Lights Out: A New Interdisciplinary Exhibit Asks Us to Embrace Darkness

A new exhibit at the National Museum of Natural History exemplifies the collaborative spirit of the Smithsonian and explores a problem we’re capable of solving: light pollution.

In 1879 in Menlo Park, New Jersey—some twenty miles south of my hometown of Belleville—Thomas Edison invented the electric lightbulb.  

Human beings were driving away darkness long before the advent of the lightbulb, relying on candlelight and oil lamps after sunset. But it was electric lighting that revolutionized the night: it swept across the country and brought a luminous haze along with it. 

That haze created host of unanticipated consequences, and a new exhibit at the National Museum of Natural History shows us what we miss by keeping the lights on. The exhibit is a truly interdisciplinary, collaborative effort: it traces the history of American industry (and borrows an 1880 Edison light bulb from the collections of the National Museum of American History); the diverse cultural mythologies of a dark night sky; and the disruptions in the circadian rhythms, mating patterns, and migratory flight paths of a variety of birds and other animals.

An episode of our Sidedoor podcast explores how our staff at NMNH have helped illuminate those losses.

It began in earnest during the Great Depression, when electric lighting flooded storefronts and streetlights cropped up along highways; businesses would compete to attract customers with the brightest displays and governments encouraged public lighting to deter crime. In the 1940s, the light pollution became noticeable.

At first, light pollution wasn’t a concern of disappearing stars but of immediate safety. It was World War II, and German sailors began sinking US ships that were now silhouetted against bright coastal cities. Despite government pleas, people weren’t turning off their lights: the wreckage of sunken ships and human bodies began washing up on American shores and even still, our cities burned brightly through the night.

After the war ended, light pollution became less of a national security concern, but it continued to wreak havoc on the natural world.

Light pollution disrupts countless ecosystems: sea turtle hatchlings mistake glowing boardwalks for moonlight and venture out only to be killed by waiting predators. Frogs’ mating calls (croaking) happen under the cover of darkness, and without it, their reproduction rates drop dramatically. Birds, however, pay the highest price.

Every year, somewhere between 300 million and 1 billion migratory birds in North America die by flying into buildings: windows glow through the night and attract birds who are killed on impact.

All these problems can quite literally be solved overnight simply by turning off the lights. It saves thousands of dollars, millions of birds, and over time, it can bring back the true brilliance of the night sky.

Pittsburgh was the first city in the nation to implement a dark sky ordinance in 2021, which requires all newly installed public lighting to be more energy efficient and less needlessly luminous—a monumental step toward curbing light pollution.

The exhibit fills me with hope: it feels rare, in this world, to confront a widespread problem that is so tangibly within our control.

The exhibit is a reminder, too, of the expansive dark sky so many of us have forgotten. For centuries, humankind has been fascinated with the beauty of the night. Countless spiritual connections have been drawn in the stars: we’ve named planets for Greek gods and charted maps in the constellations, promising a path to freedom.

There is also a sense of sheer wonder in seeing the universe yawn wide across the horizon, billions of stars piercing through the dark—but today, 80 percent of people in North America cannot see the Milky Way. There are entire generations who don’t know what a dark night sky looks like. Every year, we see fewer and fewer stars, losing them to a pervasive glow of artificial lighting.

My father was a scientist, and growing up, that meant we spent lots of time looking at the sky. I wish I could remember all the constellations he pointed out to me, but there are still a handful I can pick out—ones I look for every time it’s dark enough to see the stars.  

It’s a feeling I’ve missed, living in DC all these years. It’s only on the occasions I escape the city—to the Outer Banks and places like it—that I can commune with the heavens again. Thanks to our colleagues at the National Museum of Natural History, I am reminded that this is not a loss we have to accept. 

Learn more

Turning Off Your Lights Could Save Millions of Birds Each Year from Deadly Building Collisions

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