The De humani corporis fabrica [The Fabric of the Human Body], Basle, 1543, of Andreas Vesalius is deservedly famous as the first modern book of anatomy. A second edition was published in Basle in 1555, but little is known of Vesalius’ activities after that date. This article discusses a recent find: Vesalius’ own copy of the 1555 edition, heavily annotated in preparation for a never published third edition. Vesalius made hundreds of changes to the second edition, the great majority being stylistic, altering the Latin words but not the overall meaning. There are also changes to the plates to give greater clarity or to correct mistakes by the original block-cutter. There is little new anatomical material, although Vesalius continued to meditate about what he had earlier discovered. He shows no sign of being acquainted with the findings of others, like Colombo or Falloppia, that were published after he had moved his residence from Brussels to Spain in summer 1559, perhaps leaving this volume behind. The number of annotations shows Vesalius’ passionate concern not only for accuracy but also for the most effective way of proclaiming his new anatomical message.

For the World Health Organization (WHO), the 1978 Alma-Ata Declaration marked a move away from the disease-specific and technologically-focused programmes of the 1950s and 1960s towards a reimagined strategy to provide ‘Health for All by the Year 2000’. This new approach was centred on primary health care, a vision based on acceptable methods and appropriate technologies, devised in collaboration with communities and dependent on their full participation. Since 1948, the WHO had used mass communications strategies to publicise its initiatives and shape public attitudes, and the policy shift in the 1970s required a new visual strategy. In this context, community health workers (CHWs) played a central role as key visual identifiers of Health for All. This article examines a period of picturing and public information work on the part of the WHO regarding CHWs. It sets out to understand how the visual politics of the WHO changed to accommodate PHC as a new priority programme from the 1970s onwards. The argument tracks attempts to define CHWs and examines the techniques employed by the WHO during the 1970s and early 1980s to promote the concept to different audiences around the world. It then moves to explore how the process was evaluated, as well as the difficulties in procuring fresh imagery. Finally, the article traces these representations through the 1980s, when community approaches came under sustained pressure from external and internal factors and imagery took on the supplementary role of defending the concept.

Charles Singer’s retrospective diagnosis of Hildegard of Bingen as a migraine sufferer, first made in 1913, has become commonly accepted. This article uses Hildegard as a case study to shift our focus from a polarised debate about the merits or otherwise of retrospective diagnosis, to examine instead what happens when diagnoses take on lives of their own. It argues that simply championing or rejecting retrospective diagnosis is not enough; that we need instead to appreciate how, at the moment of creation, a diagnosis reflects the significance of particular medical signs and theories in historical context and how, when and why such diagnoses can come to do meaningful work when subsequently mobilised as scientific ‘fact’. This article first traces the emergence of a new formulation of migraine in the nineteenth century, then shows how this context enabled Singer to retrospectively diagnose Hildegard’s migraine and finally examines some of the ways in which this idea has gained popular and academic currency in the second half of the twentieth century. The case of Hildegard’s migraine reminds us of the need to historicise scientific evidence just as rigorously as we historicise our other material and it exposes the cumulative methodological problems that can occur when historians use science, and scientists use history on a casual basis.

In the first decades of the twentieth century, German-language papers were published which included the term “soziale Psychiatrie” in their titles. At the same time modern concepts of extramural psychiatric care were being developed. Yet, the meaning of “sozial” (“social” in English) varied widely. This was partly due to its ambiguity. “Social” can be used in the sense of small communities or the wider public; it refers to interpersonal relationships, or to relationships between individuals and social groups or other communities. According to this latter meaning, “social” can emphasize the interests of social groups rather than those of the individual. This is how the term was used at the end of the 1920s and during the National Socialist era. On the other hand, “social” may indicate a friendly and humane intention, a philanthropic approach. It was in this sense that the term was widely used in the 1970s when philanthropic psychiatrists and others called for psychiatric reform and the closure or downsizing of asylums for the mentally ill. Moreover, in association with psychiatry, it can mean both the social dimension of mental illness (including the aetiology) that is assumed to lie in human relationships and in social circumstances, and the social and economic effects of mental illness. In parallel with these shifting meanings of the term “social”, the established models of twentieth-century ambulant psychiatric care also showed a variety of structural characteristics.

The hair samples of Ferdinand II of Aragon (1467–1496), King of Naples, whose mummy is preserved in the Basilica of San Domenico Maggiore in Naples, showed a high content of mercury, with a value of 827ppm. Furthermore, examination using a stereomicroscope and a scanning electron microscope (SEM) of head and pubic hairs of Ferdinand II, revealed a lice infestation. The reasons for the massive presence of the mercury in the king's hair are discussed and contemporary literature regarding the use of this metal in medical therapies and in cosmetic practices is analysed. As a result, the high value of mercury in the hair of Ferdinand II can be attributed to antipediculosis therapy, applied as a topic medicament. This case represents an important finding for the history of medicine, because demonstrates that in the Renaissance mercury was applied locally not only to treat syphilis, as well attested by direct and indirect sources, but also to prevent or eliminate lice infestation.

Late in October 1926, a poor man from Bucamaranga, Colombia, wrote a letter to the richest man in the world. Juan de la Rosa Quintero Parra informed John D Rockefeller that his ten-year-old son, José Vicente, had “died suddenly as a result of a purge administered by the Bureau of Uncinariasis”, the local incarnation of the Rockefeller Foundation's global project to eradicate hookworm disease. The death of the boy, who worked full-time as a streetsweeper for the municipality, had been “a serious blow since he was the only one who contributed to the support of the family consisting of seven young children”. Having heard of Mr Rockefeller's generosity, Quintero appealed to him for assistance, thanked him in advance for the attention he would give to the matter, and hoped that Divine Providence would spare the great philanthropist's life for many years to come. He mailed the letter to Rockefeller Foundation headquarters at 61 Broadway in New York City, the same address where, probably unbeknownst to him, bits of his son's organs had been sent following a post-mortem. Quintero Parra's letter came to the attention of either the 84-year-old patriarch or his son, John D Rockefeller, Jr, the Foundation's president. Their executive secretary, F M Read was instructed to make inquiries into the death of the child, José Vicente Quintero.