliced bread into a wire rack on one side of the heating element. Since there was no timer, and the machine only toasted one side at a time, the user had to keep an eye not to burn the toast, then manually flip the bread over—often with their fingers—to toast the other side, and again watch it carefully to prevent burning.

The exposed heating coils, along with the poorly insulated electric cord, made these first toasters a real safety hazard, with burns, shocks and fires common occurrences.

Due to the early safety issues and limited access to electricity in homes, early electric toasters were initially more popular in restaurants.

A Stroke of Genius

“The Tark Electric Razor is one of the scariest looking products ever invented to help a fella stay well groomed,” says Winter. “It’s basically an electrified razor blade that vibrates 7200 times a minute—across your face.”

The mechanism would vibrate back and forth, causing a standard single-edge blade to rapidly oscillate against the person’s skin, supposedly cutting hairs as they entered the shaving head.

“Whisk your beard away like magic!” says the advertising on the box.

“If you’re not careful, you’ll whisk parts of your face away, too,” laughs Jenkins. “There’s no protective foil, and along with the poorly insulated power cord, there’s nothing safe about it—but what a fascinating attempt at transitioning to electricity for a better shave.

Wave of the Future

Simplex” curling irons were early electric hair styling tools manufactured by the Simplex Electric Heating Company in the early 1900s, and represent a transitional period in history from stove-heated irons to modern electric appliances.

Curling irons became wildly popular in the Roaring Twenties because they were essential for creating the era’s fashionable hairstyles, especially the “Marcel wave” that accompanied the short, bobbed hair cuts that many women adopted. The invention of the electric curling iron in the 1920s made it easier and safer for women to style their hair at home, but not that much.

Before electric curling irons, women went to great extremes to get curls like silent movie star, Clara Bow, like sleeping in rollers and setting solution, or  using metal rods, tongs, or irons heated in a fire or on a stove, and taking a section of hair and carefully curling it around the hot metal to hopefully set—not burn—the curl in place.

The Simplex electric curling iron offered a more safe, convenient and consistent heating method. The Simplex curling irons included a separate electric heating element, mounted on an ornate metal base, into which the iron was inserted for heating.

Though considered much safer and consistent than non-electric curling irons, these early units lacked many basic features any modern appliance would be expected to have today, like an on/off switch, or higher quality insulated cords and wiring. Burns, shocks and fires were just part of the risk of trying to look like Betty Boop in 1925.

Scratching an Itch

The Polar Cub Electric Vibrator was a domestic appliance produced by the A.C. Gilbert Company in the early 20th century, primarily marketed in magazines and mail-order catalogs as a beauty and health aid for women.

Ads promised relief from a variety of ailments, including anxiety, fatigue, headaches, constipation, and even “fading beauty”.

“Guarenteed to melt tension away in seconds,” states Museum health & beauty expert, Victoria Parrish. “As you can see, the lady on the box looks pretty darn happy.”

The Polar Cub vibrator, in particular, was marketed as a superior beauty aid, and one of the first electric gadgets, along with vacuum cleaners, fans, toasters, and curling irons to become an ordinary, common household item.

“Definitely more fun than a toaster,” adds Parrish.

Stay grounded.