In summer 2024 I joined the 4 million annual visitors to the Statue of Liberty. Though I had taken the Staten Island Ferry past her on a previous trip and had spied her in the distance many times over the course of my life, this was my inaugural trip to Liberty Island and my first opportunity not just to see her up close, but to learn about her history and think about what she means.
The Statue of Liberty is phenomenal in many ways. Walking onto the island feels like meeting a celebrity that you have admired from a distance all your life. She may not be alive, but she is right there, right next to you, in all of her oxidized glory. She’s massive. She’s gorgeous. She’s familiar, yet her inscrutable face, fame, and sheer size distances her from the viewer. I had never realized that there are broken chains at her feet. I did what all tourists do: walked around her, gazed up at her, appreciated her.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to visit the attached museum, but what a missed opportunity that would have been! The museum as currently constituted is fantastic. Its opening short, 12-minute film breezes efficiently yet thoroughly through the highlights of her construction: her sculptor, Frederic Bartholdi, is introduced, along with the stories of his travel to the US, his design and construction of the great lady, her transport to the US, and her final erection in 1886. The rest of the museum shows how she was built, her use in advertising and media in the century-plus since then, and allows visitors to grasp how thin the copper plating is that makes up the body of the statue. Throughout, the mythos of the Statue builds: a gift of the French people to celebrate Franco-American friendship and our common ideals, she stands at the harbor to New York City, a welcoming beacon of light for new immigrants, proudly representing our highest aspirations: liberty, international cooperation, friendship, equality, progress, and democracy.
Where the museum truly shines, though, is in its closing interactive exhibit. Interactive exhibits can be trite or banal, but I found this one to be truly moving. As a visitor, you are invited to approach a kiosk where you take a selfie and choose your home country’s flag, then select up to seven images that you associate with the concept of liberty. Moments after you finalize your choices, your picture, flag, and chosen images appear together in a corner of a nearby massive screen, along with those of other visitors, where they then slowly move toward the center, ultimately joining and helping to build an image of the Statue of Liberty. The Statue, in the end, is made up of all of our notions of liberty, and she belongs to all of us. I found myself tearing up looking at all of the people from all over the world thinking about and contributing to the idea of liberty.
I was smitten. This gorgeous lady had won my heart. Her strong ideals drew me closer. I wanted to learn more about her. Where did she come from? How did she get here? What’s her story and background?
I searched the island gift stores for a book that would enlighten me, and picked up Elizabeth Mitchell’s Liberty’s Torch: The Great Adventure to Build the Statue of Liberty, first published 10 years ago in 2014. Now, after reading it, I feel like someone who has gotten to that point in a relationship where the initial, “You’re amazing and perfect!” feeling has worn off, and I understand that the object of my ardor, like everything, is flawed and her origins are less than what I had grown up learning. It’s not quite a “don’t meet your heroes” or “never learn how the sausage is made” story, but it’s close.
Part of the job of a historian, after all, is to pierce the myth and veil of nationalized fiction. It shouldn’t have surprised me that, in the end, the actual story of the Statue of Liberty’s creation is mostly an examination of normal, everyday humans who were visionary and driven, yet also flawed and disappointing. The people who came together to build the Statue all did so for their own selfish reasons: Bartholdi just wanted to fulfill his life-long dream of building an enormous statue. Charles Stone, who was in charge of the US side of operations, was looking to rebuild his tattered reputation as much as erect a statue. Eiffel, who designed the interior supports, saw it merely as an interesting engineering problem. Pulitzer, who raised small-dollar donations through his newspapers, was more interested in embarrassing the country’s millionaires for not ponying up. None of them were particularly moved by or wanted to celebrate high-minded ideals like French-American friendship, liberty, or opportunity. But together, they somehow, almost accidentally, ended up building a gorgeous, timeless, classic statue that today stands as a beautiful and beloved symbol. As Mitchell argues deep in the book on p. 254, “[The Statue of] Liberty had been an act of selfish promotion from beginning to end. The culprits had just been lucky enough to get an outstanding artwork out of it.”
And maybe this is a dumb thing to realize and say, but when I thought, “I want to read a history of the Statue of Liberty” what I was really saying was, “I want to read the story of the men who created the Statue of Liberty.” It’s not like she was hiding in a cave in France and then walked to the New York City harbor. It’s a hacky joke but still true: she doesn’t even show up until the end of the book!
In the end, then, the book is more of a focused biography of Bartholdi, and the Statue of Liberty is just his end product. In Mitchell’s convincing telling, the Statue of Liberty was not, as the museum myths would have us believe, a gift from the people of France to their American brethren to celebrate our common ideals, but instead was the product of a singularly focused man who just wanted to build a damn big statue, and found a way to do it. It’s a terrific story of how Bartholdi wrenched his vision into reality: he didn’t have the funding or support of either France or the US, the location of where the Statue would be located seemed to be constantly in flux, nobody really knew why it should exist or what it meant (one of the fundraising organizations claimed at one point that it would be a “functional monument to capitalism”! (p131)), and Bartholdi had no plan for making it stand independently (they considered filling it with sand at one point), but he sprinted ahead anyway. Somehow, he ended up not only making it work, but he created one of the most iconic and famous pieces of art in the world. That’s a pretty good story, well worth exploring.
In terms of the book itself and Mitchell’s writing, when she hits her groove her writing is fluid, her storytelling is compelling, and the narrative is clear. Descriptions of some scenes, such as Americans seeing the Statue of Liberty for the first time, divided into boxes in the hold of the ship that brought her from Europe (p196), are cinematically and evocatively told, and her writing is gorgeous in places. From what I can tell, Mitchell is not a trained historian, so the depth of her research is impressive and she does an admirable job of walking the difficult and fine line between academic rigor and popular accessibility.
Mitchell is especially devoted to her main subject (Bartholdi, not the Statue), and for good reason: he may have trained as a sculptor, but was equally talented as a visionary project manager and PR whiz, who took advantage of the paucity of intercontinental communications to convince both the French and Americans that a) the other side was really excited about this and b) the other side was eagerly committing resources and money to the cause, even when none of that was true. Mitchell shows the contradictions between Bartholdi’s urge to build a massive, famous, gargantuan monument on the one hand with his private and quiet life on the other. Ultimately, though, I found Mitchell to be too sympathetic to Bartholdi, arguing without sufficient evidence that his desire to build the Statue of Liberty may have been more than “hubris and grandiosity. It might have been a desire to never be separated from the earthly ephemera that so enchanted him” (p269).
Personally, I could have also used more information on Bartholdi’s “loyal assistant,” Marie Simon, who is tantalizingly mentioned several times throughout the book, but was a cipher, with almost no information given about who he was or what he did.
I also enjoyed Mitchell’s extensive use of what felt like guest appearances and cameos by various late-19th century celebrities: when Eiffel shows up halfway through the book, I was reminded of Roberty Downey, Jr suddenly appearing in a supporting role in the middle of a blockbuster. Hey, look kids, it’s Victor Hugo! Over there is Ulysses S. Grant! Is that Mark Twain in the corner?
Too often, though, Mitchell allows leaden details and what feel like side quests to bog down the narrative. She clearly did an impressive amount of meticulous research to create this book, but occasionally she gets in the weeds of the details of her research and has a hard time whacking her way out, leaving the reader behind in the shrubbery. She lacks the trained historian’s eye for what matters and what doesn’t: we get a page and a half on Napoleon’s unsuccessful attempt to annex Luxembourg (p43-44) without an obvious, necessary connection to the main story, for example.
It feels, unfortunately, like Mitchell decided how much space to dedicate to specific parts of the story based more on how much she had learned about it rather than how important it was to the overall narrative; that may be her lack of historical training shining through. The end result is that we get frustratingly little on what feel like major parts of the story (a mere page and a half each on Emma Lazarus’ poem (p. 177-179) and Bartholdi’s trip across the US to rally support for the statue (p 98-99)), while diving deep into the Congressional record for ten interminable pages (p. 219-228) about an unsuccessful and unimportant attempt to secure funding from Congress that had little impact on the overall narrative.
Additionally, Mitchell does not pay enough attention to the argument that this statue to American ideals was undertaken at a time of massive inequality in the US. The museum on Liberty Island handles this hypocrisy much more deftly than her book does, which mentions it only twice: once briefly on p246 and another paragraph in the epilogue (p. 258).
What I really appreciated about the book, though, was the extent of thinking it inspired me to do about what I had found so moving about my visit to the Statue of Liberty. Partially it is the art itself: she’s beautiful and awe-inspiring, memorable, familiar, and beloved. The sheer size of her indicates that it must Mean Something, just as Bartholdi intended. That hasn’t changed. But what Mitchell made me question is what I think the statue represents, and why I think that. I want the Statue of Liberty to Mean Something. I want it to tell a story about my country and represent the values I hold. The problem is that this story and those values do not actually undergird the statue, at least at its conception. The idea that Liberty was created to welcome new immigrants to next-door Ellis Island is a foundational part of my understanding of the statue, but is ultimately untrue: Bartholdi called the idea of the Statue of Liberty being a landing spot for new migrants “a desecration” and “monstrous.”
Which means that the ideals I attach to the Statue come mostly from Emma Lazarus’ iconic, breathtaking, awe-inspiring poem, The New Colossus. In her book, Mitchell shows that it is not entirely clear why Lazarus contributed the work, as she initially rejected the request, though she seems to have been inspired more by the plight of refugees than by the statue itself. When we think about what the Statue of Liberty means, then, we have to remember that Lazarus’ poem was not attached to its base until 1903 (and, at that, hidden away on the inside of the statue), and was not publicized as being there for 20 years after that. The Statue of Liberty, in the end, does not have an inherent meaning and is as open to interpretation as any piece of art: when I celebrate it as a beacon of American welcome to refugees and immigrants, I am imposing Lazarus’ poetic ideals on it, rather than recognizing her original intent.
I thought I was smitten with the Statue of Liberty; in reality, I was attracted to Lazarus’ poem.
This book also caused me to reflect on the Statue of Liberty today, as we are within shouting distance of her 150th birthday. This book stops at the 1886 inauguration, more or less (though the fantastic epilogue is required reading for anyone who makes it that far), leaving me to contemplate how the image and meaning of the statue has changed since then, and I would like to see another author tackle that story. In reading of the statue’s construction, Eiffel’s building of the interior support system, and from visiting the statue and seeing how thin the outer layer is, I also wonder and fear for the ability of the Statue of Liberty to physically withstand the ever-increasing challenges wrought by the climate crisis. There’s a metaphor here, of the seemingly-timeless statue being made of a thin veneer that we might all just take for granted until it is too late.
I finished Mitchell’s book with a vague sense of disappointment and gnawing cynicism that this statue I loved and felt so moved by when I visited it doesn’t actually mean what the myths have told me she meant. That’s probably a good thing: spoiler alert, but there is no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny, either. The highly fallible and self-serving men who built the statue may have selfishly taken advantage of those ideals I felt so keenly and deeply on Liberty Island--liberty, international cooperation, friendship, equality, progress, and democracy--as a tool to fulfill their own self-serving desires. But we still love her anyway. She’s still gorgeous, still beloved (what has a higher approval rating in the US than the Statue of Liberty?), is still standing in the perfect spot over a hundred years later, and each of us, in the end, can add our own meaning of Liberty to her.