Volume 57 Number 2 April 2014

ARTICLE

Collecting Human Subjects: Ethics and the Archive in the History of

Science and the Historical Life Sciences
JOANNA RADIN

Abstract Anthropological collectors have long engaged in “salvage”—the attempt to metaphorically

freeze those artifacts, traditions, and languages in danger of disappearing. Beginning in the 1960s, in an
effort to establish global baselines of biological variation, biological anthropologists and human geneticists
emphasized the importance of salvaging blood samples from Indigenous peoples whose survival they
considered to be endangered by the corrosive forces of modernity. This paper focuses on the collection
practices of Jonathan Friedlaender, who was a Ph.D. student in biological anthropology at Harvard when he
took his first blood samples in 1966. Eventually, Friedlaender began to salvage materials from his own
career, assembling an archive that would ultimately be deposited at the American Philosophical Society in
Philadelphia. The archive would become part of a “collection of anthropologists,” out of which current and
future historians might seek to make sense of the collections they made of other people.

Anthropological collectors have long eng-
aged in “salvage”—the attempt to metaphori-
cally freeze those artifacts, traditions, and
languages in danger of disappearing (Gruber
1970). During the Cold War era, justifications
for salvage were re-articulated as new tech-
niques emerged that changed the kinds of
materials that could be collected and main-
tained. The metaphor of freezing had become
a reality in practice: New access to technologies
of mobile and long-term cold storage—
including mechanical refrigeration, dry ice, and
liquid nitrogen—supported the accumulation
and preservation of thousands of vials of blood
extracted from members of human communi-
ties around the globe.
Under the auspices of the International
Biological Program (IBP), a large-scale effort
to establish global baselines of biological varia-
tion, circa 1964-1974, a number of biological
anthropologists and human geneticists empha-
sized the importance of salvaging blood samples
from Indigenous peoples whose survival they
considered to be endangered by the corrosive
forces of modernity (Collins and Weiner 1977;
Santos 2002; Radin 2013). In the late 1950s
through the 1970s, it was only possible to dis-
cern a small number of meaningful markers in
the molecular analysis of blood, such as abnor-
mal hemoglobins, blood groups, and a few pro-
teins. Ultimately, however, research using
blood samples collected from East African
communities demonstrated an evolutionary
relationship between the presence of the gene
for sickle cell anemia and resistance to malaria
(Allison 1954; 2002). This finding led scientists
to believe that studying the blood of members
of Indigenous groups, whom they characterized
as portals to the past, would yield many simi-
larly powerful examples of natural selection in
humans (Neel 1958; Lindee 2004). Though
this particular prediction was not borne out,
blood did end up being filled with biomedical
potential. By the 1970s, two scientists had been

Joanna Radin (joanna.radin@yale.edu), assistant professor, History of Science and Medicine, Yale University; she
also has affiliations with the departments of Anthropology and History.

249
CURATOR THE MUSEUM JOURNAL
awarded Nobel prizes for research using tissues
collected from Indigenous peoples living in the
Western Pacific.1
Cold storage technology not only facili-
tated the salvage of blood for specific kinds of
projects. It also enabled this ephemeral material
to be preserved for future uses “as yet unknown”
(Radin forthcoming). In the lab, freezers filled
with blood became archives, making these bits
of bodies available for repeated analyses. By the
1990s, scientists were thawing these old, cold
blood samples in order to mine them for the
human DNA latent within. This practice,
which became known as “freezer anthropology,”
gained momentum amid controversy surround-
ing the demise of the Human Genome Diver-
sity Project (hereafter referred to as the
Diversity Project) (Reardon 2005; Radin 2013).
In many ways, the Diversity Project was a
successor to the human-centered blood collec-
tion projects of the IBP in that its primary goal
was to sample and archive human variations in
the genomic age (Santos 2002). It even involved
some of the same scientists and their students.
As in the IBP, the focus was on collecting
genetic material from Indigenous communities.
In the intervening decades, however, the prac-
tice of salvaging Indigenous blood samples went
from being regarded as a relatively uncontrover-
sial technological breakthrough to being the
focus of an emerging critical conversation about
the ethics of human subjects research (Kowal
et al. 2013).
The shifting ethical and epistemological
status of these frozen human remains has led
historians to begin to inquire about the circum-
stances of their original procurement. This has
involved recovering the ideas, individuals, tech-
nologies, and practices that characterized this
subfield of biological anthropology during the
Cold War. As they have turned their attention
to these scientists, historians have had the
250 Article: Collecting Human Subjects: Ethics and the Archive in the History of Science
opportunity to interview practitioners. In the
process, historians find themselves in the posi-
tion of turning human-subjects researchers into
the subjects of historical research. In this sense,
historians may feel themselves to be engaged in
a form of salvage. Over the last decade, many of
the scientists who participated in what one
referred to as the “heyday” of anthropological
blood collection have retired or have passed
away, though their frozen blood samples some-
times endure (Merriwether 1999). In certain
cases, even their students are reaching the end
of their careers. While some of these veteran
collectors have been acutely sensitive to their
legacies, and have carefully curated their per-
sonal papers, others have not had a sense of
themselves as “historical subjects” whose stories
might be lost.
This paper focuses on the collection prac-
tices of one such individual, biological anthro-
pologist Jonathan Friedlaender, with whom the
author conducted and published an oral history
(Friedlaender and Radin 2009). The oral history
described transformations in the field of biolog-
ical anthropology over the last 40 years, as well
as Friedlaender’s involvement in developments
in biomedical research ethics. In the process of
participating in the oral history project, Friedla-
ender began to salvage materials from his own
career, assembling an archive that would ulti-
mately be deposited at the American Philo-
sophical Society in Philadelphia. The American
Philosophical Society maintains one of the most
important collections of historical papers relat-
ing to anthropology and to genetics.
By putting the circumstances that led to the
creation of Friedlaender’s archive of frozen
blood alongside an account of the circumstances
that led him to create an archive of his career, it
becomes possible to simultaneously consider the
value of viewing certain forms of historical and
scientific practice in terms of the ethics of

collection creation, use, and re-use. Specifically,
I use Friedlaender’s experience of “becoming
historical” to reflect on the ethical consequences
of an assumption held by many historians as well
as scientists: that collections should endure
indefinitely. In an era in which concerns about
research involving human subjects are trans-
forming how we make knowledge about our
species, it is important for historians to think
reflexively about the intellectual assumptions
that guide their own research enterprise
(Waterton 2010).2
COLLECTING BLOOD
Jonathan Friedlaender was a Ph.D. student
in biological anthropology at Harvard when he
took his first blood samples in 1966. He had
traveled to the Western Pacific as part of an
IBP-affiliated initiative known as the Harvard
Solomon Islands Project (Friedlaender et al.
1987). The Harvard Solomon Islands Project
involved several seasons of fieldwork, including
the collection of thousands of blood samples
and other kinds of biomedical data. The idea
that various communities of Solomon Islanders
were undergoing unprecedented changes due
to globalization motivated anthropologists to
make collections that would enable them to
obtain a snapshot of such populations at a spe-
cific moment in time. The organizers of the
Harvard Solomon Islands Project agreed that it
was urgent to salvage as much blood as possible
from these unique populations, and that this
blood should be preserved indefinitely for
future, as yet unknown, uses.
Friedlaender would recall that, during that
field season, “I learned [how to take blood sam-
ples] using humans as practice. I don’t know
exactly what would be acceptable behavior in
the U.S. now, but I assume you have to be certi-
fied. That was just not even an issue then”
Joanna Radin
Volume 57 Number 2 April 2014
(Friedlaender and Radin 2009, 70). He soon
became skilled enough at the practice to incor-
porate it into his own research.
His dissertation, begun at the same time,
and later published as the book Patterns of
Variation, was a study of human variation on
the island of Bougainville (Friedlaender 1975).
For this project, he collected over 2,000
human blood samples as well as traditional
anthropometric data including body measure-
ments and fingerprints. In some cases, he also
took photographs. On its own, this informa-
tion had limited value. Friedlaender also had
to establish genealogies linking the individuals
in the populations he was studying. This
would be imperative for making claims about
how specific genetic traits were inherited. He
did this by working with church records made
by local missionaries. He explained that “I
used that information in establishing what are
called marital migration distances. . . I hoped
to link patterns of isolation and migration
from village to village to their genetic distinc-
tion. My main conclusion was that the people
who lived in these villages had mostly been
born close by—they hadn’t moved far at all
from their birthplaces and this explained a lot
about their genetic isolation and diversity”
(Friedlaender and Radin 2009, 80).
Over the next several decades, as he moved
from an assistant professorship in Anthropology
at Harvard to a tenured position at Temple Uni-
versity in Philadelphia, he repeatedly returned
to the Western Pacific and accumulated thou-
sands more frozen blood samples, which he kept
for many years at minus 20 degrees Fahrenheit
in his lab. This work was being done in a time
when ethical guidelines for research involving
human subjects were not yet institutionalized
(Stark 2011). When asked about how he got
people to agree to participate in his studies, he
remarked, “It was an entirely different era in
251
CURATOR THE MUSEUM JOURNAL
fieldwork in the 1960s” (Friedlaender and
Radin 2009, 83).
In the early days, no one signed forms or lis-
tened to a formal presentation from me. It was
just having the evening “council meeting” in a
village, with questions and answers following
my description and demonstration (often with
anthropometer, scale, fingerprint paper, and
blood taking tubes usually displayed and exam-
ined). It was clear that I couldn’t require people
to participate, that there was no coercion
involved. . .. There was one village, the first vil-
lage I approached, where the whole village said,
“We don’t want to do that.” I said, “Oh, well,
OK. “I didn’t have much choice (Friedlaender
and Radin 2009, 84).
Along the way, Friedlaender also found
himself at the center of a number of controver-
sies surrounding the ethics of researching the
blood of Indigenous peoples. In the early 1990s,
he was involved in highly politicized debates
about who could use Indigenous blood samples,
and how. At the time, he was on leave from
Temple, serving as a program officer for physi-
cal anthropology at the National Science Foun-
dation (NSF). He had been appointed to help
promote the Diversity Project, which was in its
earliest planning stages. Soon, however, politi-
cal controversy derailed the effort. He recalled
receiving “a letter when I was at the NSF from a
Native American chief. . . of a Seneca group in
New York State, essentially saying, ‘We are
worried about the use of our sacred blood, we
don’t want this project done, and you must
respect our rights’ and so on. Others at the NSF
and especially NIH were concerned about this
and other protests from Indigenous rights
groups” (Friedlaender and Radin 2009, 161).
Around the same time, Friedlaender was
also wrongfully accused of attempting to patent
252 Article: Collecting Human Subjects: Ethics and the Archive in the History of Science
genes extracted from the blood of Indigenous
peoples. “This was simply not true,” he stated,
but “world-wide, the prospect of collecting cell
lines [blood cells that have been altered to allow
them to produce limitless amounts of DNA] for
the prospective Human Genome Diversity Pro-
ject (or any other sort of study) became a cause
celebre” (Friedlaender and Radin 2009, 163).
The issue of “informed consent”—the idea that
the subjects of research should understand the
nature of their participation in research—was a
central ethical problem of the Diversity Project
(Friedlaender 1996; 2005; Reardon 2001).
Those who sought to accumulate Indige-
nous blood samples—in both the 1960s and the
1990s—assumed that samples could and should
remain in the freezer indefinitely, a thought that
has, more recently, gone to the heart of concerns
about whether those who agree to participate in
human subjects research can ever be reasonably
informed about the purposes to which their
blood will be used in the future. Such new uses
are often unrelated to those that justified their
initial collection (Kowal et al. 2013). This is
something Friedlaender has had to think about,
not least of all because he has long collaborated
on “freezer anthropology” projects: “I heard
someone suggest recently that all samples col-
lected for a project should all be destroyed once
the grant expires and once a subsequent publica-
tion is out. I think that would be a shame, like
destroying museum collections. In the end, I
think it depends a lot on what scientists do with
these materials. . .” (Friedlaender and Radin
2009, 197).
BECOMING HISTORICAL
In the postscript to his oral history, Friedla-
ender began by noting that he “was flattered and
pleased when Joanna Radin first approached
me” about the project (Friedlaender and Radin

2009, 225) However, this is the perspective he
held at the completion of the project. When first
asked to answer a young historian’s questions,
he was not immediately responsive to inquiries
and, even then, expressed doubt that he had
much to share. Initially, he communicated only
through an intermediary, Muriel Kirkpatrick,
the curator of the Temple Anthropology Lab.
This lab, located in the basement of the building
that houses Anthropology as well as several
other social science departments, might be more
accurately described as a repository for collec-
tions—of bones, manuscripts, and cultural
objects—which had become historical. These
materials had served as the basis for the research
projects of former faculty members who had
since completed their research, retired, or
passed away. Though no blood samples were
ever maintained in this space, Kirkpatrick was
ultimately able to locate the documentation that
supported the studies Friendlaender partici-
pated in during the 1960s and 1970s, including
the Harvard Solomon Islands Project.
He had brought these documents to Tem-
ple when he left Harvard and had not looked at
them since he had completed editing a compen-
dium of studies using the Solomon Islands Pro-
ject data more than 30 years ago. They filled
three tall metal filing cabinets, stored in a back
corner of the basement lab. Even Kirkpatrick
did not initially remember they were there.
Their contents were tantamount to a “lost”
archive: a unique set of textual evidence upon
which a historian might begin to reconstruct
some of the practices involved with turning
Indigenous blood samples into anthropological
resources in the mid-twentieth century.
It was also an ethically problematic archive.
In addition to the detailed genealogical and
anthropological information Friedlaender had
collected over the course of the Harvard
Solomon Islands Project and his own
Joanna Radin
Volume 57 Number 2 April 2014
subsequent research, there were hundreds of
photographs. Long forgotten, this was a collec-
tion of materials that constituted “protected
human subjects material,” which includes iden-
tifying information about participants in bio-
medical or social science research. For the
twenty-first-century historian who encountered
these materials, there was a sense of ethical
obligation to reduce the likelihood that these
materials could be misused or inadvertently
discarded. Ultimately, they were returned to
Harvard’s Peabody Museum of Archaeology
and Ethnology, where they joined other papers
on the Harvard Solomon Islands Project that
Friedlaender had not taken with him to
Temple. The photos, though not the accompa-
nying textual materials, were classified as
restricted. In a powerful sense, the project of
investigating the salvage of Indigenous blood
samples during the Cold War had re-animated
aspects of the lives of those who had partici-
pated in their acquisition.
By the time the old filing cabinets had been
recovered, Friedlaender had warmed to the idea
of becoming a historical subject, in the hands of
someone who had demonstrated her credibility,
in part by reactivating these old materials. He
soon began the project of “collecting himself”:
gathering up the manuscripts, photos, and
ephemera that had survived several marriages,
moves, retirement, and now illness (Lynch
1999). Friedlaender was suffering from a serious
form of cancer, which—he would later intimate
—heightened his sense of urgency in salvaging
his potential historical legacy. In an interview
for the Temple Alumni Review, Friedlaender
said of his then-current push to complete several
research papers, some of which involved the
reanalysis of old blood samples: “There’s no
question that facing a very uncertain future and
not having life spread out as an endless ocean in
front of me made me focus on what I really
253
CURATOR THE MUSEUM JOURNAL
wanted to accomplish in whatever time I had
left. . .. It’s been frightening, but it’s also been an
incredibly fulfilling time.”
The assemblage he ultimately created was
the result of a project of salvage. It could not be
complete, but when added to an archive, it
would become part of a “collection of anthro-
pologists,” out of which current and future his-
torians might seek to make sense of the
collections they made of other people. In this
chain of events, the historian had moved from
being a user of archives, to someone who was
also an agent with stakes in their creation.
Prior to proceeding with the oral history,
Friedlaender and the author discussed the risks
involved in this form of research. Friedlaender
was required to complete a consent form in
order to proceed with the oral history—making
him a human subject, as well as someone who
was of interest to a historian because of his own
work with human subjects. The process of
obtaining informed consent was one that had
become familiar to him from his more recent
efforts in collecting blood from Melanesian
research subjects in the 1990s and early 2000s.
He had himself drafted a number of such
forms, which, incidentally, he contributed to
his personal archive. In some cases, these
informed consent documents were written in
multiple languages and read aloud to those
who were not literate. In Friedlaender’s case,
the primary risks involved with participating in
the oral history as stated on the consent form
were that there could be no guarantee of ano-
nymity—the very purpose of the project ran
against that norm—and that he might experi-
ence emotional distress from discussing issues
from his past. It did not include the possibility
that the information he shared might be used
by people other than the historian, and for pur-
poses other than that for which it was originally
collected.
254 Article: Collecting Human Subjects: Ethics and the Archive in the History of Science
ETHICS OF THE ARCHIVE
By the time the oral history was finished
and had been published by Friedlaender in
December 2008, it became necessary to find an
institutional home for the personal archive he
had assembled. At this point, it seems necessary
to switch to the “first person” as I reflect on the
ethical dimensions of this negotiation. It felt
inappropriate that I should retain the archival
materials as part of my “personal” collection, nor
did it occur to either of us that I would destroy
them. This was a value promoted by profes-
sional historians and archivists, but in conflict
with the norms of human subjects research,
which can include the discarding of research
materials at the conclusion of the study (Water-
ton 2010). In this instance, I privileged my epis-
temic status as a historian over that of my status
as a human subjects researcher.
Friedlaender’s initial response to the sug-
gestion that we find an archive for his personal
collection was a mixture of humility and sur-
prise. Would anyone really find a use for this
stuff? As a reflex, but without much reflexivity, I
replied that we could not know for sure, but that
unique collections—like his blood samples—
warranted preservation. I did not view myself as
an agent of coercion, although it seems in retro-
spect that I had indeed encouraged him to
embrace a sensibility in which salvaging his let-
ters and his thoughts for the sake of posterity
was an unambiguous good.
As I indicated above, one of the most sig-
nificant ethical issues to emerge during Friedla-
ender’s career has been whether or not materials
he and his colleagues have accumulated can be
re-used for purposes other than that for which
they were initially collected. What has made
this problem so intractable, despite a great deal
of critical scholarship on issues of property and
informed consent regarding the use of human

remains, is that there are no universal or defini-
tive answers (Reardon and TallBear 2012; Gre-
ely 1998; Lawrence 1998; Mello and Wolf
2010; Lindee 1998). When I invited Friedla-
ender to take on the role of historical subject, I
was, in a sense, asking him to consider whether
or not he would want the material traces of his
career to be used for purposes other than that
for which I was collecting them. However, this
was not a situation for which either of us could
assess or predict the potential for harm.
Though historians of science do not often
explicitly consider their work as part of the
enterprise that guides biomedical research, the
increasing authority of Institutional Review
Boards (IRBs) in American universities some-
times requires historians who wish to conduct
oral history interviews to undergo approval pro-
cesses that are similar to those from whom we
wish to learn. From the perspective of the IRB,
we are all engaged in “human subjects research.”
At the same time, even though their orienta-
tions toward such research may be quite differ-
ent, scientists and historians alike are aware that
the IRB process fails to account for a vast range
of ethical aspects of research and, in some cases,
can generate new forms of harm or blockages of
knowledge.
U.S. federal officials recently proposed
overhauling rules that may affect historians’
access to certain collections of archived materi-
als. As the New York Times reported:
The American Historical Association, with
15,000 members, and the Oral History Associa-
tion, with 900 members, warn that under the
proposed revisions, for example, new revelations
that Public Health Service doctors deliberately
infected Guatemalan prisoners, soldiers and
mental patients with syphilis in the 1940s might
never have come to light. The abuses were
uncovered by a historian who by chance came
Joanna Radin
Volume 57 Number 2 April 2014
across notes in the archives of the University of
Pittsburgh. That kind of undirected research
could be forbidden under guidelines designed to
prevent “data collected for one purpose” from
being “used for a new purpose to which the sub-
jects never consented,” said Linda Shopes, who
helped draft the historians’ statement (Cohen
2011).
While many historians do excellent work
without archives, by relying on published
books and journals, the archive has been a cen-
tral component of historical practice at least
since the nineteenth century (Steedman 2002;
Farge 1989/2013). The proposed change to
the rules affecting access to biomedically rele-
vant research has had the consequence of lead-
ing historians of human subjects research to
consider the extent to which their reliance on
new uses for old materials—the bread and but-
ter of their archive-dependent knowledge prac-
tices—represents what one anthropologist of
science has referred to as an “ethical plateau,” a
point of conflict in which previously taken-for-
granted assumptions and practices must be
carefully attended to (Fischer 2003).
In pointing this out, I am not claiming that
the power relationships between a historian and
a scientist-as-historical-subject are or have
always been equivalent to that between a scien-
tist and his human “research subject,” especially
when that subject does not have shared access to
the resources of the research university. What I
am arguing is that the political and cultural
changes that have led these relationships to be
placed side-by-side in frameworks like those
provided by the IRB may reveal otherwise
obscured ethical concerns. For example, when I
chose, as the subject of my research, scientists
who themselves did research on humans, I
entered into an ethically ambiguous relationship
with both the scientists and their research
255
CURATOR THE MUSEUM JOURNAL
subjects. In other words, the IRB makes research
subjects out of populations with an extremely
broad range of relationships to power and there-
fore very different kinds of vulnerabilities.
Nevertheless, being placed into the subject
position of “human subjects researcher” can be
valuable in that it provides a standpoint from
which to re-assess assumptions about how
people and things become subjects and, some-
times, objects of knowledge. I chose to con-
ceive of my encounter with Friedlaender as one
of collaboration, a decision facilitated both
intellectually and socially by our shared loca-
tion in American research institutions. This
collaboration was also supported by his sense
of my skill and trustworthiness—a complex
intuition in which the official IRB consent
document may well have been the least impor-
tant factor. One consequence of the way in
which our “research” relationship proceeded
was that when he subsequently decided that he
did not want certain things he had told me or
given me to become historical, I honored his
wishes by redacting them. This is the same
strategy that stewards of now old blood have
turned to when people or their kin have
requested the return or destruction of frozen
blood. Such reversals have not come without
tensions and, in some cases, legal action (Ko-
wal et al. 2013; Couzin-Frankel 2010). And
they highlight the utmost importance of the
personal, affective relationship of trust between
all parties (Kowal 2013). I am suggesting,
then, that examination of assumptions about
salvage and preservation as they pertain to
collections of archived manuscript material
may help prepare those who study human sub-
jects as well as the history of human subjects
research for the need to become more comfort-
able with evanescence, to reject completeness,
and to accept that people have a right to resist
becoming historical.
256 Article: Collecting Human Subjects: Ethics and the Archive in the History of Science
The practice of history—be it based on
written documents or bodily substances—is one
of time travel. It requires the mingling of the
past in the present with an eye toward the
future. It is a form of knowledge production that
builds narratives out of the lives and actions of
others. This does not excuse the historian from
responsibility to those actors—be they dead for
centuries, frozen in pieces, or very much alive.
There are, to cite an important volume on the
ethics of the archive, “no innocent deposits”
(Cox 2004). Since Friedlaender’s oral history
was published, other scientists have asked me if
they should be collecting their own personal
papers. My answer is no longer an automatic
“yes,” that salvage instinct of my discipline.
Rather, such inquiries mark an opportunity to
begin a conversation about the ethical and tem-
poral uncertainties inherent to the archive.
As a historian of human subjects research, I
have an indisputable intellectual dependency on
the past. However, among the most important
lessons I have learned from its study is that there
may also be certain histories that cannot or
should not be told. Indeed, there may be more
to be gained from understanding why and when
that is the case, than seeking to keep open the
possibility of telling them at any cost. This is an
ethical project that exceeds the authority and
the responsibility of the IRB and it is one
in which historians, archivists, and scientists—
as both human subjects researchers and
human subjects—now find themselves collec-
tively engaged. END
NOTES
1. In 1976, Baruch Blumberg and Carleton
Gajdusek shared the prize in physiology of medi-
cine. Blumberg was honored for discovering the
viral etiology of Hepatitis B (Blumberg 2002).
Gajdusek was honored for determining that

Kuru, a disease afflicting the Fore people in the
highlands of New Guinea, was caused by a kind of
infectious agent, later determined to be a prion
(Anderson 2008). Though neither man knew the
other well, what linked their studies is that they
depended upon access to large-scale collections of
human tissues collected from Indigenous peoples.
2. I agree with Waterton’s claim that archives do
more than provide “the record” of what has hap-
pened. “They also implicitly project and perform
ideas of the human subject, ideas about how we
can and should live in the world” (Waterton 2010,
648).
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258 Article: Collecting Human Subjects: Ethics and the Archive in the History of Science