A medal can commemorate an event, honor a set of values, recognize an achievement, or simply stand alone as a work of art, like a small sculpture. And unlike with coins, anyone can issue a medal. The Libertas Americana has topped the list of America’s most important medals since 1783. Concerned that Congress was too inexperienced to properly thank France for its critical support during the Revolution, Benjamin Franklin created it on his own account with one of the best engravers in Paris, Augustin Dupré. Franklin was responsible for the design and he distributed the medals personally—including gold examples to the king and queen of France. The reverse depicts Minerva, the Roman goddess of wisdom (here representing France) holding back a leopard (Britain) with its tail between its legs while an infant Hercules (America!) strangles two snakes in his crib. It’s a symbolic depiction of an important story—America’s great military victories at Saratoga and Yorktown with help from France—but the obverse, showing the head of Liberty, a personification of the ideals of freedom and independence, looks beyond it.

Depictions of Liberty usually rely on a cap and pole to identify her. These accessories have classical origins that today may not be familiar to everyone. But the key to the design of this medal is Liberty’s hair. In traditional imagery, as exemplified by this Roman coin from 54 BCE, Libertas doesn’t exactly let her hair down.

In France, styled hair is a chevelure. The opposite, loose hair, is descheveler. This is the origin of the English word “disheveled,” something messy or unmanaged. Hairstyles are governed by fashions, religions, and conventions. Franklin knew free hair could be a rebellious declaration of independence and identity. This idea is still contemporary; compared to the Roman Libertas, Franklin’s avatar has more in common with Lady Gaga singing “Hair” (“I want to die living just as free as my hair”) and images created during the Woman, Life, Freedom protests in Iran following the 2022 death of Mahsa Amini.

The MFA has four versions of the Libertas Americana. This rare silver one, as well as a bronze example and a cast copy, were all gifts of Samuel Abbott Green, who showed them together at a meeting of the Boston Numismatic Society in 1876. The medal’s famous obverse appeared on numerous new tokens and medals for America’s centennial celebrations that year. The fourth version, donated by the Boston Numismatic Society itself in 1898, is peculiar.

Every authentic Libertas Americana medal passed through Ben Franklin’s hands. Originals are hard to come by, so copies are common. But this is a poor replica. Parts of the obverse are missing or bubbled, and the reverse is blank except for a border, which is not 18th century in style. It took me years to figure out the story behind this object—in part because I was looking in the wrong places. It turns out, this version is a unique relic of its own unstable time and a testament to the enduring relevance of Franklin’s design.

This reverse border appears on a handful of medals produced during France’s Revolution of 1848 and the Second Republic that followed. Examples can be found at the Musée Carnavalet in Paris. Glamorizing rough-looking medals of the 1848 Revolution, the Numismatist magazine wrote in 1911 that:

These medals … were made by students in Paris behind the barricades, and the molds from which they were cast were of plaster; the component metal being lead, tin and pewter, taken from roofs, pipes, bullets, etc.… Among other pieces there is a lead medal with the obverse of the Libertas Americana …

Our mystery medal is one of these—it looks this way because fragile plaster molds begin to deteriorate after only a few casts.

At the same time the Boston Numismatic Society was celebrating the US Centennial, Alfred de Liesville, curator of the Carnavalet, was at work on a catalogue of Second Republic medals. In an entry for an 1848 medal that also borrows the portrayal of Liberty from the Libertas Americana, he writes that the “disheveled and tempestuous face is not reassuring. Too many storms blow through her hair.” Liesville’s anxiety is relatable—it feels like there are new storms every day. But he misses the point.

Franklin’s Liberty is not a spectator. Her hair indicates a figure in action, not merely one freed from restraints. Franklin chose a “disheveled” Liberty for this reason. He knew there was difficult work ahead in building a new nation and he wanted to present America as willing to labor on its own behalf, even while it relied on others for help. Libertas Americana itself is both a work of art and a clever act of diplomacy—a gesture of thanks to an important ally and a means to encourage new ones. Those nations that admired the medal could in turn develop good will for its subject. Franklin’s messy vision of American Liberty is no relic. She’s busy and useful and looking to the future.

See Libertas Americana on view in the MFA’s reimagined galleries of 18th-century art of the Americas, opening in spring 2026 to coincide with the 250th anniversary of American independence.