The clean white label lying in front of the object gave such simple and short information, identifying it as a ‘theodolite’ from the early 20^th century comprised of wood, brass and glass. Lost from its identity were the maker, the owner, the intricate mechanisms that made it work, the history, the travel, the places that it visited and the people that it met. Just from a quick glance at the worn wooden box and the faded sticker, this object’s life has been more than just an object sitting in a glass case. What if we asked the object and let it write its own life story? What would it say? Maybe…

I was born in 1910 in Constantinople. Now they call this city Istanbul but when I was created it was a much different place. There was a sultan instead of a prime minister and this city was the capital of the Ottoman Empire, already a crumbling entity, no longer the once great political power. A foreigner named J. Verdoux and his workshop created me in a neighborhood called Pera; actually his shop was quite close to my present resting place. Many men labored over me. One created my box, another molded my brass parts, another the glass but the master put me all together. He connected the mechanisms, taking care to make sure the mirrors were in just the right orientation and at just the right angles. There were plenty of others that looked just like me but each of us was destined for a different place and different adventures. I was sold to a British archaeologist staying down the street at the Grand London Hotel. The following week he packed me along with his other tools, books and clothing and headed across the Bosporus to the Haydarpasha Train Station. From there he boarded the Orient Express headed to Baghdad; I saw little of the journey as I was encased safely inside my box. We travelled for weeks before we reached his final destination: a dusty, hot, empty expanse of land. Ancient ruins could be discerned peaking through the ground. This famous archaeologist and his assistant used me to map these forgotten buildings, trying to discover the lives of the ancient inhabitants. During the following years I travelled with him to many other sites and places in the Middle East, rarely returning to London where he would rest me in his office in the dusty Museum library. My companions and I found these periods dull and craved to return to the adventures abroad. All I had then and what I am left with today are the visions and memories of those places. I haven’t been used for decades now, having been replaced by new technology, as I replaced my predecessors. A few years ago I was brought back to this neighborhood. At first I was excited to return to the same neighborhood where I began my life, I looked forward to sharing the stories I collected with my fellow countrymen. However, since I have been in this case and behind this glass with only a short label to explain my history, I have not had the chance to share my stories. Alas, I miss the dirt and dust from being in the dessert, the touch of the sweaty hand and forehead of the archeologist, the travel aboard ships, trains and caravans. Yet my stories are destined to remain trapped inside this glass case with me.