Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age 9781350120341, 9781350120372, 9781350120358

Table of contents :
Cover page
Halftitle page
Series page
Title page
Copyright page
Contents
Illustrations
Acknowledgements
Introduction
A technical introduction to plaster casts
A brief history of the Parthenon sculptures
1 The Emergence of Fauvel and His Successors
2 Plaster Casts, Elgin, and the British Museum
3 Condition Studies and the Role of 3D Imaging
Mechanical stresses
Chemical reactions
Biological agents
4 3D Imaging and the West Frieze
3D scanning of the West Frieze: structured light scanning
Data acquisition and processing
Image key
Benchmarks
Analysis of surface texture
The West Frieze of the Parthenon
Summary of areas scanned
Results of 3D analysis
Th e fi nish of the sculptures
Evidence of deterioration between the originals and the casts
‘Restoring’ the Parthenon sculptures through their casts
Other historical sources: drawings and casts
5 3D Imaging and Cleaning the Parthenon Sculptures
Early conservation
6 An Authentic Source of Evidence?
Closing Remarks
Appendix
References
Index

Citation preview

Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

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Also available from Bloomsbury Kinaesthesia and Classical Antiquity 1750–1820: Moved by Stone by Helen Slaney Master of Attic Black Figure Painting: The Art and Legacy of Exekias by Elizabeth Moignard The Modernity of Ancient Sculpture: Greek Sculpture and Modern Art from Winckelmann to Picasso by Elizabeth Prettejohn

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Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age Emma M. Payne

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BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2021 Copyright © Emma M. Payne 2021 Emma Payne has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. xi–xii constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover design: Terry Woodley Cover image © Detail of a frieze from the Parthenon, Acropolis Museum, Athens, Greece. Photo by JNS/Gamma-Rapho via Getty Images. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN:

HB: ePDF: eBook:

978-1-3501-2034-1 978-1-3501-2035-8 978-1-3501-2036-5

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Contents List of Illustrations Acknowledgements

xi

Introduction

1

vi

1

The Emergence of Fauvel and His Successors

19

2

Plaster Casts, Elgin, and the British Museum

35

3

Condition Studies and the Role of 3D Imaging

57

4

3D Imaging and the West Frieze

83

5

3D Imaging and Cleaning the Parthenon Sculptures

131

6

An Authentic Source of Evidence?

157

Closing Remarks

185

Appendix References Index

193

191 209

v

Illustrations 0.1 0.2 0.3 0.4 1.1

2.1

3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5

*

vi

Moulding a statue. Reproduced from Carradori (1802, plate 6). Detail of a piece-mould. Reproduced from Diderot (1765, vol. 8). Visible seam lines on a cast from the Parthenon’s West Frieze. Reproduced from Furtwängler (1911, Fig. 1.8). The Parthenon in the twenty-first century (Image: Emma Payne). Lorenzo Giuntini using plaster to mould Zoomorph P ‘The Great Turtle’ in Quirigua. Reproduced from Maudslay (1889–1902, plate 53a). The removal of the Sculptures from the Pediment of the Parthenon by Lord Elgin. William Gell. 1801. Watercolour and pencil on paper. Benaki Museum, Athens, Greece. (Wikimedia: Google Art Project). Reproduced from Illustrated London News (18 May 1929, p. 839). Reproduced from Illustrated London News (18 May 1929, p. 840–1). Eastern façade of the Parthenon. Reproduced from Stillman (1870). View of the Acropolis. Reproduced from Dodwell (1821). Inscriptions on the columns of the Parthenon. Reproduced from Stillman (1870). West Frieze in situ. Frédéric Boissonnas. 1910. Heliogravure/ Photolithograph. 84.XB.584.160. The J. Paul Getty Museum. West Frieze III (Image: Getty). Elgin cast of West Frieze III, reproduced from Smith (1910). West Frieze III (Elgin cast): primary analysis area (3D model).* West Frieze VIII (Image: Emma Payne, courtesy of Acropolis Museum). Elgin cast of West Frieze VIII, reproduced from Smith (1910).

7 8 9 15

30

40 58 58 61 61 65 65 91 91 92 92 93

All 3D models and deviation maps in Chapter 4 created by Emma Payne, imaging conducted courtesy of the Acropolis Museum and the British Museum.

Illustrations

4.6 4.7 4.8 4.9 4.10 4.11 4.12 4.13 4.14 4.15 4.16 4.17 4.18 4.19 4.20 4.21 4.22 4.23 4.24 4.25 4.26 4.27 4.28 4.29

Elgin cast of West Frieze VIII (3D model). Merlin cast of West Frieze VIII (3D model). West Frieze XII (Image: Getty). Elgin cast of West Frieze XII, reproduced from Smith (1910). Merlin cast of West Frieze XII: detail (3D model). West Frieze XVI (3D model of original). Elgin cast of West Frieze XVI (3D model). North Frieze XXXVI (Image: Getty). Cast of North Frieze XXXVI, reproduced from Smith (1910). Gaussian curvature, Elgin cast, Figure 23, West Frieze XII. Gaussian curvature, Merlin cast, Figure 23, West Frieze XII. Gaussian curvature, original marble, Figure 23, West Frieze XII. West Frieze III Figure 5. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 5 mm limit. West Frieze III Figure 5. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 1 mm limit. West Frieze III Figure 6. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 5 mm limit. West Frieze III Figure 6. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 1 mm limit. West Frieze VIII. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 5 mm limit. West Frieze VIII. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 1 mm limit. West Frieze VIII. Deviation map: Merlin cast and original: 5 mm limit. West Frieze VIII. Deviation map: Merlin cast and original: 1 mm limit. West Frieze XII. Figure 22. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 5 mm limit. West Frieze XII. Figure 22. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 1 mm limit. West Frieze XII. Figure 22. Deviation map: Merlin cast and original: 5 mm limit. West Frieze XII. Figure 22. Deviation map: Merlin cast and original: 1 mm limit.

vii

93 94 94 95 95 96 96 97 97 101 101 101 104 104 105 105 106 106 107 107 108 108 109 109

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Illustrations

4.30 West Frieze XII. Figure 23. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 5 mm limit. 4.31 West Frieze XII. Figure 23. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 1 mm limit. 4.32 West Frieze XII. Figure 23. Deviation map: Merlin cast and original: 5 mm limit. 4.33 West Frieze XII. Figure 23. Deviation map: Merlin cast and original: 1 mm limit. 4.34 West Frieze XVI. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 5 mm limit. 4.35 West Frieze XVI. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 1 mm limit. 4.36 Possible chisel marks, West Frieze VIII. 4.37 Sheer break edge, Figure 23, West Frieze XII. 4.38 3D model of original, Figure 98, North Frieze XXXVI. 4.39 3D model of cast, Figure 98, North Frieze XXXVI. 4.40 3D model of cast, Figure 96, North Frieze XXXVI. 4.41 North Frieze XXXVI. Dimitrios Constantin, 1865. Albumen silver print. 84.XM.366.12. The J. Paul Getty Museum. 4.42 3D model of original, West Frieze XVI. 4.43 3D model of Elgin cast, West Frieze XVI. 4.44 Figure 23, West Frieze XII: softer texture following seam line. 4.45 West Frieze VIII: no clear textural distinction. 4.46 Mean curvature showing possible clay smoothing: West Frieze XVI. 4.47 Mean curvature showing possible clay smoothing: Figure 98, North Frieze XXXVI. 4.48 Mean curvature showing possible clay smoothing: Figure 5, West Frieze III. 4.49 Mean curvature showing possible clay smoothing: Figure 6, West Frieze III. 4.50 Mean curvature, Figure 23, West Frieze XII. 5.1 Moving the sculptures back to the British Museum following their stay at Aldwych Tube Station during the Second World War (Image: Keystone/Getty). 5.2 Installing the frieze in the Duveen Gallery, 21 December 1961 (Image: Chris Ware/Keystone/Getty).

110 110 111 111 112 112 112 113 116 116 117

117 118 118 119 120 126 126 127 127 127

142 144

Illustrations

Head of a Horse, after the Parthenon. Eugène Delacroix (c. 1825). Pen and brown ink, over a little black chalk on laid paper. 1980.21.4. Metropolitan Museum. 5.4 Studies of Horses (after the Elgin marbles). Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux. 1871. Black and white chalk on brown paper. 2004.45. The J. Paul Getty Museum. 5.5 Head of horse from the Parthenon, British Museum. Adolphe Braun. Albumen silver print c. 1865. 84.XM.503.27. The J. Paul Getty Museum. 5.6. and 5.7 Selene’s horse. Deviation map between cast and original (10 mm limit).** 5.8 Aligning the scans of the cast (left) and original (right) of Selene’s horse. 5.9 Deviation map: alignment 1 between cast and original of Selene’s horse: 5 mm limit. 5.10 Deviation map: alignment 2 between cast and original of Selene’s horse: 5 mm limit. 5.11 Deviation map: alignment 3 between cast and original of Selene’s horse: 5 mm limit. 5.12 Deviation map: alignment 3: side of the head: 5 mm limit. 5.13 3D model of detail of the mane of Selene’s horse (cast). 5.14 3D model of detail of the mane of Selene’s horse (original). 5.15 3D model of detail of nose of Selene’s horse (cast). 5.16 3D model of detail of nose of Selene’s horse (original). 6.1 Von Dechend patent (Deutsches Patent- und Markenamt No. 31032). 6.2 Reduction of the Reclining Fates, East Pediment as restored by Clésinger and copied by Collas. Image: Mayfair Gallery Ltd. 6.3 Maker’s stamp of Collas on the bronze reduction of the Fates. Image: Mayfair Gallery Ltd. 6.4 Plaster casts of sculptures from the Parthenon/Relief antique, moulage en plâtre. Attributed to Charles Nègre c. 1845. Daguerreotype. 97.XT.11. The J. Paul Getty Museum. 6.5 Still Life with Plaster Casts. Baron Armand-Pierre Séguier. 1839–42. Daguerreotype. 2002.41. The J. Paul Getty Museum.

ix

5.3

**

149

150

150 151 152 153 153 153 154 155 155 155 155 160 164 164

165 166

All 3D models and deviation maps in Chapter 5 created by Emma Payne, imaging conducted courtesy of the Ashmolean Museum and the British Museum.

x

6.6 6.7 6.8 6.9 6.10 6.11 6.12

6.13

6.14

7.1

Illustrations

‘Reclining Fates’, East Pediment, Parthenon. Reproduced from Furtwängler (1911, Plate 18). ‘Theseus’, East Pediment, Parthenon. Reproduced from Furtwängler (1911, Plate 19). Clotho and Lachesis. Edward Falkener. 1860. Albumen silver print. 84.XB.944.4.7. The J. Paul Getty Museum. ‘Myron’s Discobolus’. Reproduced from Furtwängler (1911, Plate 33). Le Discobole de Myron. Vatican. James Anderson. 1859. Albumen silver print. 84.XO.251.3.19. The J. Paul Getty Museum. Henning with Parthenon Frieze. 1843–7. Hill and Adamson, Metropolitan Museum of Art. 43.10.42. Views in Greek Sculpture Gallery, Niobe and her Family. Philip Henry Delamotte. c. 1859. Albumen silver print from glass negative. 2005.100.801 (20a–d). Metropolitan Museum of Art. Room of Classical Reliefs and Sarcophagi. Philip Henry Delamotte. c. 1859. Albumen silver print from glass negative. 2005.100.801 (46a–d). Metropolitan Museum of Art. Pheidias and the Frieze of the Parthenon. Lawrence Alma-Tadema. 1868–9. Held by Birmingham Museums and Art Gallery (Image: Wikimedia). Cast of North Frieze XXXVI, as advertised in Castelvecchi (1906).

169 170 170 171 172 176

179

180

180 187

Acknowledgements This book is based on my PhD thesis and was made possible by the generous support of many individuals and institutions. First of all, for their unfailing encouragement, I would like to thank my supervisors at the Institute of Archaeology, UCL: Corinna Riva and Elizabeth Pye; and my examiners, Jeremy Tanner and Will Wootton. I would also like to thank Abbey Ellis for reading much of the draft manuscript, and Debbie Challis for reading some of my early chapters. Any inaccuracies and omissions of course remain my own. I am grateful to the AHRC for funding my PhD, and to AICON 3D Systems, who following my receipt of the Bernd Breuckmann Award trained me in 3D scanning and image processing, loaned me a machine, and provided a financial contribution towards travel and shipping costs. I am particularly thankful to Dirk Rieke-Zapp for patiently teaching me to use the 3D scanner and its software, and for helping to arrange shipping to various locations. I was kindly allowed access to collections at the British Museum, the Acropolis Museum, the Ashmolean Museum and the Akademisches Kunstmuseum, Bonn. At the British Museum, I would particularly like to thank Dirk Booms for introducing me to the casts that inspired this project back in 2012. I would also like to thank Ian Jenkins for allowing me to peruse material he collected relating to the casts; Andy Liddle for his logistical help; and everyone from Stone, WallPaintings and Mosaics Conservation. At the Acropolis Museum, I am particularly grateful to Costas Vasiliadis for his help while imaging; at the Ashmolean Museum, Milena Melfi; at the Akademisches Kunstmuseum, Nele Schröder. I would also like to thank Somerville College for their continued support and practical assistance while imaging in Oxford. During my research, I completed a three-month fellowship (funded by the AHRC) at the Library of Congress (LoC), where I was based at the John W. Kluge Center. At the LoC, I would especially like to thank Travis Hensley and Mary Lou Reker, and all of the other Kluge researchers for making my first visit to the USA enjoyable, as well as academically profitable. I am also grateful to John Hessler for his insights into textural analysis, and to Thomas Payne for advising me on these calculations. For postdoctoral support, I would like to thank the Institute of Classical Studies and the Department of Classics, KCL. At Bloomsbury, I am xi

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Acknowledgements

grateful for the support of Alice Wright, Lily Mac Mahon and Terry Woodley. Finally, I would like to thank all of my family and friends for supporting me throughout my postgraduate and postdoctoral work, particularly my colleagues in G7B; Priya Sethukumar; and most especially: William Knighton; my parents, Vicki and Jonathan Payne; and my lovely late grandparents, Arthur (Tony) and Maureen Roberts, who would have been delighted to see this book even if I will never be satisfied with it!

Introduction

Plaster casts were first taken from the Parthenon sculptures in the late eighteenth century; by the early twentieth century, copies of these casts had spread to an enormous number of universities, museums and schools around the world. Many, however, were disposed of in later decades. Such casts of the Parthenon sculptures and other classical1 works are the long-suffering victims of a succession of serious image problems. Following their heyday in the 1890s, these issues resulted in their marginalization and physical deterioration throughout much of the twentieth century. Slights aimed at casts included accusations of inanity: of being repetitive, dull, uninspiring copies that failed to capture the essence of the ‘living flesh’ of the originals while squandering resources that could be put to better use for the purchase, conservation and display of further originals.2 And that they were pointless ‘plaster dinosaurs’ redundant even for teaching in a new, multimedia world (Beard 1993, 22). British cast collections were side-lined and drained of funding; new acquisitions were slowed or halted altogether; existing casts were shunted between different locations; and a lack of conservation attention allowed their condition, and much of their remaining aesthetic appeal, to deteriorate. In continental Europe and the United States, casts were subjected to a more precipitous fall from grace. On top of slow decay, many, like those in collections at Geneva and Bordeaux, were physically attacked: vandalized, mutilated or destroyed – as revealed at the 2015 conference, Destroy the Copy!3 This conference is just one example of the favourable shift in perception of casts that started to emerge in the late twentieth century, corresponding with greater appreciation of their historicity and resulting in a number of gallery 1

2

3

Throughout this book, I use ‘classical’ with a small ‘c’ to refer to the entire ancient Graeco-Roman period. Canova described the marble surface of the Parthenon sculptures as its ‘living flesh’; although plaster was central to Canova’s own creative process, it was viewed as flat and dull when compared to marble (Myssok 2010, 287). See also Betzer (2019), however, for an interesting argument regarding the importance of the plaster surface to Canova’s work. Freie Universität, 8–10 October 2015. Proceedings forthcoming.

1

2 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

refurbishments. The Cast Gallery at the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, has recently been renovated and the Cast Courts at the V&A, London, reopened at the end of 2018 to international acclaim, accompanied by a 2019 conference, Celebrating Reproductions: Past, Present and Future. The Destroy the Copy! conference was itself the second of two parts, with the first held at Cornell University in 2010; the same year as the proceedings were published from Oxford’s eponymous 2007 conference: Plaster Casts: Making, Collecting and Displaying from Classical Antiquity to the Present. This is only a small, Anglocentric selection of some of the latest contributions to the new dialogue debating the importance of casts.4 However, their re-evaluation has not been conducted across the board; many remain under-studied and languishing in storage. Several publications have focused on the pedagogic function of the collections, as had often been emphasized when they were established in the nineteenth century.5 Their role in artistic practice, both historical and contemporary is also increasingly being addressed, for instance, in the exhibition Infinite Sculpture: From the Antique Cast to the 3D Scan (Gulbenkian Museum, Lisbon and the Beaux-Arts de Paris, 2019–20).6 Additionally, archaeologists such as Sir John Boardman (2000), have observed the important documentary capacity of plaster casts. Casts can act as time capsules, preserving historical and archaeological details relating both to the original sculptures from which they were moulded and the craft processes employed to make the casts. Research in this area, however, has progressed very little, even though the casts present a potentially rich mine of untapped information valuable for the study of classical archaeology, reception studies and art history. Much emphasis, by scholars like Mari Lending (2017), has recently been placed on the historical value of casts as objects in their own right and yet their documentary value cannot be ignored.7 Casts can present the form of a sculpture at various points in its history, but are themselves subject to artistic licence and physical decline. They embody an intricate mixture of documentary evidence of the original combined with their

4

5

6

7

For the proceedings of the Oxford conference, see Frederiksen and Marchand (2010). Others include Lavagne and Queyrel (2000), Marcinkowski and Zaucha (2010), Haak and Helfrich (2016), Guderzo and Lochman (2017). Beard (1993 and 2012) and Kurtz (2000) both focus primarily on the educational value of casts, and the PhD thesis by Wade (2012) also highlighted the role of casts as pedagogic objects. Mallampati (2015) emphasizes the main purposes of classical casts in the United States as being for the training of artists, for the education of the public and, in the later nineteenth century, by universities for classical education. There was also the conference, ‘Uniqueness and multiplication: plaster as an art material’ organized by Patigny and Verhofstadt at the Royal Institute for Cultural Heritage in Brussels (2017). See also publications on object biographies by Sally Foster (particularly Foster and Curtis 2016).

Introduction

3

own intrinsic value as desirable objects, produced by a range of craftspeople for a multitude of different clients and intended functions. This book will demonstrate how difficult it can be to unwrap and distinguish separate layers of meaning encapsulated within a cast. These layers are composed of both the casts’ own histories and those of the objects they represent. However, the very act of recognizing the complexity of casts is important. Crucial to the motivation of the research conducted for this book is the impact of the discovery of ‘hidden’ information and new significances of the casts on the development of appropriate conservation strategies for these objects. Many casts experienced a steep decline in condition through the twentieth century and are in dire need of conservation treatment. Some programmes have now begun. But full investigation into the value of the casts is lagging behind, and it is all too easy for an unrecognized significance to be obscured, or even destroyed, during interventive treatment. We might compare, for example, unintentional removal of pigment traces during past cleaning of ancient sculptures. If a conservator did not realize that important evidence like pigments might be present, then the surface may have been cleaned in order to maximize the perceived aesthetic appeal of the sculpture, at the expense of this concealed archaeological information. There is now much better recognition of the fact that classical sculptures often retain traces of ancient colourings and coatings, which may not be visible to the naked eye. However, such understanding is not necessarily present in the case of the conservation of casts. Yet a cast that may preserve direct evidence of fine sculptural features (sometimes now lost from the original) must be approached with tremendous caution, since intervention can distort interpretation of the evidence preserved within it. The primary argument of this book, therefore, follows much recent discourse in that it emphasizes that casts must be treated as important objects in their own right. However, I would like to complicate this argument with the re-insertion of the documentary value of casts, and specifically the Parthenon casts, as one of the constituent ingredients that blend to form these complex objects. Ideally, we will approach them as archaeological objects, investigating their making and continued use. The casts of the Parthenon sculptures form the lens through which the book is focused, beginning with those created under the instructions of the Comte de Choiseul-Gouffier and of Lord Elgin. The purchase of the Elgin Collection for the British Museum in 1816 was a pivotal moment in the history of casts. This group included not only parts of the original Parthenon sculptures but also moulds and casts of many left in situ at Athens. It was quickly realized not only that such casts presented a way in which distant examples of ancient sculpture might be displayed

4 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

around the world but that they might record and transmit sculptures at risk of decline in their current environment. The idea that casts could constitute documents of the archaeological record was quickly adopted by the British Museum and additional casts from the Athenian Acropolis and other ancient sites were obtained. Throughout this book, I will be discussing the archaeological significance of the plaster casts. By this, I mean the extent to which casts act as accurate documentary records of the original sculptures at the time of moulding: their dimensional and morphological accuracy, and their ability to capture and display fine surface details such as tool marks. The capacity for casts to record such information becomes particularly significant when the surface condition of the original sculpture was better when it was moulded than it is today. Therefore, part of the purpose of this book is to explore the potential for casts to exhibit ‘lost’ details pertaining to the surface features of the Parthenon sculptures prior to modern deterioration. Another type of significance I will be referring to is the historical significance of the casts. By this, I mean that relating to the production of the casts themselves: evidence of the techniques and theoretical approaches behind the creation of the casts. Examining historical and archaeological information in the casts provides us with the opportunity to enhance our understanding of the entire history of both the original sculptures and their casts, as well as the societies within which they were produced and with whom they interacted. Identifying and understanding these levels of information and gaining full appreciation of the significance of a cast is, however, difficult. Historical and archaeological significances can be tricky to separate. For example, it was not unknown for the formatori (the makers of moulds and casts) to doctor their moulds such that a damaged sculpture would appear more complete when cast. Distinguishing between old restorations made to the original, additions made to the moulds or casts, and ancient features now lost from the original is complicated and can muddle our ability to understand both the casts and the originals. The role of condition also comes into play. For archaeological and historical significances to be preserved and maintained, the casts must be kept in good condition: condition and significance are interdependent. Studying the nature of any decay and damage found in casts reflects the ways in which they were used and valued (or not . . .) at particular times and by particular people. This illuminates our wider understanding of the reception of casts and classical sculpture. However, it also adds an extra layer of complexity to our understanding of the significance of casts: decline in condition risks confusing the interpretation of the archaeological and historical features present within a cast and serious damage can eliminate certain aspects of significance altogether. Awareness of both cast condition and

Introduction

5

significance is, therefore, essential for addressing their future care. In order to understand these material aspects and vulnerabilities of the casts, we need to know a little more about their physical properties and how they were made.

A technical introduction to plaster casts Most of the nineteenth century formatori used similar production methods.8 The majority of full-sized casts were made from plaster using the piece-moulding technique. Texts providing some instruction in this technique date back at least to the painter Cennino Cennini’s fourteenth century Il Libro dell’Arte. He provided descriptions of how to make plaster casts and included an outline of plaster piece-moulding. While it was first experimented with by artists, casting in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries had become a distinct specialism. Denis Diderot’s Encyclopédie (vol. 8, 1765) contains descriptions of the ‘Atelier des Mouleurs en Plâtre’; Francesco Carradori’s handbook, Istruzione elementare per gli studiosi della scultura, dates to 1802, the same year as many of the Parthenon sculptures were moulded for Elgin, and gives more detailed directions together with illustrations. Later instructions include those by William T. Brigham (1874), Frank Forrest Frederick (1899), and Victor Wager (1938), which all describe the process in much the same way. Both moulds and casts were constructed from gypsum plaster (calcium sulphate: plaster of Paris), which sets to form a rigid material. The brittle, inflexible nature of plaster and its slight expansion as it sets necessitates the creation of a piece-mould constructed from multiple interlocking sections (tasselli) to avoid undercuts. The tasselli are reconstructed within an outer shell (mother mould) and plaster is poured into the assembled mould to create the finished cast. The basic steps are as follows: 1. 2. 3.

4.

8

Cover sculpture with oil or soap. Decide how to divide sculpture into sections forming the tasselli. Ensure undercuts will be avoided. Apply plaster to first section, working from the bottom of the sculpture up. Once partially set, trim edges to be smooth and slightly inclined. Make joggles (small shallow holes/keys) on the outer edges. Coat edges with oil and then shellac. Create all required tasselli in the same way and number them to assist with reassembly. Once finished, the sculpture should be covered with these small, separable pieces of mould. I have previously published parts of the material in this subsection in Payne 2020.

6 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

5. 6.

Oil outer surfaces of tasselli (and coat with shellac, if desired). Apply an outer shell of thick plaster on top of the tasselli. This forms the mother mould (designed to hold the tasselli in place) and is typically made in two parts: a front and a back. Once set, remove mother mould and coat with oil and shellac. 7. Remove tasselli from the surface of the sculpture and reconstruct them within the two sections of the mother mould. Ensure tasselli sit securely within the mould and fit tightly together: the joggles will help with this. 8. Oil newly exposed inner surfaces of tasselli (against which the plaster will be cast). 9. Tie pieces of mother mould together. 10. Pour in a fine, creamy mixture of plaster into the open base and run this around the mould to coat all surfaces. Then fill the mould completely with a coarser grade of plaster mixture. 11. Once the plaster has set but is still damp, take the mould apart to reveal the cast. For freestanding sculptures, separate moulds would be constructed for the different parts of the statue: head, limbs, torso. Limbs could also be cast around iron rods to strengthen them. The different portions of the cast were attached using steel dowels. The joins were either completely sealed using plaster and paint, or left so that the different pieces remained detachable, which was useful for transport and storage. When removed from the plaster piece-mould, the surface of the cast will display a mesh of seam lines. Frederick (1899, 83) noted that these ‘become large and unsightly’ after repeated use of the mould. By the end of the nineteenth century there was a general preference for the fine seam lines to be left in place as a testament to the high-quality of the mould, rather than being gently chiselled and sand-papered away: If the casting has been successful the cast will be marked with a network of fine lines made by the joints of the pieces of the mould. The fineness of these lines and the sharpness of their intersections indicate the condition of the mould and the consequent value of the cast. In old or carelessly used moulds the edges and corners get rubbed or broken, and then the fine raised line becomes a thick ridge. Hence it is better to purchase casts with these marks on them. Brigham 1874, 27

The catalogues of the formatori in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries indicate that casts were indeed sent with seam lines unless specifically

Introduction

7

Fig. 0.1 Moulding a statue. Reproduced from Carradori (1802, plate 6).

requested otherwise (e.g. Hennecke 1889, I; Castelvecchi 1906, 2). These seam lines, for instance, are clearly visible in a photograph of a cast from the Parthenon’s West Frieze, illustrated in Adolf Furtwängler’s Denkmäler Griechischer und Römischer Skulptur (see Fig. 0.3). The piece moulds may not be made entirely from plaster. In some cases, certain sections of the mould may instead be created in wax or resin. This practice can be observed in a number of moulds at Berlin’s Gipsformerei; although these pieces are old and now rather rigid, their advantage was that they were formerly more flexible than their plaster counterparts and so would be used for deeply cut or particularly fine details.9 More flexible moulds could also be made using gutta-percha, typically for small ivories and electrotyping (Rufus-Ward 2016, 155). Both Wager (1938, 67) and Frederick (1899, 85) also describe ‘jelly’ or ‘elastic’ moulds. These were most often made from gelatine. They were much more elastic than plaster, reducing the issue of undercutting and allowing a mould to be constructed from only a few pieces, often without 9

Shown and explained to me by Fabian Burg (Gipsformerei, Berlin).

8 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Fig. 0.2 Detail of a piece-mould. Reproduced from Diderot (1765, vol. 8).

Introduction

9

Fig. 0.3 Visible seam lines on a cast from the Parthenon’s West Frieze. Reproduced from Furtwängler (1911, Fig. 1.8).

seam lines. Giovanni Ferdinando Franchi (c. 1812–74), who produced many casts for the South Kensington Museum, was reported to have been the first in Britain to employ and perfect the use of such gelatine moulds (Rawson 1874, 2). However, gelatine moulds shrink over time and cannot be reused indefinitely like plaster moulds. It was not until the introduction of silicone rubber in the twentieth century that these flexible moulds became more popular: the longevity of silicone rubber is far superior to that of gelatine. Wager (1938) mentions ‘rubber jelly’ moulds as a recent development and notes that this material is

10 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

‘more expensive than gelatine, but lasts indefinitely’. A further notable exception to the piece-moulding trend was the work of Leonard Alexander Desachy, a Frenchman who patented fibrous plaster casting in 1856 and who was chief moulder at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris between 1848 and 1886 (Lending 2017, 41). The Desachy method produced hollow casts by applying plaster strengthened with layers of jute (a natural fibre) inside the mould. This formed lighter, tougher casts than those constructed from solid plaster (Desachy 1856). The material of plaster itself is a heterogeneous substance that can differ fundamentally in composition. Broadly, it can be divided into two common chemical types: lime plaster (calcium hydroxide, Ca(OH)2) and gypsum plaster (calcium sulphate, CaCO 4).10 The use of both types of plaster dates back at least to the Neolithic period (Gourdin and Kingery 1975). However, the properties of gypsum plaster make it particularly suitable for casting. Like lime, gypsum forms a smooth, white plaster. It is generally softer, more brittle, and more absorbent than lime plaster (Gourdin and Kingery 1975, 135–7). However, it also sets more quickly, which makes it particularly suitable for moulding and casting, as recognized by Pliny (NH 36.183). Gypsum plaster flows quickly and is capable of recording very fine details. Unlike lime plaster which shrinks when drying, gypsum plaster expands slightly, which assists the recording of details in the mould by ‘forcing it into the minutest traces of the figure’ (Rees 1820, quoted by Sullivan 2019, 305). The 1810 Encyclopaedia Londinensis describes gypsum plaster as follows: SULPHAT OF LIME. – This salt exists in large quantities in nature: it is termed selenite, plaster, and gypsum; but ought to be denominated, as Fourcroy remarks, calcareous sulphat . . . Sulphat of lime, or common gypsum, or plaster-stone. This substance is white, more or less inclining to grey, interspersed with small brilliant crystals, easily cut with a knife. It is found disposed in strata, and forms most of the mountains in the vicinity of Paris . . . Calcareous sulphat is likewise found dissolved in waters, as in the well-waters of Paris; it is never pure, but is always combined with some other earthy salt, with base of lime or magnesia. This salt has no apparent degree of taste. It decrepitates if a sudden heat be applied to it; it is then of an opaque white, in which state it is called fine plaster or plaster of Paris: by this calcination it loses about twenty in one hundred. Wilkes 1810, 230

The fact that gypsum is a hydrated salt, dehydrated during calcination and then rehydrated to form set plaster had been recognized by the early French chemist Antoine Lavoisier (1743–94) (MacCord 1891). In order to make gypsum 10

On lime plaster, see Payne 2020, 4.

Introduction

11

plaster, therefore, pure gypsum (calcium sulphate dihydrate) is heated to become dehydrated gypsum. Water is mixed into the dehydrated gypsum, providing a short working time for procedures like casting before it hardens and reforms into gypsum. This process of making gypsum plaster is easier than that for lime, requiring heating to only 100°C for the initial calcination (Penny 1993, 194; Carran et al. 2012, 118); or perhaps even to 80°C as shown by Payen in 1830, versus around 900°C for lime plaster (Steuart 1905, 908): Calcination

calcium sulphate dihydrate + heat → calcium sulphate hemihydrate + water (given off as steam) CaSO 4.2H2O + heat → CaSO 4.0.5H2O + 1.5H2O

Hydration

calcium sulphate hemihydrate + water → calcium sulphate dihydrate CaSO 4.0.5H2O + 1.5H2O → CaSO 4.2H2O

A coarser grade of gypsum plaster was used for moulds than for casts. Moreover, as suggested above in the working order for making plaster casts, two plasters were (and are) often used for the same object: a fine grade for the surface layer and a coarser, structural variety for the substrate (see also Sullivan 2019, 304, 310–11). An incorrect balance of the two could cause complaint: Plaster is of various qualities, and only the superfine should be used for small casts or for lining the moulds for large ones. Frequently, the cheap French casts are made with so thin a skin of French plaster that it chips off from the inferior material beneath when subjected to the jars of transportation. Brigham 1874, 29

Demonstrating again this use of different grades are the instructions provided by Thomas Pole for the making of anatomical plaster casts in his 1790 book, The Anatomical Instructor: Plaster of Paris, or Calcined Alabaster, is sold in the shops of this city [London], of very different qualities and prices, generally in bags, containing fourteen pounds each, at nine pence, one shilling, one and sixpence, and two shillings a bag, according to its quality; that of a middling price is used for making of moulds; the finer sort is for casts, to be poured first into the mould, when properly prepared; after it has formed a layer about half an inch, more or less, according to circumstances, then the coarser sort is to be used to fill up the mould, or to give it sufficient thickness. Pole 1790, 202–3

In the late eighteenth century, gypsum plaster was readily available in London. It had been imported from the gypsum quarries in Montmartre from the

12 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

thirteenth century, and hence is often better-known as ‘Plaster of Paris’. But, as M. G. Sullivan (2019, 299) has shown, it also came to be widely quarried within Britain, particularly in Derbyshire (see also Frederick 1899, 35). By the turn of the nineteenth century, it was principally from this source that the London material was brought in and processed. Gypsum plaster can contain a wide variety of natural impurities, including small amounts of calcium carbonate, clay (hydrous aluminium silicate) and iron oxide. These change the precise nature of plasters from different regions and batches, and other materials can be added to alter the working properties, setting time, mechanical characteristics and appearance of the plaster. Research led by Luc Megens (et al. 2011, 2) has demonstrated that these additions might include: (accelerators) alum, potassium, zinc sulphate, nitrate and chloride salts and acids, sugar, calcium, barium carbonate; (for mechanical properties) straw, hemp, sawdust, hair; (retarders) borax, glue, lime, stale beer, ammonia. Bulking agents like sand or pulverized marble might also be mixed with the plaster to improve its strength and change its colour and texture. While gypsum plaster makes an excellent casting material, it is very soft, measuring only 1.5–2.5 on Mohs’ hardness scale of 1–10. It is easily scratched and highly porous; this makes it vulnerable to mechanical damage, discoloration by dirt penetration and softening and disintegration caused by the presence of moisture. Plaster is partially soluble in water; thus, any water allowed to seep into plaster pores may cause softening and the solubilization of salts (Gourdin and Kingery 1975, 135). If the salts crystallize or the water freezes, the pores can break open causing spalling and surface loss. Strength and porosity are related to the crystalline structure of the plaster and vary according to the temperature at which the plaster is first calcined and the proportion of water added during manufacture. The higher the temperature of calcination and the less water is added, the denser and less porous the crystal structure, meaning that the plaster is stronger and somewhat less absorbent. This had been recognized by Pole in 1790 (204–5), who also recommended the inclusion of size (animal glue dissolved in water) for additional strength; various experiments to improve the strength of plaster continued through the nineteenth century, including a method developed in Naples using steam rather than water and then a hydraulic press to push the plaster into the mould (Sullivan 2019, 307). Even when made well, however, the weaknesses of plaster mean that casts are highly susceptible to deterioration caused by the presence of moisture and dirt penetration, as well as mechanical damage like breakages and abrasions. Plaster casts are much less robust than the marble sculptures they were typically

Introduction

13

moulded from and require ongoing monitoring and conservation care. If they do not receive such treatment their condition will, inevitably, decline sharply and as Bernard Ashmole (1994, 139), a proponent of casts, commented: ‘A collection of old plaster casts is one of the most depressing sights possible to imagine, and a powerful deterrent for any newcomer to the study of ancient sculpture.’ While many casts were created as a means to record vulnerable sculptures, the casts themselves are now just as vulnerable and require conservation attention as much as their counterpart ‘originals’. I use the term ‘original’ reluctantly in this book and only as a way to distinguish the casts from the objects from which they were moulded. This may have the unwanted effect of suggesting, by contrast, that plaster casts are not original objects; that they are in some way subordinate to ‘real’ objects. Certainly, this is not my intention. As stated above and as will be asserted throughout this book, while plaster casts can (and, in most cases, do and are intended to) reproduce details from a particular ‘original’ sculpture, this does not mean that casts cannot themselves be ‘real’ and ‘original’. Understanding the relationship between cast and ‘original’ is, however, of the utmost importance for appreciating the significance of each. Therefore, we turn to our ‘originals’.

A brief history of the Parthenon sculptures Today, the Parthenon in reconstructed form stands prominently atop the ancient citadel of the Athenian Acropolis. What is now visible is only the most recent incarnation of the Temple of Athena Parthenos: the remains of several earlier forms have been uncovered in excavations of the site, including the spectacular and gloriously coloured fragments of the archaic Old Temple of Athena (Brinkmann and Wünsche 2007, 21). The building now labelled the Parthenon was completed between 447 and 438 bc , recorded by a stele set up on the Acropolis documenting the financial accounts of its construction (Barletta 2005, 67–8). It formed part of the extensive building programme presided over by Pericles after the defeat of the Persian Empire of Xerxes I by the Delian League of Athens around 469 bc (Plutarch, Life of Pericles, 13.4). This also included the Propylaea, the Erechtheion, and the Temple of Athena Nike (Tanoulas 2012, 21). The architects were Ictinus and Callicrates and the head sculptor was Phidias, whose work was perhaps not complete until c. 432 bc (Barletta 2005, 88–95). There are surprisingly few mentions of the Parthenon in ancient sources, but

14 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Pausanias (c. ad 110–80) gives a brief description, focusing on the now lost chryselephantine statue of Athena Parthenos: As you enter the temple that they name the Parthenon, all the sculptures you see on what is called the pediment refer to the birth of Athena, those on the rear pediment represent the contest for land between Athena and Poseidon. The statue itself is made of ivory and gold. On the middle of her helmet is placed a likeness of the Sphinx – the tale of the Sphinx I will give when I come to my description of Boeotia – and on either side of the helmet are griffins in relief . . . Pausanias 1.24.5 (Jones 1918)

The temple is rectangular, raised on low steps, with an 8 x 17 Doric colonnade enclosing the building. There are additional porticoes of six columns at the eastern and western entrances. The interior consists of a large room called the naos, which housed the Athena Parthenos, and the smaller opisthodomos, which functioned as a treasury. While the exterior columns are Doric, four Ionic columns support the opisthodomos. Furthermore, although Doric temples are typically distinguished not just by the style of their columns but by their sculptural programmes of triglyphs and metopes, the Parthenon also displayed an elaborate sculpted frieze, characteristic of the Ionic order. This frieze was situated high up on the cella walls within the peristyle. Its significance is contested: on the one hand, its positioning did not lend itself to easy viewing, though colour would have helped; on the other, the very presence of an Ionic frieze on a predominantly Doric temple is unusual. Interpretation of its content has been similarly fraught (see, for example, Breton Connelly 2014). The vastness of the Parthenon’s sculptural array was unprecedented, and the entire programme is dedicated to illustrating the foundation myths and civic glory of Athens. As described by Pausanias, the highest sculptural elements, the pediments, display events in the lives of the gods, specifically Athena and Poseidon’s contest to become patron of Athens (West Pediment) and the birth of Athena from the head of Zeus (East Pediment). The pedimental sculptures were carved in the round, with the heaviest anchored to the horizontal cornice using iron bars, as illustrated by Olga Palagia (2005, 232–4). These were huge statues with the tallest, central figures probably standing up to around 5 m high (Stumpfel et al. 2003). Ninety-two metopes display dramatic battles on all four sides of the temple: the Amazonomachy (West), the Centauromachy (Lapiths vs. Centaurs) (South), the Gigantomachy (Gods vs. Giants) (East), and the battle between the Greeks and the Trojans (North). The metopes were each around 1.2 m high and 1.25 m wide (Stumpfel et al. 2003). They were carved in high

Introduction

15

relief – even higher than is apparent today since many of the most dramatically projecting elements, including the outermost horse pulling the chariot of Helios (East 14) are now lost (Schwab 2005, 161). The metopes were separated by triglyphs: panels of stone with three vertical ridges. The frieze was much shallower and ran around the temple high on the walls in 115 blocks, depicting scenes generally considered to be from the great Panathenaic procession, which took place in Athens every four years (Neils 2005). All of these sculptures would have been painted and drill holes reveal that they were fitted with bronze attachments including weaponry and harnessing. The Parthenon as we see it today is not an untouched ruin of this classical structure. Not only has it been the subject of various restoration procedures in recent years, but it has experienced a long and varied history in both function and condition. It became a church and later a cathedral for around 850 years from ad 600 until 1458, when it was converted to a mosque under the Ottoman Empire. The building was damaged by fire in ad 267 and many of the metopes were disfigured when it was converted to a church (see pp. 59–60). But the most disastrous event for the Parthenon was the Venetian bombardment in 1687, which devastated most of the middle sections on the long sides of the building, especially on the southern side (Schwab 2005, 165; Toganidis 2012, 41). At the time of this destruction, the custom of taking the Grand Tour was beginning to

Fig. 0.4 The Parthenon in the twenty-first century.

16 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

flourish. While the Tourists did not yet typically include Greece in their itineraries, the tradition certainly stimulated a growth of interest in archaeological sites and classical ruins. The Parthenon was particularly difficult to access because it stood within the Turkish Garrison on the Acropolis. Most access and material pertaining to the site was secured through those with good diplomatic connections. Lord Elgin, appointed to the Constantinople Embassy in 1799, was one such person. Elgin followed in the footsteps of his French counterpart the Comte de ChoiseulGouffier (1752–1817) but, infamously, became more successful at removing sculpture from the site. Both campaigns, however, additionally involved plaster casting of sections of sculpture left in situ. After Greece became independent, a first attempt at restoration was conducted by Kyriakos Pittakis in 1842–4 (Toganidis 2012, 42). Later, between 1895 and 1933, the structures of the Acropolis monuments (including the Parthenon, Propylaea and the Erechtheion) were restored according to the more extensive, highly interventive scheme of Nicholaos Balanos (Lambrinou 2012, 50–4). This programme became particularly notorious; the structural metal elements inserted soon rusted and required replacement. A new programme of restoration has now been established, following the 1975 creation of the Committee for the Conservation of the Acropolis Monuments (Bouras et al. 2012). While the (reconstructed) architectural elements remain on the site, most of the Parthenon’s architectural sculptures (from the pediments, metopes and the frieze) have been removed, either more recently to Athens’ Acropolis Museum, or to museums elsewhere in Europe. The British Museum received the pieces removed by Elgin and London now houses the largest portion of the Parthenon sculptures outside of Athens. This has been a matter of controversy since the British government purchased the sculptures from Elgin in 1816 and debates surrounding repatriation continue to this day. Other parts of the sculptures can be found at museums including the Louvre and the Vatican Museums. The removal of the Parthenon’s sculptures from the building and their dispersal across Europe has rendered the role of casts all the more important, enabling visitors and scholars at different institutions to gain as complete a view as possible of the monument. Plaster casts have been incorporated into the gallery at the Acropolis Museum to show the pieces missing from the collection there. Moreover, the British Museum has a gallery devoted to casts of the West Frieze, the marble sculptures of which are now housed in the Acropolis Museum. At the Skulpturhalle Basel, plaster casts have been assembled of all pieces of the Parthenon; this project dates back to the 1960s and is the only complete reconstruction of the surviving sections (Williams 2013, xv–xvii).

Introduction

17

That plaster casts can offer a more accessible means for study of the Parthenon is demonstrated by the fact that it is not unusual for publications to be illustrated using photographs of the casts, rather than the marbles. This practice has been noted generally by Rune Frederiksen (2018, 69), who identifies it as having been particularly prevalent in the period 1880–1910. While less common now, other more recent cases specifically relating to the Parthenon sculptures can also be found. For instance, in The Parthenon Frieze (1994) by Ian Jenkins, the photographs include a mixture of casts and marbles and were originally prepared by Frederick Anderson for A. H. Smith’s 1910 publication, The Sculptures of the Parthenon. Such use of casts for illustrative purposes is typically indicated only by the fine-print, if at all. And so, once more, we return to the central question to be addressed by this book: what is the relationship between the casts and the ‘original’ marbles?11 To answer this question, we must understand the materials of both. Although typically rather more resilient than plaster, marble has its own particular vulnerabilities, which may be exposed by the ‘agents of decay’. The agents of decay are well-known by preventive conservators and include radiation (light), water (including the variable relative humidity of the air), temperature, pollutants, biological pests, physical forces (earthquakes, object handling), theft and vandalism, and fire. The extent to which any given object or monument is susceptible to each of these agents will vary according to factors such as the material(s) of the object, its location and its age. Conservators may, therefore, draw up more specific lists of agents of decay to look out for in particular collections; however, the above categories cover the main culprits. The case of the Parthenon is complex. The material from which it was constructed is Pentelic marble sourced from the quarries of Penteli, north of Athens. Marble is a crystalline metamorphic rock formed from limestone (calcium carbonate). It is much harder and more impermeable to water than plaster. While water by itself is not of great concern to the marble, its consistent action over time and its potential to join forces with other agents of decay like environmental pollutants introduced by human activity (i.e. acid rain) can cause significant deterioration. Such mechanisms will be covered in greater detail in the following chapters.

11

Further to my concern above, regarding use of the term ‘original’, ‘marbles’ can also be considered problematic and viewed by many (particularly when labelled ‘The Elgin Marbles’) as divorcing the sculptures from their architectural context, presenting them as moveable goods, when that is only the case because they were forcibly removed. As with my use of ‘original’, I write ‘marbles’ here purely to distinguish between the two groups of objects according to their materials.

18 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

This particular susceptibility of marble has been tested most of all in the past two centuries, following the industrial revolution, which occurred after the earliest casts of the Parthenon sculptures were taken by Choiseul-Gouffier’s artist Fauvel and Elgin’s formatori around the turn of the nineteenth century. The idea that plaster casts might preserve features lost from the marble sculptures is frequently touched upon but has not been explored in depth. This book, therefore, will explore the relationship between the casts and the marble sculptures, looking in particular at the casts of the West Frieze taken by Fauvel, Elgin and, later, under the request of Charles Newton at the British Museum. Bringing the analogue casts into the digital age, I explore the use of 3D imaging as an investigative tool to aid understanding of these objects, in the process creating new digital copies, the relationship of which to the ‘original’ marble and ‘original’ plaster we may also examine.12 The application and results of comparative 3D imaging between the casts and marble sculptures will be examined before drawing wider conclusions concerning the documentary role of casts as sources of archaeological evidence. The potential documentary capacity of casts is limited not just to the Parthenon casts, but may apply to any sculptures cast before the condition of the originals further declined. The Parthenon casts are focused upon here not only because they are important historical specimens, but also because of their impact on archaeological practice and museum displays. The dissemination of casts of the Parthenon sculptures across Europe and America inspired the large-scale casting campaigns led by archaeologists in the later nineteenth century, as well as the spread of more and more cast galleries at museums and universities around the world. The cast collection came to be regarded as the required ‘laboratory’ for the study of classical archaeology (Colvin 1877). This new function of the casts resulted in changes to the nature of their production and treatment: new recipes for plaster mixes and coatings were devised, and new equipment was created to apply and clean these coated surfaces. While casts were sometimes used for experimental work, for instance, testing different compositions of fragmentary objects or schemes of polychromy, most were intended to comprise highly accurate surrogates of the sculptures from which they were moulded.

12

The relationship between the analogue and digital was explored in a symposium held in Berlin, 26–27 November 2015 (Haak and Helfrich 2016).

1

The Emergence of Fauvel and His Successors

The earliest full-sized casts created of the Parthenon were those made by Fauvel, working for Choiseul-Gouffier in the late eighteenth century, some years before Elgin’s campaign. This chapter will explore these casts and the later evolution of moulding and casting methods in the field. First, however, it is important to outline the context in which these casts emerged. Though not always illustrious, plaster casts have a very long history. Setting aside their ancient roots, we may look first to the fourteenth-century artist Cennino Cennini, who created casts and provided instruction for others to do so in his book Il libro dell’Arte. By the fifteenth century, the use of casts by sculptors and painters became increasingly common in Italy, with study casts made both from pieces of sculpture and from body parts (Marchand 2017). From the Renaissance onwards, casts were not only used to copy sculptures and create anatomical casts but to transmit and display famous classical works. In the sixteenth century, King François I secured the services of the Italian artist Francesco Primaticcio to mould and cast the best ancient statues at the Vatican to adorn the gardens at the Château de Fontainebleau (Haskell and Penny 1981, 6). These were cast in bronze, but in 1550 the moulds were sent to the Habsburg Court where casts in plaster were made for Mary of Habsburg. In Britain, King Charles I followed the same tradition and, upon his accession in 1625, ordered bronze casts of a number of the most famous classical statues, including the Borghese Gladiator, the Belvedere Antinous, Commodus as Hercules, Diana the Huntress and the Spinario (Haskell and Penny 1981, 31). This list of kings and queens hints at the prestigious and exclusive nature of these cast commissions, which would become much more democratic in the eighteenth century. Following the growth of the Grand Tour, casts of classical sculpture were increasingly sought after and a growing number of specialist casters were only too happy to oblige. At first, these remained available only to a marginally wider group of privileged classes. Massimilio Soldani (1656–1740), the Master of the Mint in Florence, supplied bronze casts to clients including John Churchill, the 19

20 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Duke of Marlborough and Prince Johann Adam of Liechtenstein (Avery 2005, 11–13; Coltman 2006, 131–4). However, Soldani also opened a more accessible studio opposite the entrance of the Uffizi, where he produced smaller bronze casts of ancient and Renaissance statues (Avery 2005, 8). By the mid-eighteenth century, bronze statuettes had gained wide appeal. In the 1760s and 1770s, casters included competitors Giacomo Zoffoli and Francesco Righetti, both of whom provided the Swedish Court, among other wealthy Europeans, with small bronze copies after the antique, but also opened workshops in Rome producing statuettes for Grand Tourists. As more ancient sculpture was uncovered and as travel around the Continent became easier, the practice expanded and the collection of casts filtered further through society. In Britain, popular appetite for the collection of classical statuary was first satiated by early eighteenth century mass production of lead casts by John Nost and Andrew Carpenter at Hyde Park. Around 1738, John Cheere took over this business and developed his own recipes for bronzing, gilding and painting plaster casts such that they might resemble marble for commercial marketing (Clifford 1992, 40). From the 1760s, his output shifted away from small-scale rococo plasters to life-sized figures and groups as demand grew for attainable collections to compare with those acquired by wealthy men like the Duke of Marlborough (Friedman and Clifford 1974, 14–15). Cheere’s pioneering work made bronzed sculptures much more affordable and accessible to British clients. He quickly acquired competitors like Peter Vanina. Vanina was also based in London and, among other subjects, produced moulds and casts in plaster of ancient sculptures, sometimes using bronzing finishing techniques (Roscoe et al. 2009, 1310). Other competitors included partners James Hoskins and Benjamin Grant (former employees of Cheere), and John Flaxman, who produced casts of relief work. These men acquired an international market, with William Cheere (son of John) supplying plaster copies of ancient sculptures ‘finisht neat & bronzd w’copper’ to George Washington for his estate at Mount Vernon in 1760 (Clifford 1992, 41).1 Following their early establishment in the art studio, casts came to be favoured as training materials by the art academies founded in the mideighteenth century. They were acquired, for example, by the Royal Academy founded by George III in 1768/9, and in this case white casts were preferred (Haskell and Penny 1981, 79). Their clean lines and clear areas of light and shade 1

Prevalent in London certainly by the nineteenth century were also itinerant ‘Italian image vendors’ selling small-scale plaster figures, as discussed by Wade (2019, 1–13); some would settle permanently, including the notable Domenico Brucciani who went on to work with institutions including both the British Museum and the South Kensington Museum.

The Emergence of Fauvel and His Successors

21

were thought to be more instructive than marbles for training students in the art of drawing (Cupperi 2010, 84). The development of the Grand Tour and the concurrent spread of cast collecting led to a growing fervour for all things Greek and Roman. The establishment of the Society of Dilettanti in London in 1734 reinforced the idea that the collection and study of classical art constituted the epitome of refined taste (Kelly 2009). Yet it also ensured that the classical became widely fashionable and well-known, supporting projects like the now renowned The Antiquities of Athens: Measured and Delineated (1762–1794) by James Stuart and Nicholas Revett. It was through works such as this that archaeology as a scientific, academic discipline came to be born, along with a new role for plaster casts as objects for study, investigation and re-creation. The systematic measurement and recording of ancient buildings was found now not only in texts but also through meticulously created scale models. From the 1760s, Charles Townley commissioned models of the temples at Paestum and Thomas Jenkins had the round temple of Vesta at Tivoli modelled by Giovanni Altieri, a craftsman from Naples (Kockel 2010, 421). These early models were typically made of cork – the crumbly, soft, warm material thought to befit the ancient stone ruins. However, from the 1790s, plaster of Paris was also employed, primarily by the Parisian modeller Jean Pierre Fouquet and his son François (Kockel 2010, 423). Jean Pierre worked closely with the French artist and collector Louis-François Cassas, making a number of models based on his architectural drawings (Thornton and Dorey 1992, 118). These models were highly precise and a distinction in usage was developed and maintained quite consistently through to the mid-nineteenth century: the cork versions were employed to show the current, ruined condition of the buildings, while the pristine white plaster models came to be used to show how they were presumed to look when first constructed. Sir John Soane was a great collector of the models and had cork and plaster versions set side-by-side (Kockel 2010, 422–4). Soane bought twenty of Fouquet’s models from the architect Edward Cresy, and positioned these in his north and south drawing-rooms including one of the Parthenon and one of the Temple of Vesta at Tivoli, a building for which he also owned one of Altieri’s cork models (Connor 1989, 199).2 Again, this was a carefully produced scale model, probably created using measurements taken by the Italian architect Giovanni Stern (Thornton and Dorey 1992, 80). Such models were enormously popular during this period and, as well as becoming desirable collectors’ items, they were used for 2

See also http://collections.soane.org/object-mr6 (accessed 17 August 2020).

22 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

the instruction of students. In 1806, Cassas put seventy-six of his models of ancient buildings on display in his gallery in the rue de Seine (Thornton and Dorey 1992, 118). Here he followed the earlier example of Richard Du Bourg’s popular ‘Classical Exhibition’ held in London, which was dedicated to models of Greek and Roman monuments and opened in the 1770s before being destroyed in 1785, perhaps caused by the model of Vesuvius catching light (!) (Thornton and Dorey 1992, 67; Gillespie 2017). Du Bourg rebuilt his collection through the 1790s and opened a new exhibition that ran from 1798 to 1819 (Gillespie 2017, 261). These models were accompanied by the now direct use of plaster to mould and cast accurate, full-sized copies of ancient architectural ornament. Soane likewise came to collect such casts, acquiring those of the architects James Playfair and Willey Reveley in 1795 and 1801. Alongside these British architects, the French sculptor and draftsman Nicolas-François-Daniel Lhuillier had collected casts from Rome in the late 1770s, followed by the French architect Leon Dufourny from 1782. Lhuillier was himself a specialist worker of plaster and also created models for relief work at Bagatelle on the outskirts of Paris (Draper 1992). Such casts were used both for academic study and for the practical training of stonemasons. In 1790, for example, Guillaume Couture ordered 144 casts of capitals and details found on Italian monuments for the French craftsmen working on the Madeleine to learn from. On the more academic side, Dufourny’s casts were acquired by the Académie des Beaux-Arts, which made a concerted effort to build up a sustained collection of all of the most important aspects of ancient architecture, replacing casts as they were damaged (Kockel 2010, 427). In Soane’s collection, he gathered casts of capitals and ornaments not just from buildings in Rome, such as the temple of Castor and Pollux, but also the temple of Mars Ultor and the temple of Vesta at Tivoli, and even the Erechtheum at Athens (Connor 1989, 198). Compared with those from Rome, however, the collection of casts from Greece occurred later and more infrequently. In the eighteenth century, Greece was still relatively off the beaten track and often left unexplored by Grand Tourists. Yet as architects like Stuart and Revett published their observations on Athens, the acquisition of all things Greek became ever more desirable. There was a measure of competition between the French and the British in the exploration of Greece. Stuart and Revett’s project on Athens had been conceived around 1748 and inspired by a comparable publication dedicated to Rome published in 1682 by the Frenchman Antoine Desgodetz. Desgodetz’s Les édifices antiques de Rome provided descriptions and engravings of ancient structures in Rome, including the Pantheon, the Colosseum, the baths of

The Emergence of Fauvel and His Successors

23

Diocletian and the arches of Titus, Septimius and Constantine, together with detailed engravings of aspects of ornament annotated with measurements. Starting later than Stuart and Revett, but pipping them to the post for a publication on Greek monuments was their French counterpart Julien David Le Roy. Le Roy published his book Les Ruines des plus beaux monuments in 1758, just four years before Stuart and Revett’s first volume. While the latter had been supported by a small subsidy from the Society of Dilettanti, Le Roy’s became more of a national project, supported by the eminent figure and wealthy antiquary the Comte de Caylus, and was intended to beat the British. The two publications were, in fact, rather different with Stuart and Revett’s focused on providing accurate, measured drawings of the monuments, while Le Roy’s included more historical discourse (Bergdoll 2000, 16–20). It is in the context of this race to explore and record the ancient ruins of Greece that we must view the campaign of the Comte de Choiseul-Gouffier (1752–1817). Marie-Gabriel-Florent-Auguste de Choiseul-Gouffier was a French aristocrat with a keen interest in the investigation of Greece. Choiseul-Gouffier first travelled to Greece in 1776, accompanied by the architect Jacques Foucherot and started to collect material for the first volume of his Voyage pittoresque de la Grèce. In 1780, Foucherot recruited the twenty-seven-year-old Fauvel and introduced him to Choiseul-Gouffier. Louis-François-Sébastien Fauvel was born on the 14 September 1753 in Picardie, Clermont-en-Beauvais. His was a family of the bourgeois and the young Fauvel received an education in the arts, although we have no details of this early training. He was received onto the registers of the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture in March 1773, at the age of nineteen. There he was taken under the wing of the painter Gabriel-François Doyen, who had also worked for the Choiseul family (Zambon 2014, 27–30). Fauvel set out with Foucherot on his first voyage to Greece in 1780, primarily to examine and draw its monuments to form supplementary material for the second volume of Choiseul-Gouffier’s Voyage Pittoresque. They left from Venice in May to sail first to Corfu, arriving in early June and travelling through western Greece and the Peloponnese before reaching Athens on the 21 November. The book was intended to cover areas including the Peloponnese, Attica, Boeotia, Thessaly, part of Macedonia and Epirus, and the Ionian islands. The purpose of Foucherot and Fauvel’s expedition was to create plans of these ancient settlements and close drawings of their sculptures, particularly those in Athens. Their travels were not without difficulty; they were beset by storms, fired upon by pirates, and imprisoned at Delphi (Lowe 1936). Fauvel’s own writings are sparse, with most of his work simply being subsumed into Choiseul-Gouffier’s volumes. Much of

24 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

what we know comes from one very brief account examined by C. G. Lowe (1936) and the writings of others about him, particularly the extensive biography by Philippe-Ernest Legrand (1897) and, more recently, the research of Christiane Pinatel (2005, 2007) and Alessia Zambon (2007, 2013, 2014). Fauvel and Foucherot left Greece early in June 1782 and were back in Paris by September for the publication of the first volume of the Voyage Pittoresque de la Grèce (Zambon 2014, 30). Although not particularly innovative when compared to more groundbreaking volumes like those of Le Roy or Stuart and Revett, the book was a huge success for Choiseul-Gouffier, illustrating the growing interest in ancient Greece during this period and paving the way for his 1784 appointment as ambassador to the Sublime Porte. When he left for Constantinople, he took with him a whole retinue of specialists including, of course, Fauvel, but also the artist Louis-François Cassas, a geographer Barbier du Bocage, a Hellenist JeanBaptiste le Chevallier, a philologist Ansse de Villoison, an astronomer Tondu, and a poet Jacques Delille (Michel 2013, 19). In May 1786, Choiseul-Gouffier sent Fauvel back to Athens both to collect antiquities and, crucially, now also to create casts of the sculptures and architectural elements. This idea appears to have been conceived by Choiseul-Gouffier, but Fauvel was wholly in charge of its realization, giving him the chance to work very closely with the sculptures. After gaining authorization in 1786 to mould the friezes and metopes of the Parthenon, Fauvel started his moulding campaign in 1787 (Queyrel 2008, 154). Although a trained artist, Fauvel had no experience of moulding and casting and initially struggled to create casts successfully. Both the setting up of scaffolding and the sourcing of material were also areas of difficulty: I had never moulded nor seen moulding performed, but the thought of being the first to send masterpieces attributed to Phidias back to his homeland, and somehow to save them from destruction, encouraged me to overcome all the obstacles which presented themselves; the manners as much as the ill will of the Turks combined with the difficulty of scaffolding; I could not find wood, ropes or plaster on the premises . . . My tests were not satisfactory; but the first plaster finally released from the mould compensated me for all my toil and allowed me to forget the danger . . . Quoted in the French by Zambon 2014, 144–5. Gennadios, ms. 133 (3rd part), f. 1r. Translation: author

Choiseul-Gouffier had been impatient for moulding to commence and, as well as arranging for plaster to be imported from Constantinople, he sent a rifle and sword blade to present to the Ottoman Disdar (military governor) of

The Emergence of Fauvel and His Successors

25

the Acropolis as an incentive (Queyrel 2008, 154). Fauvel’s notes became filled with explanations of how to mould leaves and fruit, which he used as practice pieces. Consistent with the instructions discussed in the introduction (see p. 11), he appears to have used two grades of plaster and saturated his moulds with soap and oil (Zambon 2014, 145). The French general Henri-Gatien Bertrand who accompanied a later ambassador to the Ottoman Empire, General AubertDubayet, in 1796–7, also described Fauvel’s process of moulding in his journal; a surviving extract reported by Queyrel (2008, 161) notes: ‘Here is the procedure used by Fauvel to mould the reliefs. Clay is applied first . . . In a casing, the clay is allowed to dry and, from this imprint, plaster is poured into the mould thus obtained.’3 The method used most typically during this period was the plaster piecemoulding technique. As we learn from Bertrand, however, Fauvel appears to have deviated from this practice and instead adopted the use of clay perhaps because of the scarcity of plaster in the region. The application of clay for moulding was unusual but not unheard of, and generally considered to produce inferior casts. In a letter to his father, the younger John Soane wrote in 1819 of some of the architectural casts available in Rome: ‘The practice of casting from clay moulds is abominable, and makes me less anxious to purchase casts, altho’ I can get them for England free. I propose having single leaves only of the different capitals, unless you wish for those’ (Bolton 1927, 281–3). Flinders Petrie (1904, 65) also later described clay moulding as a field practice (see p. 43). The plaster that was available to Fauvel was poor and needed to be supported with wood or iron struts. This meant that the plaster casts produced from these clay moulds were even heavier and more fragile than usual: one of Fauvel’s first casts was a metope from the Parthenon that took fourteen men to move. The iron supports were also highly prone to rusting, and these expansive corrosion products would burst through and stain the plaster (Zambon 2014, 145). Throughout his work, Fauvel was beset with difficulties, struggling to obtain plaster, to gain authorization, and facing bad weather that prevented moulding. Yet despite his initial reservations, Fauvel clearly took to the practice. The casts that he made for Choiseul-Gouffier in Athens included the following: ● ● ●

3

Sections of the Parthenon Frieze Several Parthenon metopes Two caryatids from the Erechtheion

Quoted in the French by Queyrel (and by Zambon 2014, 146). Translation: author.

26 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

● ● ● ●

Bas-reliefs from the Temple of Athena Nike and the Hephaisteion Sections from the Tower of the Winds Sections from the Lysicrates Monument Various other pieces of ornament Zambon 2014, 146–7

Much of his moulding work was completed between May 1786 and April 1789, with another, later campaign between September 1790 and August 1792. In February 1787, he sent his first batch of twenty-eight crates to Marseille, including both casts and pieces of marble. Perhaps predictably, however, many of the heavy, fragile plasters were damaged in transit and had to be remade. Further crates were sent later in 1787, in 1788 and 1791 (Pinatel 2007, 111; Zambon 2014, 146). By the end of 1788, Choiseul-Gouffier was tiring of Constantinople and wished to return to Paris. Fauvel continued his work, however, based mainly in Athens at a French Capuchin monastery situated near to the Lysicrates Monument (Zambon 2014, 35). He also took a number of excursions, visiting the Peloponnese in the spring of 1787, the Cyclades in the summer of 1788, and Egypt in 1789 (Zambon 2014, 32). While their correspondence always remained genial, Fauvel was doing his best to forge his own, independent career and sometimes complained of the workload expected of him by Choiseul-Gouffier. On top of moulding, which he appears to have prioritized, Fauvel was also beginning to dig, searching for antiquities, and collecting maps and plans, as well as plaster models of Attica, Athens, and the Acropolis (Zambon 2014, 31, 33). Contrary to the typical application of cork for ruins and plaster for reconstructions, these models showed the monuments and landscapes in their current condition. We do not know whether Fauvel made these models himself or if he commissioned them (perhaps from Cassas); Kockel (2010, 425–6) speculates that he used plaster because he considered it better suiting of Greek marble. However, as Fauvel had taught himself to use plaster, perhaps he was simply more comfortable with this material. Meanwhile, politics intervened. In 1793, Choiseul-Gouffier was forced out of Constantinople by the French Revolution and took refuge at the Russian Court of Catherine II (Zambon 2014, 34). Fauvel seized the moment to free himself from his shackles. He had not, however, been paid for the past three years of work and so was compelled to rely on the beneficence of friends. Initially expelled from his former quarters in the monastery, he managed to resettle there by the summer of 1794 and carved out a living mainly by trading antiquities, but his penury drove him to reconsider the idea of working for the government. In this endeavour, Fauvel was supported by Choiseul-Gouffier’s successor, Marie-

The Emergence of Fauvel and His Successors

27

Louis-Henri Descorches, who recommended him to the Minister of Foreign Affairs and published a summary of Fauvel’s memoirs (Zambon 2014, 36). In 1797, the next new ambassador, Jean-Baptiste Annibal Aubert-Dubayet, was similarly urged to support Fauvel, who would enrich the Musée de la Republique. Even now, moulding and casting remained at the forefront of Fauvel’s plans, as he wrote that he would ‘mould and excavate for the Republic’ (Zambon 2014, 37).4 Yet these plans were foiled by the following events, drawing out even further this period of uncertainty for Fauvel. Aubert-Dubayet died suddenly in December 1797 and in 1798, Napoleon’s troops invaded Egypt. Egypt was at this time also part of the Ottoman Empire and Fauvel was now a citizen of an enemy country. Sent into detention, Fauvel managed to hide some of his drawings but later sold them to buy himself better living conditions during his imprisonment first in Athens and then Constantinople (St Clair 1998, 107; Zambon 2014, 37). He was freed in late 1801 and returned to Paris with nothing. Back in France, the crates of goods that Fauvel had sent to Marseille on behalf of Choiseul-Gouffier, as the property of a noble emigrant, were confiscated for the state (Pinatel 2007, 111). Following a decree of 10 October 1792, this collection of objects was seized and intended for the Musée de la Republique (later known as the Louvre). In 1802, Choiseul-Gouffier returned to France to cross his name off the émigré list and managed to recover some of his goods with the help of the architect, Legrand. A final batch of marbles and casts had remained in Athens at the Capuchin monastery and these were now packed up to be sent to ChoiseulGouffier in France. However, adding to his run of bad luck, the ship on which they were being carried, the Arabe, was intercepted and seized by the British (Michel 2013, 33). Fauvel, meanwhile, was having slightly better fortune. He wrote to the government and to Napoleon specifically to ask to be sent back to Greece to excavate at Olympia. He also proposed that his casts from the Parthenon sculptures should be used to train young French sculptors, who would be tasked with copying these works of Phidias into Pentelic marble (Zambon 2014, 37–8). These plans were not successful; however, Fauvel did obtain an official title, Vice-Consul of Athens, enabling his return to Greece. He arrived back in Athens in January 1803 and there continued to live with at least some of his casts, as described by François-René, the Vicomte de Chateaubriand who stayed with him: In the house of my host, there was nothing that betrayed the consul: but the artist and antiquary were everywhere apparent. How delighted was I to have for 4

Quoted in the French by Zambon: letter to his friend Esprit-Marie Cousinéry written from Athens, 6 March 1797. Translation: author.

28 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age my lodging at Athens, an apartment full of plaster casts taken from the Parthenon! The walls were hung round with views of the Temple of Theseus, plans of the Propylaea, maps of Attica, and the plain of Marathon. There were marbles on one table, and medals on another, with small heads and vases in terra cotta. A venerable dust was at my great regret swept away; a bed was made up for me in the midst of all these curiosities; and, like a conscript who joins the army on the eve of an engagement, I encamped, on the field of battle. Chateaubriand 1814, 136

Fauvel returned just in time to meet Lord Elgin’s contingent. The French had now lost their favour with the Ottomans, being replaced by the British. Elgin will be discussed in the following chapter, but here it will suffice to say that he took full advantage of this to obtain his now notorious firman, ordering further moulding and casting, but also removing sculptures from the ancient monuments of the Acropolis. Fauvel tried to stop the removals, reporting back to the French ambassador at Constantinople, but did not succeed until 1805 when much had already been taken down (Zambon 2014, 39–40). Choiseul-Gouffier continued to try to bring his pieces back together, but died at Aix-la-Chapelle on 13 June 1817, with his heirs selling his collection in 1818 (Michel 2013, 36). What of Fauvel’s casts? Amid the confusion of casts being damaged in transit, being remade, confiscated and seized, the fate of Fauvel’s casts is unclear. Many of the casts did not survive the journey from Greece and, presumably, many were destroyed as they deteriorated. A fire at Smyrna had destroyed some fourteen crates of casts and pieces of marble when they were en route to France (Zambon 2013, 894). However, some came to be displayed at the Architecture Museum in the Palais des arts and others were exhibited at the Louvre (Zambon 2014, 147). Crucially, the casts that were acquired by the Louvre were reproduced by the museum’s casting department and sent to other collections in France and more widely across Europe. Pinatel (2007) has written about the casts at the Petite Malmaison, while another group also survive, sent to Bonn in 1821 (Himmelmann and Sinn 1981, 23). The Atelier de Moulage had first been established to mould and cast the statues plundered from Italy by Napoleon in 1797 with a Tuscan moulder, Getti, brought in to lead the workshop, together with another named Micheli (Pinatel 2007, 115). Unlike these Italian specialists, Fauvel had no training in moulding and casting, nor did he have any classical training. Just as he taught himself to mould and cast, he acquired his knowledge of antiquity through practice: excavating, surveying and drawing (Zambon 2007, 80). Fauvel cannot be considered an archaeologist in the modern sense of the word; his focus on the discovery of

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29

antiquities during his excavations would surely now have him labelled a treasurehunter. These were often deemed unsuccessful through lack of finds, with his greatest discovery the retrieval of three marble busts from the villa of Herodes Atticus (Zambon 2007, 72). He did also work to uncover partially buried architectural structures, including those on the Acropolis, often guided by the writings of Pausanias. Most importantly perhaps, he was a pioneer in moulding and casting: a pursuit that would form an integral component of archaeological expeditions through the nineteenth century. Moulding came to be a central practice for Fauvel: one that he continued after he finished working for ChoiseulGouffier and after he was appointed Vice-Consul (Zambon 2014, 149). Fauvel’s casts, therefore, gained an extraordinary afterlife mirrored by the fate of Elgin’s casts and setting a model for their later use and growing professionalization. Unlike Fauvel, who learnt on the job, Elgin brought in professional casters (formatori) from Italy, where the field was starting to flourish. Already in the late eighteenth century, we find family names of Italian casters – Malpieri, for instance – that would become very well-known through the nineteenth century (Kockel 2010, 428). Elgin’s became the more typical example to follow, as new archaeological expeditions increasingly brought in external expertise (usually from Italy) in moulding and casting. In 1827, ambitions soared as the head of the colossal statue of Rameses II at the Temple of Abu Simbel in Egypt was moulded in plaster by the team of the Scottish antiquarian Robert Hay (James 1997, 147). Hay had earlier worked with the British sculptor Joseph Bonomi, who produced a series of casts of sculptures from across Egypt, which were subsequently deposited in the British Museum (James 1997, 148–9; Usick 2018, 14). In 1824, Hay and Bonomi had brought twelve bags of plaster for casts when they set out from Cairo up the Nile on 25 December. They stopped at various places, including Dendera, where they spent a week making casts, before arriving in Abu Simbel on 18 March 1825 (Tillett 1984, 20–1). There, they tried to clear the temple and make drawings before leaving towards the end of April, when they headed towards Kalabsha, where they worked to create further casts (Tillett 1984, 23). It was during Hay’s second campaign in 1827 that the colossal head was to be cast, this time by an Italian formator named Nasciambene (Tillett 1984, 29). The mould was transported to Britain where Bonomi supervised casting. Bonomi later recounted the tale to the Egyptologist Amelia Edwards, who wrote of the mould: They took with them some barrels of plaster and a couple of ladders, and contrived, with such spars and poles as belonged to the dahabeeyah, to erect a

30 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age scaffolding and a matted shelter for the plasterman. The colossus was at this time buried up to its chin in sand, which made the task so much the easier. Edwards 1877, 280

Following the campaigns of Fauvel and Elgin, further moulding was conducted on the Athenian Acropolis during work in 1835 led by the German archaeologist Ludwig Ross (1806–59), who had been appointed Ephor of the antiquities of the Peloponnese in 1834 (Mallouchou-Tufano 2007, 40). At Pompeii, casts had been taken already in the eighteenth century when Francisco La Vega had first discovered impressions of people in the solidified ash: an impression of a woman’s breast was discovered in December 1763 and sent to the Portici Museum, and later the National Archaeological Museum in Naples (Betzer 2011, 133; Poehler 2017, 1). The technique was further developed by Giuseppe Fiorelli (1823–96) who was responsible for the famous casts of the human victims of Pompeii created in the mid-nineteenth century, and casts were also taken of some notable objects, including two house doors (Dwyer 2010, 29).

Fig. 1.1 Lorenzo Giuntini using plaster to mould Zoomorph P ‘The Great Turtle’ in Quirigua. Reproduced from Maudslay (1889–1902, plate 53a).

The Emergence of Fauvel and His Successors

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Alongside plaster casts, the use of paper squeezes was developed, providing a relatively cheap, quick and lightweight method of making moulds from which plaster casts could be taken. Paper squeezes are made by soaking filter paper with water, pressing the paper against the surface of the sculpture, waiting for it to dry, and then removing it.5 This type of moulding was used certainly from 1831 and was very commonly employed until the 1960s (Kendrick Pritchett 1952; Beck 1963).6 Both squeezes and casts were taken on Alfred Maudslay’s Mayan expeditions with the aid of the Italian plaster maker Lorenzo Giuntini, who later worked at Persepolis with Herbert Weld (Blundell) in 1891–2 (Mathews 1999; Fash 2004; Simpson 2007, 353–4).7 Others were made in the Middle East by Lottin de Laval and Ernst Herzfeld,8 and even more were created in Egypt by George Alexander Hoskins and Sir John Gardner Wilkinson (James 1997, 152, 190; Falser 2019, 152). Hoskins described the process as follows: I found stiff, unsized, common white paper to be best adapted for the purpose. It should be well damped; and, when applied to sculpture still retaining its colour, not to injure the latter, care should be taken that the side of the paper placed on the figures be dry – that it be not the side which has been sponged. The paper, when applied to the sculpture, should be evenly patted with a napkin folded rather stiffly; and, if any part of the figures or hieroglyphics be in intaglio or elaborately worked, it is better to press the paper over that part with the fingers. Five minutes is quite sufficient time to make a cast of this description: when taken off the wall, it should be laid on the ground or sand to dry. Hoskins 1837, 110

To make plaster casts from the squeezes, Petrie (1904, 65–6) described a process of heating the squeeze and brushing it with beeswax and oil to stop the plaster from sticking to it. Several casts could be produced from each squeeze; however, squeezes were used not always to create casts, but also to assist with the execution of accurate drawings. In the second half of the nineteenth century, moulding practices became fully integrated into large new excavations.9 At the German excavations conducted at

5

6 7 8 9

A method of taking a paper squeeze is described by Rathgen (1905, 166–7). Although his book focused on conservation, no mention is made of the potential impact of this method upon the object (which must be soaked in water). For more on paper squeezes, see the PhD thesis by Booth (2018). See also: ‘Casts from Sculptures at Persepolis’. The Times, 9 September 1892, 5. See Lottin de Laval, 1857. Ernst Herzfeld’s squeezes are held at the Freer | Sackler Archives. And from colonial missions see, for example, the casts from Angkor for display in Paris taken under the direction of Doudart de Lagrée and Francis Garnier starting in the 1860s and later continued by Louis Delaporte. These have been explored by Falser (2019) and Flour (2014).

32 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Olympia in the 1870s, the moulder Martinelli was employed,10 and when the French School at Athens started major excavations at Delphi in 1892, finds were recorded using both photography and by establishing a workshop in Athens for the making of moulds (by the Italian Giovanni Buda) to record and distribute discoveries (Mulliez 2007, 151). In the early twentieth century, Petrie (1904, 64) noted that: ‘Beside the direct material for publishing in plates [i.e. impressions from squeezes], it is often desirable to take casts and impressions, both for future reference and also as a step toward a photograph.’ Petrie (1904, 65–7) describes a number of different materials for moulding, including clay, paper squeezes, gutta-percha, sealing-wax and even tin foil. He does not recommend piecemoulding, considering it too complex and time-consuming. Instead, he describes plaster casting as follows: Casting with plaster of Paris is the principal mode of reproduction, and is such a detailed business in itself that only a few notes can be given here, such as might possibly be wanted in field work. The fine work for museum purposes is outside of our aim here. The main point in handling wet plaster is rapidity; and for that everything must be ready, and the exact plan of work and amount of plaster settled beforehand. A basin should be used with water equal to about two-thirds of the volume of plaster required. Into this shake or sift dry plaster rapidly, until the water is just filled up with it, and no free water left on the top; it is then well proportioned, and should be violently stirred with a large flat spoon or slip of wood and poured out in an even stream, beginning with the middle if a flat mould, and flattening it out to the edges. It is best to have rather too little than too much; as a fresh lot can be mixed, with the hardening pieces of the first lot, to serve for a backing; the first lot being, of course, spread over the whole face to begin with. Strings, or strips of butter-muslin, should be put through the mass, if it is large, so as to prevent it falling to pieces if broken later on. Excellent casts are made with a thin skin of plaster on a backing of muslin put on a frame; but this requires more skill than plain work. About 10 minutes after casting the back should be scraped down level, or planed with a wide-mouthed hand plane, which is a very useful tool in finishing casts. No cast of any large size should be left without even support for some hours after casting, as it will settle out of shape if strained. Petrie 1904, 64–5

From his instructions, it is clear that Petrie intended his moulds and casts to be used in the field as aids to documentation, not as robust and aesthetically

10

The Times, 15 April 1876, 7. Issue 28604. See also Connor 1989, 190.

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pleasing objects to be displayed and studied in museums. His processes were geared towards maximum efficiency demonstrating how the materiality of casts expanded over the course of the century with different making and construction processes now applied, depending on their required function; the casts did not form one monolithic group. Recognizing the application of casts for these various different uses means that they can enhance our understanding not only of the reception of ancient sculpture (as expounded by Haskell and Penny 1981) but also of the development and spread of different techniques of preservation and documentation in the emerging field of archaeology. While casts intended for more permanent study and display continued to be created from existing and newly-made complex piece-moulds, more utilitarian objects like Petrie’s started to play a larger part at the turn of the twentieth century. As this documentary role of makeshift casts and squeezes became more widely adopted, so casts came to be viewed primarily as tools to better understand the originals. Many established collections of casts on display were quietly moved into storage or discarded; ironically the poor storage conditions to which they were often subjected could diminish the documentary value that such existing casts could encapsulate. Many casts have, however, survived to the present day, as have some of the paper squeezes intended as more transient records. A recent project between the British Museum and Google has, for instance, focused on documenting and preserving the surviving casts, squeezes and photographs of Maudslay.11 We are, therefore, increasingly rediscovering casts both as important historical objects and potential documentary resources.

11

See https://artsandculture.google.com/project/preserving-maya-heritage (accessed 17 August 2020).

34

2

Plaster Casts, Elgin, and the British Museum

The second of the major casting campaigns conducted on the Athenian Acropolis was that of Elgin at the turn of the nineteenth century.1 Thomas Bruce, the seventh Earl of Elgin, was born in Scotland in 1766 and died in 1841. He began his diplomatic career in 1790, becoming a Representative Peer of Scotland. In 1799, he was appointed to the Constantinople Embassy and decided to devote his term of office in ‘service to the arts’. Elgin was not himself a scholar either of art or antiquity; rather, he attributed the idea of this work to the architect Thomas Harrison, who had worked for him in Scotland on his new country house in Fife, Broomhall (Smith 1916, 163–6). Elgin was, therefore, to follow in the footsteps of the Comte de Choiseul-Gouffier, focusing on Greece and even more particularly on Athens. This was a time of great competition between Britain and France, with Elgin in post at Constantinople during the time of Napoleon’s Egyptian Expedition. For his embassy, Elgin selected two private secretaries, William Richard Hamilton2 and John Philip Morier, and a chaplain Reverend Philip Hunt. Elgin also took with him Joseph Dacre Carlyle, a Professor of Arabic at Cambridge University; Carlyle’s role would be to search for ancient manuscripts (St Clair 1998, 6–10). With the help of Hamilton, Elgin then put together a comprehensive project to draw, measure and mould the ancient architectural sculptures of Athens. Unlike Choiseul-Gouffier, Elgin was not working towards any particular publication; rather, these drawings and measurements were themselves the

1

2

In 1916, Arthur Hamilton Smith provided a very detailed account of Elgin’s activities, revealing lesser known elements of the programme, to which this account is greatly indebted. See also Elgin 1811. St Clair’s later publication added further information regarding his campaign, especially with regard to the papers of Philip Hunt. Not to be confused with William Hamilton, British Ambassador at Naples from 1764 and husband of Emma Hamilton, Horatio Nelson’s mistress. William Hamilton had built up his own impressive collection of antiquities, which he published in four volumes while in Naples. Elgin’s embassy did, however, cross paths with Nelson and the Hamiltons at Palermo, on their way to Constantinople and it was William Hamilton who would recommend the painter Giovanni Battista Lusieri (St Clair 1998, 26–8).

35

36 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

desired end product. He had tried and failed to gain governmental support for the project, with the Foreign Secretary Lord Grenville writing that the expense could not be justified given the existing magnificent publications by other travellers to the region. Elgin pressed ahead regardless, but it would be from his own pocket that the mission was funded. In process, he followed ChoiseulGouffier’s example, employing a retinue of artists to carry out the artistic work, while he spent most of his time in Constantinople. Elgin first approached J. M. W. Turner to be his topical draughtsman but was refused. Instead, Giovanni Battista Lusieri was engaged, also becoming Elgin’s general overseer of the project on-site (Smith 1916, 166–9). Hamilton and Lusieri were then sent to Rome to make additional appointments. Another artist was brought in, Theodor Ivanovitch, who would be the draughtsman for figures and sculptures, together with two architects: Vincenzo Balestra and Sebastian Ittar (Smith 1916, 172). Crucially, Elgin also requested that they find ‘A man for casts’, as had been suggested by Harrison (Smith 1916, 171). Rather than expecting Lusieri to conduct such casting, as Choiseul-Gouffier had with Fauvel, professional expertise was to be drawn upon. In the event, Hamilton hired two formatori, after being advised that the process was too slow for one man alone to work efficiently. These men were Bernardino Ledus and Vincenzo Rosati and they were reportedly paid fifty Piastres per month. Casts were increasingly sought after and Ledus and Rosati were able to command a high price because there were few qualified formatori available; several had been taken by the French to mould the antiquities Napoleon had looted, and only four others now remained in Rome (Smith 1916, 173). Finally together and after some passport difficulties, the full group began their journey; they set out from Naples to Sicily at the tail-end of 1799, but ended up confined to Sicily for months through the winter, sitting out the rough seas. While stuck on the island, Hamilton set them to work in Agrigento, where the formatori cast a sarcophagus from the cathedral that displayed scenes from the story of Phaedra. It was not until early April 1800 that the weather cleared and they found suitable passage to set sail from Syracuse, reaching Constantinople in mid-May (Smith 1916, 177). Lusieri stayed with Elgin for some months, while the rest of the group were sent straight to Athens. Perhaps having learnt from Fauvel’s experience, they packed their own supply of plaster. However, to reach the upper parts of the monuments, they needed to erect scaffolding for which wood had to be sourced from the island of Hydra (Smith 1916, 177). For the ropes, they used equipment brought in by Fauvel (who was imprisoned at this time). The formatori, Ledus and Rosati commenced their work on 7 August 1800, beginning by moulding sections of sculpture from the Temple of Hephaestus

Plaster Casts, Elgin, and the British Museum

37

and the Monument of Lysicrates. The Acropolis yet remained an Ottoman fortress within which the formatori were not allowed to work, partly because the Disdar was concerned that their scaffolding could be used to spy on women living in the area (St Clair 1998, 60–1). Drawing was allowed at a fee of five guineas a day (Smith 1916, 181). Elgin’s wife, Mary Nisbet, wrote to her father regarding attempts to get permission to mould the sculptures on the Acropolis, indicating also that she had not always approved of the necessity of the formatori but had been won over: My Very Dear Father, You can have no idea of the pleasure your letter and my Mother’s from Athens gave us; You know I was always against the Formatori, and I remember you did not admire the idea of them; so I feel the greatest comfort at your approbation of their work. After having been at such an expence it is certainly very pleasing to hear things are done in so superior and masterly a stile; I really now do not feel to grudge them. Your letter put Elgin into the greatest glee, he was quite charmed at your entering so heartily into his cause; your visit would undoubtedly renovate the Artists and make them work with fresh spirit – Elgin is going immediately to set about getting the proper Firman for Minerva’s Temple. Mary Nisbet to her father, 14 June 1801. Nisbet Hamilton Grant 1926, 92

Elgin meanwhile was also assisting British efforts to expel Napoleon’s French forces from Egypt by organizing supplies for the expedition. In the summer of 1801, the French capitulated and Egypt was left to the British and the Turks. As a Frenchman, Fauvel had suffered his imprisonment at Constantinople during this period, but Elgin was now at the peak of his distinction at the Ottoman Court. Indeed, Elgin was himself instrumental in convincing them to release all French civilian prisoners (St Clair 1998, 84). Now enjoying the full glow of favour, in July, he won permission for his artists to mould on the Acropolis. This ‘firman’ permitted ‘modelling with chalk or gypsum the said ornaments and visible figures’; it also allowed excavation and, significantly, ‘that no one meddle with their scaffolding or implements, nor hinder them from taking away any pieces of stone with inscriptions or figures’ (Smith 1916, 190–1).3 It is this line later used 3

Mary Nisbet reports this in a letter to her father on 9 July 1801: ‘It allows all our artists to go into the citadel, to copy and model everything in it, to erect scaffolds all round the Temple, to dig and discover all the ancient foundations, and to bring away any marbles that may be deemed curious by their having inscriptions on them, and that they are not to be disturbed by the soldiers etc, under any pretence whatever. Don’t you think this will do? I am in the greatest glee, for it would have been a great pity to have failed in the principal part, after having been at such an expence.’ (Nisbet Hamilton Grant 1926, 97–98).

38 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

to justify Elgin’s removal of large sections of sculpture. However, there is no evidence that Elgin initially intended to remove sculptures still attached. On 10 July 1801, he wrote to Lusieri: Besides the general work . . . it would be very essential that the Formatori should be able to take away exact models of the little ornaments, or detached pieces if any are found, which would be interesting for the Arts. The very great variety in our manufactures, in objects either of elegance or luxury, offers a thousand applications for such details. Quoted by Smith 1916, 191

In his consideration of the uses of plaster casts here, Elgin follows strictly in the established path of those acquired by the eighteenth-century architect. The model of such eighteenth-century casts presages one of their continued functions through the nineteenth century: that of improving both the products of British manufacture and public taste (Payne 2019a). This is quite a separate route to that of the ‘archaeological’ cast that would be developed through the nineteenth century, created in the field and used primarily for scholarly purposes, including documentation, preservation and transmission. Both sorts of cast were frequently exhibited in museums through the nineteenth century and here the two categories overlap. Elgin’s casts were fashioned in the eighteenth-century model of what a cast should be and through the popularity and veneration of the Parthenon sculptures helped to set in stone the use of casts for disseminating works of ‘good taste’. Yet these casts also represented a pivotal moment, inspiring the development of this new type of cast made by, or under the direct instruction of, archaeologists in the field as explored in Chapter 1. Elgin’s formatori now had full access to the Acropolis. Meanwhile, excavations began and some detachment of sculptures started to take place, largely under the direction of Philip Hunt who was in Athens after a period spent in Egypt. He gained permission from the Voivode (Governor) to take down two of the best preserved metopes still standing on the building (St Clair 1998, 93–4). These were removed on 31 July 1801 (Smith 1916, 196). Through the excavations, they found pieces of pedimental sculpture and parts of the frieze. Many of these were sawn through to remove the back of the sculptures so that they would be easier to transport (Smith 1916, 202). By 26 December 1801, Elgin had clearly become keener to remove further original pieces: I should wish to have, of the Acropolis, examples in the actual object, of each thing, and architectural ornament – of each cornice, each frieze, each capital – of the decorated ceilings, of the fluted columns – specimens of the different

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39

architectural orders, and of the variant forms of the orders – of metopes and the like, as much as possible. Finally everything in the way of sculpture, medals and curious marbles that can be discovered by means of assiduous and indefatigable excavation. Elgin to Lusieri, 26 December 1801: Smith 1916, 207

Lusieri was even more ambitious, proposing the removal of entire structures. In early January, before he would have received the above letter from Elgin, he wrote: If I cannot get the Pandroseum entire, I do not despair of one of the Caryatids. The monument of Philopappus is of poor architecture, it is very big and the sculpture is not of the best kind, nor well preserved. The artists, my colleagues, continue their work. The unfavourable season partly stops them, but they do what they can. We must go on, getting everything moulded that we cannot have in the real thing. Ledus is still needed here . . . Vincenzo, the formatore, who works in the open air, is often unable to continue his work, being prevented by bad weather and cold. Lusieri to Elgin, 5 January 1802: Smith 1916, 208

Lusieri later explained that they would need another special firman to remove all of the Pandroseum, commenting that in any case all of the Caryatids are exactly the same, but he believes he can arrange to take one (Lusieri to Elgin, 11 January 1802. Quoted by Smith 1916, 209). It is evident that by this point, the policy was to remove at least one example of everything, or to mould if removal was not possible. The formatori were apparently working well and Rosati’s wages were doubled (Smith 1916, 199, 202). In April 1802, Elgin visited Greece and shipments of marble and cases of moulds were being packed up and slowly making their way across the seas to Britain. This was a difficult, arduous journey and a good number of the sculptures spent almost two years sunk on the seabed. One of the vessels used for shipping the goods was Elgin’s own ship, the Mentor, which had set out from Athens on 15 September 1802 with seventeen cases of antiquities on board. Blasted by strong winds, she started to take on water and, on the 17th September, the crew attempted to make for the island of Kythira. They reached the bay but when released the anchors failed to hold; they were cut free and tried to sail once more, but the ship drifted onto the rocks and sank. All lives on board were saved, including Hamilton’s, but none of the cargo. After some negotiation, Hamilton paid divers to retrieve a number of the crates in November; yet already from December, it was too cold for them to continue (Smith 1916, 241–51). They returned in February 1803

40 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Fig. 2.1 The removal of the Sculptures from the Pediment of the Parthenon by Lord Elgin. William Gell. 1801. Watercolour and pencil on paper. Benaki Museum, Athens, Greece.

and work continued through the summer and autumn of that year before stopping again for winter and picking up in the summer of 1804. It was not until 24 October 1804 that Lusieri was able to report that all of the cargo had been salvaged (Smith 1916, 258–9). As pieces were recovered, they were stored ashore, part-buried in the sand and surrounded with stones, driftwood and seaweed to protect them until they could be shipped away (St Clair 1998, 138). Just prior to this disaster, in August 1802, Elgin was at Smyrna on the Turkish coast and wrote to Lusieri pushing for as much as possible to be shipped quickly to get it out of the reaches of the French, including Fauvel, whom he anticipated would return to Greece and envy his acquisitions. In the same letter, he asked Lusieri to secure some more original pieces from monuments including the Parthenon: My observations in the islands incline me to attach a quite special importance to the acquisition of a capital of the Temple of Minerva. Amongst so many examples of the Doric Order, we have seen nothing that can compare with the capitals of the Parthenon. I should like to have one, complete. Elgin to Lusieri, 9 August 1802: Smith 1916, 228

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This was followed in October by a more urgent letter from Elgin to Lusieri, on the ‘uneasiness’ caused by the French and he continued to urge Lusieri to take as much as possible: ‘The moment is precious. Rivalry is ready to show itself in all shapes’ (Elgin to Lusieri, 8 October 1802: Smith 1916, 234). Inspired by his own trip to Athens and various sites around Greece, Elgin’s zeal for beating the French at this point expanded to include personal study of these objects, as he considered publication of his acquisitions. There remained, however, a personal element to this plan as he sought to have the formator Bernardino make ornaments in stucco or marble, copied from the Erechtheion to the scale of his own country house, Broomhall (Elgin to Lusieri, 8 October 1802: Smith 1916, 234). On 28 October 1802, Lusieri sent Elgin the following list of objects moulded (and to this can also be added the sarcophagus from Agrigento): The entire frieze of the Monument of Lysicrates. The whole of the West side of the Parthenon Frieze. Other portions of the best preserved parts of the North side. Two metopes of the Parthenon. Bust of a Caryatid. All the different ornaments of the portico (of the Erechtheum) and of the temple of Erechtheus, and of the Pandroseum. The whole frieze of the Theseum [the Temple of Hephaestus] on the East side. The West frieze will soon be finished. Four metopes, the best preserved on the South side.

Quoted by Smith 1916, 236

Elgin and his wife had arrived back in Constantinople in September 1802 following his extended excursion around Greece, with his third child born just after their return. Elgin was now keen to return to Britain, with his health also causing him concern. He arranged with the government to end his embassy and the retinue of artists was disbanded in the spring of 1803 (St Clair 1998, 112). Elgin set out for home, but passed through Paris in May at the time of a decree that made all British men between the ages of eighteen and sixty prisoners of war. He was arrested and kept in France until 1806, leaving Lusieri in Athens to tie up the final stages of the work (Smith 1916, 255–6). Hunt was also later arrested in France and Hamilton spent much of his time arranging the salvage of the cargo from the Mentor before returning to Britain (St Clair 1998, 136, 139). Fauvel was by now back in Athens and trying to prevent Lusieri both from removing more sculptures and from shipping those already taken; in mid-1805, the British Embassy ruled that no more sculptures should be removed. When

42 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Russia and Turkey declared war in 1806, with Britain joining on Russia’s side, Lusieri was forced immediately to flee, leaving behind most of his possessions together with the final batch of antiquities (St Clair 1998, 155). With Elgin finally back in Britain, the shipments were gathered and unpacked. Despite now being in tremendous financial difficulty having divorced his wealthy wife, Elgin rented a house (now Gloucester House) on the corner of Park Lane and Piccadilly and erected a large shed in its garden in which to display the sculptures; there they were exhibited from 1807 (Smith 1916, 297; St Clair 1998, 150; Fehlmann 2007, 46). In January 1809, peace was arranged between Russia and Turkey; Lusieri returned in August only to find that his house had been broken into and everything stolen, save for the marble works. A firman from the Ottoman Court, however, prevented them from being shipped away. It was not until February 1810 that the British Ambassador Robert Adair had managed to work Britain back into favour and with it, a new firman authorizing the shipment of the sculptures (St Clair 1998, 160). Elgin’s dire financial circumstances meant that he could not afford to keep the sculptures at the Park Lane house for long. He was forced both to find someone to take over the house and to look to sell the sculptures to the British government. The Duke of Gloucester stepped in to buy the house, and Elgin managed to find temporary accommodation for the sculptures further up Piccadilly at the back of Burlington House, owned by the Duke of Devonshire (St Clair 1998, 186). In 1812, the final batch of sculptures guarded over by Lusieri arrived in Britain and were united with the rest (St Clair 1998, 206). Together with the marble sculptures were now stored the moulds created by Elgin’s formatori and casts subsequently produced. From 1808, casting of Elgin’s moulds had been commenced by a man named Papera:4 He has had a most troublesome Job of it owing to the confused manner in which the moulds etc. were packed up, but has succeeded extremely well, and has made some admirable casts, superior many of them in preservation, and equal all in sculpture to the best of the originals. Hamilton to Elgin, 9 October 1808. Quoted by Smith 1916, 304

4

This is most probably Bartholomew Papera (died 1815). His trade card of 1806 described him as ‘B. PAPERA Figure Maker TO HER MAJESTY No. 16 Marylebone St., Golden Square’ (British Museum, Banks Collection 106.22) (Roscoe et al. 2009). Papera was later involved with moulding and casting at the British Museum. This is mentioned in a letter of 8 June 1909 to Sir Edward from Arthur H. Smith (Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities, British Museum). He gives a postscript including a summary of moulding at the museum, including: ‘Before 1817 the only moulding was done by casual enterprise – at some date before 1815 one Papera broke a finger of the Townley Venus.’

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43

Ledus and Rosati had been employed to make only moulds and not casts. Since several batches of casts could typically be made from such moulds and casts were more vulnerable to damage during transportation, this strategy made better sense than sending either casts alone or attempting to send both moulds and casts. Elgin’s artists had packed plaster when they first set out for Athens from Constantinople. From this we might expect that they followed the traditional method of piece-moulding. However, perhaps due to problems establishing a consistent supply of plaster it appears that, like Fauvel, they may have used clay for moulding on at least some occasions. The architect Robert Smirke travelled through Greece on his Grand Tour during the time that Elgin’s retinue was working and spoke to Hamilton about the possibility of obtaining casts for himself. Through his notes, we learn that Elgin had freighted a small vessel specifically to ship a suitable type of ‘earth’ from the island of Melos for the formatori to use for their moulds.5 Flinders Petrie (1904, 65) later discussed clay moulding of relief sculptures in the field, writing that: The division of the clay is best done by bedding threads along the face of the object at the lines required, and then pulling them up to cut the clay. The face of the object requires French chalk (steatite powder) on it to prevent cohesion; oiling or greasing spoils the face of the original.

This technique was intended for sculptures of much shallower relief than many of those found on the Parthenon. Hamilton noted to Smirke that even the formatori had struggled with ‘the great depth often given to the indents of the various forms’. He told Smirke that because of this, in order to complete each mould, the formatori were obliged ‘to have recourse to wax’.6 Unfortunately, he gives no details on precisely what this wax was used for. It is possible that it was used as a more flexible moulding material (compare p. 7) but may also have performed a more perfunctory role: the filling of undercuts. Indeed, from the Roman period, clay has been used as a material with which to fill undercuts during casting (Landwehr 1985, 14). It is possible then that the ‘earth’ mentioned by Smirke was in fact plaster of Paris rather than clay. Kaolin (clay) was mined at Melos, but so was gypsum: the raw material for the production of plaster of Paris. Indeed, Malcolm Wagstaff (1982, 241–3) notes that gypsum and salt were the major minerals mined and exported from Melos through the nineteenth century; kaolin mining became more important later that century and into the twentieth century. The casts of both Elgin and Fauvel (based on those now at the 5 6

Ms Notes on Journal in Greece by Sir Robert Smirke, RIBA Archive at the V&A. SMK.2/16/1. Note 20. Ms Notes on Journal in Greece by Sir Robert Smirke, RIBA Archive at the V&A. SMK.2/16/1. Note 20.

44 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Akademisches Kunstmuseum, Bonn) display seam lines in positions quite typical of those found in those created by plaster piece-moulding; these are more complex than those we would expect from Petrie’s process, since they needed to avoid undercutting in these works of higher relief. Therefore, we may assume that even where clay moulds were used, they were constructed using much the same sequence of processes as those for the better-known plaster piece-moulding technique. This seems certainly to be the case for Elgin’s moulds. It is possible, however, that the seam lines in the casts of Fauvel derive from subsequent moulding and casting by the workshop at the Louvre. Elgin continued to focus his energies on the collection and in 1811 published anonymously his Memorandum on the Subject of the Earl of Elgin’s Pursuits in Greece. This was quite different to Choiseul-Gouffier’s volumes, which were always the intended output of his programme. Elgin’s pamphlet focused primarily on the story of the sculptures’ acquisition in an attempt to secure their reputation rather than providing nuanced discussion on the works themselves or their context. However, it quickly sold out and further attestations to the distinction of the sculptures were added to the appendices in subsequent editions. This publication also includes the famous testimony of Canova, asserting that it would be ‘sacrilege . . . to presume to touch them with a chisel’ (Elgin 1811, 40). The notion that the sculptures should not be restored pointed to a new role for the plaster casts: Two suggestions have, however, met with much approbation, in a view to the improvement to be obtained to sculpture, from these marbles and casts – The first, that casts of all such as were ornaments on the temples, should be placed in an elevation, and in a situation, similar to that which they actually had occupied; that the originals should be disposed, in a view to the more easy inspection and study of them; and that particular subjects should occasionally be selected, and premiums given for the restoration of them. This restoration to be executed on casts, but by no means on the originals; and in the museum itself, where the character of the sculpture might be the more readily studied. Elgin 1811, 43

This was a crucial development: full-sized casts were now utilized for the scholarly presentation of proposed reconstructions and restorations, removing marble from the restorer’s chisel. This is another way in which the Parthenon sculptures and casts were pivotal and game-changing in the development of nineteenth-century archaeological method and practice. The potential role of casts was expanding exponentially: not only were full-sized casts now displayed

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45

for study and drawing by both scholars and artisans, but they were being used for reconstruction and restoration when it was not possible or suitable to use the original stone works. In their early locations, at Park Lane and Burlington House, the sculptures and casts had been arranged in a ‘symmetrical picturesque composition’ driven by aesthetics rather than any attempt at systematization (St Clair 1998, 150–1). There, they were used in a well-established manner: by artists for drawing and inspiration. The collection was visited by those including John Flaxman, Benjamin West, Joseph Farington, Joseph Nollekens, Thomas Lawrence and Benjamin Robert Haydon (St Clair 1998, 166–72). In their later display at the British Museum, however, a different approach would prevail. In 1814, Napoleon abdicated; Elgin was no longer at risk of further imprisonment, but his cash flow continued to stall. With temporary accommodation secured for the sculptures at Burlington House, Elgin now travelled to Paris to drum up heavyweight support and encourage the British government to buy the pieces for a decent price. In these early years in London, the reputation of the sculptures had suffered terribly in the eyes of many connoisseurs from the widespread circulation of Richard Payne Knight’s first evaluation that they were of the period of Hadrian rather than that of the fifth century bc .7 Now Elgin persuaded Ennio Quirino Visconti, curator of antiquities at the Louvre, to visit London and write a memoir on the Parthenon sculptures. Visconti’s writings turned out to be everything that Elgin could have hoped for, asserting – critically – that they must have been sculpted under the watchful gaze of Phidias himself. The initial letter from Visconti was quickly added to a new edition of Elgin’s Memorandum, while his full memoir was published in 1816. In the event, following the convening of a Select Committee of the House of Commons, the government agreed to purchase the collection for £35,000 – around half of Elgin’s estimated expenditure. The sculptures and casts were handed over to the British Museum in 1816 and installed in the Temporary Elgin Room in 1817. At this point, some small pieces of moulds from the frieze of the Temple of Hephaestus were inadvertently destroyed by one of Elgin’s men when packing the collection for removal from Burlington House: ‘Lord Elgin’s steward, called Thompson, had advised it, but believing the pieces which are joined on to make “safe moulds” to have been broken bits, had thrown away the whole, and thus entirely ruined the moulds of the Theseian bas-reliefs which had

7

More recently, sculptor Nigel Konstam (2018) has argued that certain of the surviving Parthenon sculptures (those from the West Pediment and Selene’s horse from the East Pediment) are Hadrianic replacements. See also Harrison 1990, 169–70.

46 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

cost Lord Elgin so much’ (Haydon 1926, 223–4). Fortunately, however, the existing casts of these pieces survived. Elgin’s removal of the sculptures from the Parthenon – a highly contentious issue to this day – was controversial at the time and famously deplored by Lord Byron (see Byron 1812–18). The legitimacy (and the existence) of his firman and the motives behind his campaign have been questioned. Although we do not have Elgin’s firman, the evidence is clear that he gained such a document and that it gave him permission to remove pieces from the Acropolis; it is unlikely, however, that this was intended to include the forcible removal of sculptures still attached to the building. Nevertheless, work was conducted over a long period of time with the full awareness of the local Ottoman authorities by whom Greece had been governed for several hundred years: the terms of the firman were sufficiently ambiguous for them to be pushed to the limit. It was only when the French returned to intervene that removals eventually ceased. Elgin later testified at the Select Committee that he removed the sculptures because the Ottomans had not only left them to crumble, but had been actively damaging them: The Turks have been continually defacing the heads; and in some instances they have actually acknowledged to me, that they have pounded down the statues to convert them into mortar: It was upon these suggestions, and with these feelings, that I proceeded to remove as much of the sculpture as I conveniently could; it was no part of my original plan to bring away anything but my models.8 Parliament of Great Britain 1816, 41

We have little reason to doubt this targeting of the sculptures by the Ottomans, which is widely testified. Ottoman indifference to antiquities was reported also by Choiseul-Gouffier and Saloman Reinach and, as in Elgin’s case, was often used to justify the removal of objects from Ottoman territories including Greece and Turkey. This was not without resistance, as ancient sculptures had frequently become an important part of the fabric of local communities, who had developed their own relationships with these monuments (Anderson 2015). However, Ottoman officials were not always sensitive to local perspectives. The Parthenon was used as a gunpowder magazine, resulting in the devastating 1687 explosion, and deals were struck facilitating the removal of antiquities, including that with Elgin. In 1801, Hunt had written: ‘It grieved me to the heart to see the destruction made daily by the Janissaries of the fortress. They break up the finest bas-reliefs 8

The converting of the statues to mortar here described relates to an account also given by Elgin in his 1811 publication (p. 15) and told to Haydon when he visited the sculptures at Park Lane on 22 September 1809 (Haydon 1960, 85–9).

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and sculptures in search of the morsels of lead that unite them to the buildings after which they are broken with wanton barbarity’ (Hunt to Lord Upper Ossory, 21 August 1801: St Clair 1998, 96–7). Elgin’s narrative of deterioration, perhaps not truly his sole motivation for removing the sculptures, was not fabricated; rather, he was a symptom of this deterioration. His initial aim of recording the monuments through drawings, casts and architectural measurements slowly expanded to incorporate the removal of more and more original pieces, probably more out of competition with the French than protecting them from the Ottomans. On top of the use, abuse and reuse of ancient material for purposes such as new building projects, the steadily growing number of Grand Tourists to Athens also fed the demand for antiquities and encouraged the removal of interesting pieces; indeed, several of those who denounced Elgin’s activities themselves took away parts of Parthenon sculptures (including both Dodwell and Smirke – see St Clair 1998, 215). It is unquestionable that the Parthenon and other ancient buildings in the vicinity were irreversibly and seriously damaged both by the Ottomans and by Elgin’s men, as well as by other successive parties from Britain and France – both military and scholarly. Peter Edmund Laurent (1821, 110) described an act of vandalism by a British naval officer that was apparently just one among many similar acts: The last time I visited the citadel . . . I was much displeased at seeing an English traveller, an officer of the navy (for such his uniform bespoke him to be) standing upon the base of one of the Caryatides, clinging with his left arm around the column, while his right hand, provided with a hard and heavy pebble, was endeavouring to knock off the only remaining nose of those six beautifully sculptured statues. I exerted my eloquence in vain to preserve this monument of art.

While Fauvel subsequently helped to stop the monuments of the Acropolis from being stripped further, he and Choiseul-Gouffier were not innocent parties in the affair. Queyrel has sought to separate Choiseul-Gouffier from Elgin, writing: Elgin, ambassador at Constantinople and lover of Greek art, could have been a second Choiseul-Gouffier, wanting to disseminate the artistic motifs of the Greeks through drawings and casts. The great difference between the two men resides in the result of their action and, ultimately, in the principles that guided it: Choiseul-Gouffier did not damage the Parthenon and did not seek to make a personal profit from the antique fragments of his collection; Elgin badly

48 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age damaged the monument and wanted to make money out of it. Between the two men there this difference separates the enlightened amateur from the speculator. Queyrel 2008, 169. Translation: author

The distinction, however, is more nuanced than Queyrel suggests. ChoiseulGouffier was of wealthier stock than Elgin, who got himself into significant personal debt trying to execute his campaign. It was when these debts caught up with him that he became driven to find a good price for the collection. Moreover, a great deal of Elgin’s project was similarly centred on the making of drawings and casts. Unlike Elgin, Choiseul-Gouffier and Fauvel did not focus on extracting sculpture still attached; however, they indisputably fed the trade for antiquities. In 1788, Fauvel had acquired two metopes from the Parthenon, both of which had already fallen from the temple. Démétrius Gaspari, then the French vice consul, negotiated the acquisition of one (South X), which arrived in France in April 1788 and was later bought by the Louvre. However, the other (South VI) had fallen during a storm and broken into three pieces; it was stolen by Fauvel with the help of a Turk, who slid it around the Acropolis in a pile of manure. Unfortunately for Fauvel, this metope was shipped on the Arabe: the boat intercepted by the British in 1803 (St Clair 1998, 126; Zambon 2007, 73). In January 1789, during his excavations on the Acropolis, Fauvel also discovered part of the East Frieze, which had fallen during the explosion of 1687. This was removed with the help of seven or eight men and taken to the port of Piraeus using twenty men and three pairs of oxen. Just as the backs of some of the marble slabs removed by Elgin’s men were sawn off, so this piece of frieze was sawn in half to make it easier to transport back to France (Zambon 2007, 73). Zambon (2007, 75) lists the objects removed from the Acropolis by Fauvel as follows: the two Parthenon metopes, the piece of the East Frieze and six heads, a relief of Nike, and from the Erechtheion some pieces of columns and inscriptions. This was rather restrained in the light of a letter, quoted by Zambon (2007, 75) written by Choiseul-Gouffier on 14 February 1789 in which he stated: ‘My dear Fauvel, please use every possible means of looting what can be looted in Athens and its territory . . . go on, do not spare anyone, neither the living nor the dead.’ It does not seem, therefore, that his aims were wholly separate from those of Elgin. Whether or not Elgin’s statement to the Select Committee was entirely honest, it would become entwined with the future role of the casts. At the time of his campaign, the only whole section of frieze still standing on the Parthenon was the West Frieze. With the exception of one slab on the corner, this was left in situ by Elgin’s retinue and recorded by the formatori. These casts formed the

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beginnings of the British Museum’s classical cast collection and shaped its formative ethos: casts were taken by particular individuals as a means of accurately recording sculptures perceived to be at imminent risk of decline, but which could not be physically removed. In 1830, Greece achieved independence from the Ottoman Empire and the British Museum tried to make arrangements with the Greek government to acquire casts of newly discovered pieces of Parthenon sculpture. Elgin’s secretary, Hamilton, became the driving force behind the British Museum’s 1836 acquisition of further casts of various sculptural fragments found subsequently on the Acropolis and believed to derive from the Parthenon (Jenkins 1990, 90). Following this, at the encouragement of Edward Hawkins, Keeper of Antiquities, there was a series of attempts in the later 1830s and 1840s to secure casts of any newly discovered sculpture relating to the Parthenon. These efforts were hampered at first by the lack of formatori in Athens. The making of moulds had been persistently difficult in Athens. In 1803, for example, Smirke had sought to have plaster casts made of some of the ornament of the Erechtheion, writing: ‘I immediately made enquiries for a plaister that would answer the purpose; but to my surprise, it was a thing quite unheard of here, no man had the least idea of what making a cast was. I had recourse then to Mr Hamilton to know how Lord Elgin had done as I knew that he made many casts’.9 Eventually, however, casts were procured and reached the museum in 1845. These were obtained via the French Commission of Philippe Le Bas, a member of the Institute of France, who was sent to obtain casts for the École Royale des Beaux Arts de Paris (Jenkins 1990, 91–2; Lending 2017, 41, 242). The new casts included a number of portions of frieze, reported on by the Illustrated London News on 8 March 1845 (p. 156). Casts of two more frieze sections later excavated were sent a little later by James Black, working on behalf of Edward Hawkins (Jenkins 1990, 91–3). Ian Jenkins, curator at the British Museum and expert on the museum’s Parthenon casts has demonstrated how in their very first years at the museum, the casts were used in combination with the originals to create a ‘picturesque’ arrangement of which the primary concern was aesthetic, rather like their earlier displays at Park Lane and Burlington House (Jenkins 1992, 76–7, 85). The Parthenon collection was initially displayed in the Temporary Elgin Room where there was a desire for a symmetrical arrangement with even numbers of metopes on each side of the gallery. In this spirit, in 1818, a cast of the South Metope VII (now XXVII) was created (of which the original was itself at the British Museum) 9

Ms Notes on Journal in Greece by Sir Robert Smirke, RIBA Archive at the V&A. SMK.2/16/1. Note 20.

50 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

and the original of South Metope X was sought (unsuccessfully) from the sale of the Choiseul-Gouffier collection in Paris following his death the previous year (Jenkins 1992, 80–1). However, by 1832, when the collection was moved into a new Elgin Room, there was greater effort to reflect their archaeological arrangement (Jenkins 1992, 81). In addition to their new role as a 3D archive for preservation, casts were used to fill gaps in this sequence where the museum did not hold originals, to give the viewer a better understanding of the sculptures in their entirety (Jenkins 1992, 9, 79). The frieze, for instance, was organized to run continuously around the lower walls of the gallery with casts of pieces missing from the British Museum but extant in Greece incorporated (Jenkins 1992, 86). A new cast of South Metope X, the original now in the Louvre, was also included (Jenkins 1992, 81). Charles Newton (1816–94), assistant in the Antiquities Department and later Keeper of Greek and Roman Antiquities, pushed also for the alteration of museum displays to reflect his theory of the ‘Chain of Art’, encouraging the study and classification of archaeological material according to chronological development (Newton 1880). This contrasted with the earlier aesthetically-driven style of exhibition, instead presenting all sculptures – including the stiff, frontal forms of the archaic period – as part of a developmental sequence and equally worthy of study. Newton advocated the use of casts to illustrate this sequential evolution and explicitly connected it to classification in the natural sciences, which was also developed in this period (Pinelli 2003, 62; Challis 2009, 155–62). The casts, therefore, played an important role in this new educational scheme to aid visual understanding of ancient sculpture and its development. However, a central factor encouraging cast acquisition at the British Museum during this period remained their capacity to preserve archaeological evidence that might otherwise be lost, as had been articulated by Elgin. Even following the departure of the Ottomans, the risks faced by the sculptures were restated. In 1852, Hawkins and Newton emphasized the importance of obtaining casts of all pieces discovered at Athens: . . . considering the destruction and loss which appear to be impending over the fragments of sculpture now preserved at Athens, and the vast importance to art and its history which would be revived by the restoration of the great works of Pheidias, it is most desirable that casts of every fragment which has been discovered in excavations about the Acropolis should be made and forwarded to the Museum. Department of Antiquities, British Museum (report to Trustees), 446, 15 May 185210

10

I would like to thank Ian Jenkins for allowing me to look through the archival papers he had collected relating to the British Museum’s casts.

Plaster Casts, Elgin, and the British Museum

51

As Keeper in 1865, Newton again made the point that casts produced prior to damage may now constitute the only complete record of certain sculptures: It is much to be regretted that the Greek Government does not provide a suitable place of shelter for the many precious sculpture which are lying about the Acropolis, exposed, not only to the weather, but to what is worse, the brutal violence of travellers, who would mutilate a fine work of art, merely for the sake of possessing an unmeaning relic. I saw with much concern the injury which had been inflicted on one of the finest slabs of the frieze, –one representing seated figures of deities, which has been discovered since Lord Elgin’s visit, and of which a cast exists in the British Museum. The hand of one of the seated figures in this relief overhung the chair in a most easy and natural position; it was the more precious, because we have very few examples of hands from the finest period of Greek art. One day a foreign visitor, watching an opportunity when the custode’s back was turned, broke off this hand. I regret that I cannot record the name of this miscreant; but I heard that he was a midshipman in the Austrian service, and that his Government punished this exploit with a heavy fine. Newton 1989 [1865], 18–19

Newton’s account of continued deterioration relates particularly to unruly visitors and the considerable difficulties experienced when managing such large ancient sites as the Athenian Acropolis. While Elgin’s personal testimony of his motivation for the removal of the sculptures may not be reliable, there is enough supporting evidence for us to be certain that they were targets for vandalism and petty theft. Although, as Anderson (2015, 453) has shown, some certainly desired to remove antiquities purely for personal gain, including the earlier English ambassador to the Ottomans, Thomas Roe (1581–1644), it is clear that there was also genuine concern that the objects were at risk and should be removed or moulded. We may note that Fauvel also considered that by creating casts, he was in some senses preserving the Parthenon sculptures from destruction (see p. 24). This perspective implicitly supported the notion that such antiquities were important historical relics that must be preserved, rather than part of a continuous living fabric. Newton was one of the strongest proponents behind the continued drive to obtain casts of all Parthenon fragments, including new discoveries from the Acropolis and those unearthed in other collections (Jenkins 1990, 98). After the acquisitions of the 1840s, Newton had pressed for casts of further, more recent discoveries on the Acropolis (Jenkins 1990, 93–4). The formator Alessandro Malpieri, from the studio of John Gibson, was installed in Athens to make new

52 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

moulds and casts in the 1850s (Jenkins 1990, 95). Newton was also responsible for picking up the campaign again in the early 1870s, following his realization through correspondence with Adolf Michaelis that there were six slabs of the South Frieze for which the museum did not have casts (Jenkins 1990, 97). The drive for casts slackened somewhat after his retirement in 1886, but important changes and acquisitions continued to be made, particularly in the early twentieth century (Jenkins 1990, 99). In 1904, Cecil Harcourt Smith took over from Newton’s immediate successor, Alexander Murray. He visited Athens and by 1905, a fresh batch of casts of newly discovered fragments had arrived at the museum. An additional 120 casts were also presented to the museum by the Greek government, following the excavation led by R. C. Bosanquet, Director of the British School of Athens (Jenkins 1990,100).11 Smith (1908, 46) noted that the only series of Parthenon sculpture for which the British Museum did not yet have casts was the metopes still on the building, which were so fragmentary it was difficult to mould them. However, he stated that Mr Cavvadias, EphorGeneral of Antiquities at Athens, would arrange for casts of these pieces as soon as the opportunity arose. A slow trickle of casts of sculpture from the Acropolis thus continued to make its way to the British Museum through the early twentieth century (Jenkins 1990, 100–101), and indeed more recently (e.g. British Museum nos. 2000,0310.1–8). Where possible, casts of fragments continued to be integrated with the originals, particularly in the case of the frieze (Smith 1908, 46). However, substantial changes to their display occurred following preparations for the new Duveen Gallery. The Parthenon sculptures were to be moved from the Elgin rooms into this gallery, endowed by Lord Duveen in 1929, with a new arrangement to be established by the renowned classical archaeologists Bernard Ashmole, John Beazley and Donald Robertson (Jenkins 1992, 226). Part of their plan involved the removal of casts incorporated with the frieze, which was now approximately 60 per cent original and 40 per cent cast. This went ahead in the 1930s and the casts were moved into storage, divided between the museum basement and an outstation in East London (Jenkins 1990, 101). From 1990, many were moved to Blythe House in West Kensington. This is due to close in 2023 and a new storage and research facility is to be established in Shinfield, in partnership with the University of Reading.12 While the British Museum’s casts now remain separated from the display of the originals, still situated in the

11 12

Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities, Report of Donations, Cecil Smith, 2 October 1907. See https://www.britishmuseum.org/our-work/national/bm-arc (accessed 18 August 2020).

Plaster Casts, Elgin, and the British Museum

53

Duveen Gallery, casts continue to be used in some exhibitions at other museums to present a more complete impression of the sculptures. The most famous example is the new Acropolis Museum itself, where casts not only aid the archaeological presentation but are also used to make a political statement concerning the absence of the originals. Others, like the Skulpturhalle, Basel, have focused entirely on casts, which has the advantage of providing material and aesthetic consistency. Indeed, while most of the British Museum’s casts are in storage, Room 18b (next to the Duveen Gallery) includes a touch model of the Parthenon and a set of casts of the West Frieze of the Parthenon, which form part of a Touch Tour. Inaugurated by David Blunkett in 1998, this gallery was designed specifically with the needs of blind and partially sighted people in mind, presenting another way in which casts can enhance understanding of the sculptures. The acquisition by the British Museum of Elgin’s casts from moulds in the field inspired not only these new methods of display, but also the development of various techniques of moulding and casting for use on archaeological excavations through the nineteenth and much of the twentieth centuries (as discussed on pp. 29–33). The model of their role not just for transmission but for preservation also followed widely and quickly. In 1825, Colonel Ephraim Gerrish Stannus excavated at Persepolis and moulded a number of the sculptures in plaster to make a permanent record. The casts were presented to the British Museum and received by Hawkins, then responsible for the whole of the Department of Antiquities before its break-up into three separate departments in the 1860s: Oriental Antiquities, Coins and Medals, and Greek and Roman Antiquities (Jenkins 1992, 195). Hawkins emphasized the importance of these casts to the British Museum’s Trustees: ‘Sometime after Lt. Col. Stannus’ last visit to Persepolis, a traveller arrived there, who in attempting to remove the sculptures, so mutilated several of them, that no perfect casts or representations can again be taken’ (Letter on Antiquities, No. 100: Simpson 2007, 351). In 1887, Cecil Smith marvelled at the ruins of Persepolis during his visit to Iran, but bemoaned their state of neglect and wrote to request funds to preserve a copy of the sculptures ‘for all time’ (Reports to Trustees 1887/8, 125: Simpson 2000, 28–9). Thus, Herbert Weld’s expedition was arranged in 1891–2 to include the formator Giuntini: a set of the casts was presented to the British Museum in 1893. In spite of this proposed mission to preserve the form of the sculptures through casts, the moulds were later destroyed to ensure that the casts remained a limited edition (Simpson 2007, 353). The Parthenon casts, however, spread much more widely. The originals were more disparate thanks in large part to

54 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Elgin but also to Fauvel and Choiseul-Gouffier, and the numerous travellers who removed small pieces. As a result, there were several producers of casts facilitating the spread both of casts of the pieces of original sculpture acquired, and casts of Elgin’s and Fauvel’s casts, preventing such a monopoly. Suppliers included the British Museum and the Louvre’s Atelier de Moulage, but the sculptures removed by Elgin were also moulded and cast even before their arrival at the British Museum. Benjamin Robert Haydon was overjoyed when he received permission to mould them in November 1815 – first just for some of the feet and later for an entire figure (diary entry for 10 November 1815 (Haydon 1960, 479–80)). Immediately upon his first visit to Park Lane in 1811, Haydon had written of the importance of transmitting the sculptures using casts: Let the government purchase them [the Elgin Marbles]; let molds be executed and casts made from [them], let a set at the expense of the government be sent down to Bath, Liverpool, Dublin, & Edingburgh; this is the only way to circulate them through the Country, to impregnate the minds of the rising Students, with such notions of beauty & form as will make them revolt instantly at defect as at the commission of a heinous crime – with respect to multiplying the originals, lessening their consequences, [what] can be more absurd? Haydon’s diary entry 22 November 1811 (1960, 219)

Here Haydon dismisses any argument against the multiplication of the original forms through casts, espousing only the importance of enabling as many students as possible to see these important, beautiful works.13 Sets of the casts were indeed distributed widely, as shown by Jenkins (1990). Piecemoulding, however, is rather a slow process that will, for obvious reasons, prevent visitors from observing sculptures in full while it is taking place. Correctly anticipating such an issue, Haydon was keen to get his casting completed as soon as possible. Haydon was not alone to be granted permission, but he was perhaps the only one keen enough to arrange for his moulding to be completed before it was prohibited: November 16. Pushed on the Workmen to mold away, for such is the uncertainty concerning these divine things, that I may be stopped, and now all those who

13

The idea that casts might cheapen the value of the originals, or indeed the casts themselves should they become widely available came up periodically. For instance, when King Henry II was to send moulds to Mary of Habsburg, the artist Francesco Primaticcio had felt compelled to write reassuringly that: ‘giving away the moulds will do no damage to his Majesty’s casts’ (Cupperi 2010, 82–3).

Plaster Casts, Elgin, and the British Museum

55

have had leave to mold this year & have only talked begin to be roused by my doing it at once, and if I don’t finish in a day or two the whole place will be full of modelers and nothing will be allowed at all. Asked leave with fear & trembling to mold a whole figure – got it, to my astonishment! Told the men the value of expedition. They took fire at my urgings, & promised to work night & day. I at once began upon the exquisite lying figure & if (as I hope in God) nothing happens to prevent me, I will have a beautiful cast of this figure to dwell on all my life . . . November 17. Mazzoni, by great exertion, got the mold completed & off & home by four o’ clock. Huzza! . . . Just as I expected, an order came down to put a stop to moulding yesterday afternoon. Haydon 1960, 480

The moulding and casting for Haydon was led by Matthew Mazzoni and his assistant Pietro Angelo Sarti (also known as Peter Sarti), who were both originally from Lucca, Italy (Haydon 1926, 223; Simon 2015). Haydon appears to have had moulded at least the ‘Theseus’ (East Pediment Figure D) and the ‘Ilissos’ (West Pediment Figure A); in 1818 he wrote that, at his own expense, he sent casts from his moulds of these figures to Alexey Olenin, President of the Imperial Academy of Arts in St Petersburg (Haydon 1926, 272). Once the sculptures came to the British Museum, Richard Westmacott made a private arrangement between 1816 and 1823 to create and sell moulds and casts from them. In 1836, the museum decided to employ a caster formally and Sarti was contracted but returned to Italy the following year, leaving his business to James Loft and Angus Fletcher (University of Glasgow 2011). It was around this time that Edward Hawkins put into practice the idea of the ‘store cast’ wherein the first set of casts from any moulds would be held in reserve by the museum; this prevented the need for the sculptures to be moulded repeatedly since if new moulds were required they would be taken from the store casts (Jenkins 1990, 104). This reduced disruption to the display of the objects and mitigated concerns surrounding the physical risks presented by moulding. Although casts were displayed for use by art students at various points in the British Museum’s history, Jenkins (1994, 34–5) has shown that priority was generally given to casts deemed to be of archaeological importance i.e. if the sculptures remained at risk, in situ or if they were otherwise difficult for scholars to access (either in original or cast form) (see also Payne forthcoming). Casts taken from these archaeological sculptures could be kept safely at the museum preserving their forms for posterity. Such use of casts was widely adopted through the nineteenth century, following the case of the Parthenon casts. In the

56 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

1880s, for instance, casts of French monuments at the Musée de sculpture comparée (now the Musée national des Monuments Français in Trocadéro) were also employed in part as a ‘preservation initiative’ (Lending 2017, 81). The stark necessity of such casts would be proven just a few decades later not through the mere passing of time but by the violence of man when the head of the Smiling Angel of Reims Cathedral was destroyed towards the beginning of the First World War (Lending 2017, 90). The importance assigned to ‘archaeological’ casts and particularly to those of Elgin has prompted this study to explore in greater detail the idea that these casts might still retain features now lost from the originals and to examine how these can be identified and studied, including investigative 3D imaging for analysis of both the casts and marble sculptures.

3

Condition Studies and the Role of 3D Imaging

Charles Newton, one of the leading proponents of casts at the British Museum in the nineteenth century, noticed around 1870 that Elgin’s early moulds had become worn out. He recommended for new ones to be made from the storecasts, but while in Athens in 1871 also noted the ‘much decayed’ appearance of the West Frieze when compared to the Elgin casts (Jenkins 1990, 97). New moulds were made of the store-casts by Domenico Brucciani, but another set of casts from the West Frieze was additionally commissioned from Charles Merlin, the Consul in Athens.1 This arrived at the British Museum in 1873 and comparisons made between these Merlin casts and the old Elgin casts appeared to confirm the deterioration of the West Frieze observed by Newton. The new moulds were made by Napoleone Martinelli, who would later be employed as a moulder for the German excavations at Olympia in the 1870s (Jenkins 1990, 97).2 A display was installed at the British Museum juxtaposing the earlier and later sets of casts; this endured for sixty-six years, from 1873 to 1939 (Jenkins 1990, 111–12). The apparent decay of the frieze was in 1929 revealed to a wider audience by the Illustrated London News. A large spread was published comparing photographs of Elgin’s casts with those taken of the originals in situ by Walter Hege for the German Archaeological Institute in Athens in 1928 (see figs. 3.1 and 3.2). The level of deterioration indicated by the photographs, having occurred over less than a century, suggested a sharp increase in the rate of decay during this period. The Parthenon is no stranger to adversity and change. In 426 bc, only a few years after its completion, a powerful earthquake caused much of both façades to shift by 2 cm. Over a century later, the tyrant Lachares removed the precious metal elements from the colossal statue of the Athena Parthenos and from other votive statues in and around the temple (Korres 1994, 138). During the Roman

1 2

On the relationship between Brucciani and the British Museum, see Wade (2019, 103–105). See also The Times, 15 April 1876, p. 7. Issue 28604.

57

58 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Fig. 3.1 Illustrated London News (18 May 1929, p. 839).

Fig. 3.2 Illustrated London News (18 May 1929, p. 840–1).

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period, one of the horizontal cornice blocks of the East Pediment was replaced, presumably following some instance of damage. There remains uncertainty regarding whether any of the figural sculptures of this pediment were restored at this time; nothing has been securely documented (Palagia 2005, 226). Nigel Konstam (2018), however, has recently argued that some are Hadrianic replacements. Fire struck the Parthenon in late antiquity, causing serious damage including the collapse of the marble roof, as illustrated in a drawing by Manolis Korres (see Kaldellis 2009, 26). The precise dates of the damage and subsequent repairs are disputed; it has been speculated that the fire may be blamed on the Heruls from Scandinavia, who attacked Athens in 267, and that restoration was initiated by the emperor Julian (361–3). Alternatively, the destruction could be dated to 396 when Alaric and the Visigoths assaulted at least part of the city (Kaldellis 2009, 25–7). It is well-known that the Parthenon was converted to a church and a cathedral, but much remains uncertain. Analysis of graffiti and inscriptions carved into the columns has revealed that the building had become a cathedral by 693, but we do not know who was responsible for the remodelling. Various dates have been posited for the conversion to church and cathedral, ranging from the late fifth century to the late sixth century (Ousterhout 2005, 302–3). Much of the adaptation work to convert the temple involved its reorientation, with the main entrance swapped from the east to the west side. The former east entrance was closed off with an apse. In the main part of the building, now where the congregation would stand in the nave, a raised gallery was added by positioning a wooden floor between the walls and two-tier colonnade where the cult statue of Athena once stood. The treasury room was converted to become the narthex (an antechamber by the western end of early Christian churches) with a baptistery constructed in the northwest corner, separated by partitions and with a font at the centre. The exterior columns were sealed with low walls, which were also used to fill the inner columns of the west porch to create the exonarthex (a space at the front of the narthex) at this new focal point (Kaldellis 2009, 27). The impact of the conversion on the external sculptures of the building is debated. Most of the pedimental sculptures were left alone, which Anthony Kaldellis (2009) suggests may demonstrate that the eminent history of Athens and its art was not forgotten in the Byzantine Empire (see also Ousterhout 2005, 300). However, it was perhaps at this moment that the central figures of the East Pediment were pulled down and destroyed (Pollini 2007, 211–12). With the exception of those on the south side of the building, the metopes were also badly defaced. This action has frequently been attributed to Christian iconoclasm

60 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

during the time of conversion, supported by Gerhardt Rodenwaldt’s (1933) argument that those metopes left intact were given the Christian interpretation of a metaphorical battle between good and evil. The single metope spared from the north side (North XXXII) was labelled the ‘Metope of the Annunciation’ and the survival of the figures of the West Pediment similarly attributed to its interpretation as a depiction of the Assumption. A systematic campaign of Christian defacement has, however, been more recently refuted by Benjamin Anderson (2017). Robert Ousterhout (2005, 307) has also pointed out that the southern metopes were away from the main flow of traffic and therefore much less conspicuous than those flanking the other sides (see also Pollini 2007, 212– 13). Several blocks of the frieze were removed to create windows, but otherwise remained largely intact: like the metopes of the south side, the frieze was always somewhat obscured from view, high up and blocked by the outer columns. These prosaic reasons may have aided their preservation. As a church, the building was again reconstructed in the twelfth century. Ousterhout (2005, 310–18) has tracked the changes as follows. The apse at the eastern end was enlarged: the two central columns of the pronaos colonnade were now built into it, with the architrave and section of frieze above removed. A mosaic of the Virgin and Child decorated the new apse and frescoes were painted on the walls; the baptistery was removed. Following the defeat of Athens in 1204 by the Latin army during the Fourth Crusade, a tower with spiral staircase was built from spolia, in the southeastern corner of the exonarthex and perhaps used as a belfry. In 1456, Athens surrendered to the Ottoman Empire following their conquest of Constantinople in 1453. The Acropolis now became an Ottoman fortress and home to the Turkish military commander. The Parthenon was converted from church to mosque around 1460 but few changes were made to the building. The altars were removed and a minaret added to the base of the tower. Throughout much of the period of their empire, the Ottomans were at arms with the Venetians. Most devastating for the Parthenon was a direct hit scored by the Venetians on 26 September 1687 led by Francesco Morosini. The Ottomans had been using the building as a gunpowder magazine, which now ignited in an enormous explosion. The roof was destroyed once more and many of the external sculptures were also affected – particularly those in the middle section of the long southern side. To commemorate his victory, Morosini attempted to lower the central statues of the West Pediment to take back to Venice. This was not to be: the rope snapped and the sculptures shattered on the ground. The Ottomans recovered Athens the following year and continued to settle among the ruins of

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the Acropolis (Ousterhout 2005, 321). The stones sent flying from the Parthenon in the explosion were left in piles, the remnants of which can still be seen in nineteenth-century photographs (see Fig 3.3). Sometime after 1699, a small mosque was built within what was left of the Parthenon’s peristyle, perhaps at the same time as repairs were made to the

Fig. 3.3 Eastern façade of the Parthenon. William J. Stillman (1870).

Fig. 3.4 View of the Acropolis. Edward Dodwell (1821).

62 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

fortifications of the Acropolis in 1708 (Ousterhout 2005, 322). The Parthenon was not alone in its reuse. The Propylaea had previously been used as a gunpowder magazine and was sent into ruins when struck by lightning in 1645 (St Clair 1998, 55). The Erechtheion had also been converted to a church and subsequently became a gunpowder magazine. The Temple of Hephaestus was similarly converted into a church, while the Monument of Lysicrates became a storeroom for the French Capuchin monastery at which Fauvel lived for many years, and the Tower of the Winds was used by the Whirling Dervishes, as depicted by Edward Dodwell (1821).3 Dodwell also painted a view of the Acropolis displaying the houses of the Ottomans dotted around the ancient structures (see Fig. 3.4). The period of activity in the late eighteenth century through to the turn of the nineteenth century was dominated by the campaigns sponsored by ChoiseulGouffier and Elgin. These projects (along with the publications of Le Roy and Stuart and Revett) helped to spread awareness of the Athenian monuments and their sculptures, but Elgin’s in particular was also extremely damaging to the integrity of the ancient buildings of the Acropolis. Dodwell, who was sketching on the Acropolis at the time, wrote in horror at seeing the removal of the sculptures: During my first tour to Greece I had the inexpressible mortification of being present when the Parthenon was despoiled of its finest sculpture, and when some of its architectural members were thrown to the ground. I saw several metopae at the south-east extremity of the temple taken down. They were fixed in between the triglyphs as in a groove; and in order to lift them up, it was necessary to throw to the ground the magnificent cornice by which they were covered. The south-east angle of the pediment shared the same fate; and instead of the picturesque beauty and high preservation in which I first saw it, it is now comparatively reduced to a state of shattered desolation. Dodwell 1819, 322

The architect Robert Smirke witnessed similar treatment of the frieze: It particularly affected me when I saw the demolition made to get down the bassorelievos on the walls of the Cell. The men employed were laboring long ineffectually with iron crows to move the stones of these firm built walls. Each stone, as it fell, shook the ground with its ponderous weight, with a deep hollow noise; it seemed like a convulsive groan of the injured spirit of the Temple.4

3

4

See also journal entries of Robert Smirke: Thursday 30 June and Friday 1 July 1803. RIBA Archive at the V&A. SMK.7. Ms Notes on Journal in Greece by Sir Robert Smirke, RIBA Archive at the V&A. SMK.2/16/1. Note 23. This relates to his journal entry from Thursday 21 July 1803 (Vol. II).

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Not only did Elgin have a significant number of the best-preserved sculptures extracted from their original architectural context, but these pieces then suffered the trials of being shipped to Britain. The backs of the sculptures were often sawn off to lighten the load, weakening them significantly. One part of the East frieze was so poorly sawn that it broke in half during transit; Lusieri noted that at least this made it easier to ship (Lusieri to Elgin, 16 September 1802: Smith 1916, 233). One of the Parthenon capitals was also sawn in half for ease of transport (Lusieri to Elgin, 4 October 1802: Smith 1916, 233). In pieces, the sculptures were packed for shipment, a number ending up on the ill-fated Mentor, spending up to two years on the seabed or part-buried on the shore. Once in London they were sent between different makeshift galleries before being settled at the British Museum in 1816. Their time at Burlington House was particularly challenging. Benjamin Robert Haydon wrote on 13 May 1815: ‘I came home from the Elgin Marbles melancholy. I almost wish the French had them; we do not deserve such productions. There they lie, covered with dust & dripping with damp . . . As I sat amidst the ruins of Athens this evening, piled on each other as if shaken by an earthquake . . . ’ (Haydon 1926, 439–41). St Clair (1998, 228–9) also reported that some of the smaller pieces were stolen as the collection was moved around Burlington House; this was around the same time that the pieces of mould from the Temple of Hephaestus were destroyed in the confusion. Much of this was simply a product of the time. Sawing off the backs of marble reliefs was not unusual at the time; Fauvel had done similarly. Archaeology was only just emerging as a discipline and the value of the seemingly extraneous bulk of marble was not yet recognized. If archaeology was young then the scientific practice of conservation was non-existent, slowly emerging later in the nineteenth century before being formalized around the 1930s (see pp. 140–1). Indeed, the treatment of the Parthenon sculptures was pivotal for the development of conservation through the closer scrutiny now applied to its sister discipline, restoration. Elgin had initially worked under the assumption that the Parthenon sculptures would be restored, ideally in Rome, which was also pushed for by Lusieri. Hamilton, however, had been strongly opposed to the idea: ‘few would be found who would set a higher value on a work of Phidias or of one of his Scholars, with a modern head and modern arms than they would in their present state’ (Hamilton to Elgin, 8 August 1802: Smith 1916, 227). Elgin discussed the matter with Canova, whose refusal to restore the sculptures is now famous (see p. 44). Thus, the sculptures were left untouched and would become highly influential on the course of restoration in the following decades. However, Elgin’s campaign was not the last period of damage to the

64 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Acropolis. From Lusieri’s cease of removal work in 1805 until the Greek Revolution began in 1821, the monuments were subjected to continued bouts of smaller scale theft. St Clair (1998, 214–15) writes of the ‘steady attrition of arms and legs, to say nothing of a general destruction of the sculptured surface’. Indeed, while Smirke had written of the ‘annihilation’ of the monuments encouraged by Elgin’s actions, when he found that making his own casts would be very difficult, he instead decided to take some original pieces: he [Hamilton] said unless I was much practised in the operation I should not succeed . . . This information at once overwhelmed me and obliged me to give up instantly all thoughts of casts – Even if I had ability to make them when, by the bye, I have a strong suspicion I should make a bungling for casting a mere sample for molding, all this wax business, the scaffolding that would be necessary and the assistance would never do for my slender finances. So that after all I contented myself with endeavouring to get as many fragments as I could and succeeded in getting two or three excellent ones of the Erechtheum, which had by some means got down into the town . . .5

Smirke’s comments make clear just how appreciable the efforts of ChoiseulGouffier and Elgin to make casts were. Smirke did not forcibly remove sculpture from the monuments but he was certainly guilty of the surreptitious removal of fragmented pieces from the Acropolis, feeding the trade in antiquities. We also see again the cutting away of ‘useless’ bulky sections of marble when he described his discovery of a piece of sculpted ornament in a pile of ruins: There was a large piece of marble attached to it that made it difficult to carry without being seen particularly by the guards at the entrance. To manage, William came and helped me one morning, we carried to the side of one of the fortress walls and hurled it over. When it reached the ground, it dashed along for a considerable distance stopping at length in the road which winds up to the entrance of the Acropolis – fortunately no one was passing at the time, we wrapped our handkerchiefs over it and brought it safely home where I afterwards got the useless part cut off.6

Deterioration continued with the outbreak of the Revolution. As the garrison of the Ottomans, the Acropolis was a natural focal point of the war and was sieged in 1821–2 and 1826–7. Korres (1994, 156) reports that 520 ancient blocks were moved from their positions during the periods when the Ottomans were

5 6

Ms Notes on Journal in Greece by Sir Robert Smirke, RIBA Archive at the V&A. SMK.2/16/1. Note 20. Ms Notes on Journal in Greece by Sir Robert Smirke, RIBA Archive at the V&A. SMK.2/16/1. Note 20.

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besieged on the Acropolis. These were pulled apart to plunder lead fixings that could be melted down to make bullets and 200 of the blocks were sawn into pieces for impromptu constructions. Philhellenes who fought in the Revolution later inscribed their names on columns of the Parthenon (see Fig. 3.5). Following Greek independence, the first restoration project was initiated by Kyriakos Pittakis between 1842 and 1845. A number of columns were

Fig. 3.5 Inscriptions on the columns of the Parthenon. William J. Stillman (1870).

Fig. 3.6 West Frieze in situ. Frédéric Boissonnas (1910). Heliogravure/ Photolithograph.

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reconstructed, and part of the walls of the cella rebuilt; the small mosque, meanwhile, was pulled down. Another programme began under Panavis Kalkos in 1872 involving the repair of the lintel above the west entrance of the cella and the stabilization of the West Frieze and the slabs of architrave beneath it. The most well-known restoration projects were those of the engineer Nikolaos Balanos in 1899–1902 and 1922–33, stimulated by an earthquake in 1894. However, all of these programmes have since been condemned: those of Pittakis and Kalkos for their lack of clear methodology and documentation, and Balanos’ particularly for the insertion of steel bars into the ancient blocks. Kalkos’ and Pittakis’ projects had also involved steel installations and the expansion of these during oxidation later caused the stones to crack (Bouras 1994, 310–39). To deal with the issues caused by these earlier interventions and to manage continuing conservation care, a new restoration project was initiated following the 1975 creation of the Committee for the Conservation of the Acropolis Monuments and adhering to the modern standards of conservation drawn up in the 1964 Venice Charter for the Conservation and Restoration of Monuments and Sites. From 1986, the project has been divided into two strands: one focusing on the architectural structure of the monuments, and the other on surface conservation of the marble – both in situ and where elements have been removed (Toganidis 2012). The majority of sculpture remaining on the building after Elgin’s removals has now also been taken down to be housed in the controlled environment of the Acropolis Museum; however, some does remain in place. There were originally ninety-two metopes: thirty-two on each of the northern and southern sides, and fourteen on both the eastern and western sides. While the entire frieze and all of the pediments have now been removed from the building, twentythree metopes remain in place. This includes all fourteen of the West Metopes, eight of the North Metopes (24–25, 27–32), and one of the South Metopes (1) (Schwab 2005, 193). The East Metopes were removed from the building in 1988–9 and replaced with cement casts (Schwab 2005, 165–6). Many of Elgin’s casts were taken from the West Frieze of the Parthenon, which was the only whole section of frieze still attached to the building at the time. He removed the first two slabs of the sequence but the remaining fourteen stayed in place until 1993 (Neils 2005, 200). While outside, the marbles were not just exposed to vandalism and opportunistic pillaging, but also to the elements. The deterioration mechanisms of marble can be divided into several categories: mechanical, chemical and biological. These will often combine to accelerate decay.

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Mechanical stresses The Parthenon sculptures are carved from Pentelic marble composed mainly of calcite; inclusions may be found either in veins or interspersed and often consist of quartz, iron oxides and ferrous sulphate, which can cause internal mechanical stresses. Larger stresses may be introduced from external forces, whether natural (earthquakes) or anthropogenic (fire and explosions caused by human activities). Attempts to pull the sculptures down from the building and the sawing away of marble bulk can also result in catastrophic mechanical degeneration. On a much smaller scale, thermal stress can occur at a slower, progressive rate caused by normal fluctuating atmospheric temperatures, generating uneven impact through the polycrystalline structure of marble (Lindborg and Dunakin 2000). The freeze-thaw cycle is a common source of mechanical damage to external marble sculpture: in this process, water seeps into the pores of the stone and expands as it freezes, causing the pores to burst open. In Athens, the climate is such that this is rarely a problem; however, other water-related damage may occur.

Chemical reactions When in good condition, the porosity of Pentelic marble is low (0.35–0.7 per cent), which helps to prevent water-related deterioration (Skoulikidis 1994, 14). However, this level of porosity increases significantly in deteriorated stone (up to 2.5 per cent). Here chemical factors join with mechanical stresses. Micro-cracks are more likely to occur when marble is exposed to a fatal combination of physical stress and an aggressive external environment, through the falling of acid rain or even continued exposure to ordinary rain. Prolonged, direct exposure to rainfall will also encourage sugaring: erosion of surface details through intergranular decohesion of marble crystals. Modern air pollution has added a toxic potency to the relentless impact of the environment; however, it is not an exclusively modern problem. The urban districts of ancient civilizations were grimy and sooty, leaving them subject to ritual purification. Roman writers like Horace (Odes 3.6.1–4) (65–8 bc ), for example, bemoaned the state of Rome’s temples and statues. Pollution was emitted not just from domestic and small commercial fires, but from large-scale endeavours like mining and metallurgy, vividly described by Lucretius (De Rerum Natura 6.808–17). Konstam (2018, 5–10) has, for instance, theorized that a chimney cut into the Acropolis, perhaps

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part of an ancient bronze foundry, was responsible for soiling some of the pedimental sculptures that he proposed were replaced under Hadrian. Ice cores drilled from Greenland have revealed significant levels of atmospheric lead emissions rising through the period of the Roman Empire and dropping with its collapse. They rose once more in the Medieval and Renaissance periods, and then precipitously through the industrial revolution, before decreasing from 1970, following increased use of unleaded fuels (Borsos et al. 2003, 11–12; McConnell et al. 2018). The sharp rise of such pollutants during the industrial revolution was disastrous for many stone sculptures. In addition to soiling caused by atmospheric particulates, there were the insidious effects of atmospheric pollutants like sulphur and nitrogen oxides, which will dissolve in water to form acid rain. Problems relating to the reactions between acid rain and marble are well-known and can be catastrophic, primarily through its propensity to dissolve calcareous materials like marble into aqueous ions that are washed away (Skoulikidis 1994, 18; Doehne and Price 2010, 10). These are rapid reactions. A much slower reaction also occurs between marble and ordinary rainwater, in the presence of atmospheric carbon dioxide (both naturally occurring and human-induced). The rate of deterioration of this mechanism is so slow that it is almost negligible; however, it combines with the more damaging reactions generated by acid rain to result in ‘acid attack’: marble grains are rapidly loosened and dissolved causing rapid deterioration and cracking (Skoulikidis 1994, 18). While acid rainwater will wash away sculpted detail, the interaction of marble with other environmental pollutants, particularly in areas sheltered from the rain, results in the formation of layered patinas. The Parthenon sculptures display, in places, an orange-brown patina, approximately 100–150 μm thick, which is stable, uniform and preserves the original surface details. This can be observed on around 10–20 per cent of the surface of the sculptures now in the British Museum (Jenkins 2001b, 1), and around one-third of the surface at the Acropolis Museum (Frantzikinaki et al 2007, 98). It contains calcium phosphates, oxalates, quartz, kaolinite, gypsum and iron oxides (Maravelaki-Kalaitzaki 2005a and 2005b; Palagia and Pike 2012, 885). The origins of the patina, whether it is ancient or modern, natural or manmade, have been disputed. Recent studies have found patina on areas of the sculptures damaged when the Parthenon was converted to a church. This suggests that it postdates classical antiquity. It also has a smooth contact surface with the marble, maintaining even thickness and lacking indications of decay or biological activity, which points away from human application (Palagia and Pike 2012). In places, on top of the orangebrown patina, is another layer which has been identified as a deliberately applied

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coating composed primarily of calcium carbonate and around 80–120 μm thick (Frantzikinaki et al. 2007, 98). While the orange-brown patina is well-preserved and stable, there is also a thicker, disfiguring black pollution crust (200 μm < several millimetres thick). Such crusts are caused by the suspension of atmospheric pollutants in a gypsum (calcium sulphate) crust, created by the reaction of the marble (calcium carbonate) with sulphur dioxide (Doehne and Price 2010, 11). This occurs in areas most sheltered from rainwater; in exposed areas, rain washes away pollutants and prevents development of the crust. The crust retains the surface details of the original to a certain extent, but is discoloured and highly friable. It consists of two levels: an inner layer of 100 μm of crystalline gypsum, and an outer, thicker layer (>200 μm) of lamellar gypsum together with black microparticles and deposits of salts and dust (Maravelaki-Kalaitzaki 2005a, 137). This thicker layer is particularly prone to cracking and breaking away. While sculptural details are preserved in the inner thin gypsum layer, the features in the outer layer become distorted as it grows thicker (Skoulikidis 1994, 24). Therefore, when cleaning the sculptures to remove this thick layer, it is important to ensure that the inner layer remains undisturbed. Laser cleaning is often now employed to achieve this type of cautious, investigative cleaning and has been used on many of the Parthenon sculptures (Papakonstantinou-Ziotis 2012, 61–2). Steel fixings embedded in the marble will also corrode by rusting; these friable corrosion products are much more voluminous than the originally inserted metal, inflicting strong mechanical stresses on the surrounding stone. The marble is at high risk of both cracking and rust staining. The ancient Greeks used some steel fixings, including those used to support the pedimental sculptures, but these were embedded within lead, which does not react so easily to create expansive corrosion products. Pittakis, however, used bare steel with only the tips embedded in lead and Balanos used steel in concrete; 90 per cent of the fixings introduced by Pittakis and Balanos caused marble cracking, compared to 20 per cent of ancient Greek fixings (Skoulikidis 1994, 15–16). Embedding with lead is less effective now than in antiquity because it can start to dissolve in acid rain. Instead, titanium has been found suitably strong and resistant to corrosion (Skoulikidis 1994, 16). The early restoration projects also involved unsuitable mortars, introducing soluble salts. These move around the pores of the mortar causing powdering, and can even burst the pores open leaving the surface to flake away as the salts crystallize out of solution; similar damage may be caused to the surrounding marble as the salts leach (Papakonstantinou-Ziotis 2012, 57).

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Biological agents Biological agents cause deterioration through a blend of mechanical and chemical processes and were particularly active on the shady North Frieze (evident both in those parts now at the British Museum and those in the Acropolis Museum) (Jenkins 2001b, 17, 23). Microorganisms including bacteria, algae, lichens and fungi flourished in the cracks and crevices of the marble, exerting tiny stresses on the marble and slowly creating small cavities and micro-cracks (Skoulikidis 1994, 43). Many such organisms secrete organic acids and other corrosive substances, which react with the calcium carbonate stone to dissolve it. Larger species of plants and bird activity can cause similar problems on a much bigger scale. Pigeon droppings, for instance, are not only disfiguring to the monuments but are also acidic. Below is a summary of different types of marble decay (often co-existing) caused by mechanical, chemical and biological processes:7 Micro-cracks and cracks: Micro-cracks occur when marble is placed under physical stress and exposed to an aggressive external environment, such as air pollution and acid rain or biologically-induced deterioration. Both microcracks and cracks can be related to the catastrophic stresses suffered by the Parthenon: earthquakes, the fire in late antiquity, the 1687 explosion, and poor restoration interventions such as the steel reinforcements inserted in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Large cracks will compromise the structural integrity of the monument and sculptures. Disintegration: Micro-cracks combine to form a network causing a loss of marble cohesion, which may result in flaking. The network of cracks also allows rainwater to penetrate the marble, promoting water-related damage. Sugaring: This occurs primarily where the marble is directly exposed to rainfall, causing intergranular decohesion and subsequent loss of marble crystals. Surface details become softer and are slowly worn away. Differential weathering: The geological heterogeneity of marble means that processes of decay like sugaring may affect some areas more than others; this can result in a striated appearance revealing bedding lines. Inclusions: Further to differential weathering, inclusions found in the marble can be more and less susceptible to chemical decay than the calcitic matrix. 7

These are based primarily on the mechanisms of decay discussed by Papakonstantinou-Ziokis 2012, 57 and Skoulikidis 1994, 49–52. See also Vergés-Belmin 2008 and Doehne and Price 2010.

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Pitting: These are small semi-spherical holes that may appear in clusters; this is one way in which the presence of more rapidly decaying inclusions can manifest. Delamination: This occurs when cracks are formed in parallel, which induces marble flaking. Exfoliation: The formation of friable marble flakes, which may be associated with the decay of aluminium silicate inclusions of the marble matrix. Pollution crust: A gypsum-based crust formed in the presence of pollution in areas of marble not exposed to rainfall. As it thickens, it can distort surface details and suspend sooty deposits causing discolouration of the marble. The dark black pollution crust found on sheltered parts of the Parthenon was one of the most conspicuous aspects of decay. Its formation increased rapidly from the 1950s as Athens became more polluted (Papakonstantinou-Ziotis 2012, 57). Much of the West Frieze, which remained in situ until 1993, was afflicted by this crust until it was removed by laser cleaning. While weathering by rainfall and biodeterioration will have occurred throughout the history of the Parthenon, since many of the mechanisms of decay are exacerbated by the presence of environmental pollutants, we would expect the rate of deterioration of the marble to have increased enormously following the rapid industrialization of Athens in the mid-twentieth century. As Korres (1994, 138) reports, the decay of the marble of the Parthenon had previously been extremely slow, with Plutarch (Pericles 13.1) reporting in the first/second century ad that it still looked freshly built. Even as late as 1830, the measured deterioration of the neighbouring Erechtheion was estimated to be only 1.3 mm over the course of more than two millennia (Hamilton 1842, 103). The early casts therefore become all the more interesting. Not only do the casts of Fauvel and Elgin predate much of the continued pillaging, vandalism and war damage of the nineteenth century but they were also moulded in pre-industrial Athens. Yet moulding itself is not without risk. It is a highly interventive procedure involving significant levels of object handling and direct contact between object surfaces and foreign substances, raising three main concerns: 1. 2.

Residue staining from the moulding material or the release agent. Chemical reactions between the moulding substance or release agent and the sculpture.

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3.

Loss or weakening of the original surface caused by the application and removal of the moulding material or release agent.

To judge by roughly contemporary accounts, such damage was not in this early period considered to be of much consequence. Most evidence of problems caused by moulding is found only in passing references or through physical examination. One significant case is that recorded by the Egyptologist Amelia Edwards in her book A Thousand Miles up the Nile (1877). As she recounts, the colossal statue of Rameses II at the Temple of Abu Simbel was moulded in plaster by the formator Nasciambene under the instruction of Robert Hay in 1827. When plaster piece moulds are constructed, a suitable release agent must be applied to the sculpture to ensure that the mould comes away cleanly without sticking to the original, leaving bits behind, or pulling away pieces of the surface. This release agent should be tested to ensure that it does not stain the material of the sculpture (in this case, sandstone) and that it can be completely removed by cleaning. Edwards, however, reports that the statue remained covered in bits of residual plaster when she visited Abu Simbel in 1874: ‘. . . our painter conceived the idea of setting them to clean the face of the northernmost colossus, still disfigured by the plaster left on it when the great cast was taken by Mr. Hay more than half a century before.’ She set her men to remove the lumps of plaster and douse the sculpture with coffee to tint any remaining white patches: ‘The coffee proved a capital match for the sandstone; and though it was not possible wholly to restore the uniformity of the original surface, we at least succeeded in obliterating those ghastly splotches, which for so many years have marred this beautiful face as with the unsightliness of leprosy’ (Edwards 1877, 280–1). Examples of surface loss can be found in the paper squeezes made widely in the field during the nineteenth century. The collection of squeezes, now in the British Museum, made in the Valley of the Kings by Sir John Gardner Wilkinson (1797–1875), are so covered in pigment pulled from the reliefs that some appear as faded paintings. Permanent markings may also be left. Numerous inscriptions, for instance, are present on Trajan’s Column dating to plaster moulding and casting conducted in 1861–2, as ordered by Napoleon III. These include measurements and the signatures of the formatori (Del Monte 1991, 86). There is no recorded evidence of damage caused by the formatori of Fauvel or Elgin, but our accounts of these campaigns are thin. We do, however, have some indication of possible damage caused by later moulding of the Parthenon sculptures taken to Britain. The sculptures were moulded twice in their early years at the British Museum: first by Richard Westmacott from 1816 and later by

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Pietro Angelo Sarti in 1836–7. In 1836–7, an inquiry was conducted by the Trustees Committee into whether there were surviving traces of polychromy on the sculptures. Sarti gave evidence stating that moulding had necessitated soft soap applied to the marble to act as a release agent (Oddy 2002, 146).8 This was cleaned away with soap leys. However, it is clear that these were not the only substances used on the sculptures. In 1858, for example, Richard Westmacott (Junior; son of the aforementioned Westmacott), who had assumed responsibility for the moving and cleaning of the sculptures commented that: ‘. . . some of the works are much damaged by ignorant or careless moulding – (with oil and lard) – and by restorations in wax, and wax and resin. These mistakes have caused discolouration’ (Quoted by Oddy 2002, 148). Our awareness of this type of damage is hindered by the lack of systematic records and often only discovered when sent more recently for conservation. A twelfth-century polychromed ivory plaque of St John the Baptist and Saints at the V&A was found still covered in gelatine, probably from a moulding process.9 Rebecca Wade (2019, 104) also noted that Domenico Brucciani had been accused by Newton at the British Museum of having left an oily stain on a cornice following moulding with gelatine. By the early twentieth century, awareness of such issues was much wider and restrictions increasingly put in place, as Petrie wrote in his 1904 (61–2) handbook: But on all coloured work and many kinds of tender stones, wet squeezing is a crime, as it destroys the original. Fatuous tourists and brazen students have wrecked innumerable monuments by wet squeezing, and it is now necessarily prohibited in Egypt unless special permission is obtained to do some object which cannot be injured by it.

Howard Carter had also recognized the potential problems of using moulding materials such as wet paper squeezes, plaster and damp clay, and developed a dry method suitable for shallow reliefs by applying pressure to a thick linen paper (James 1997, 190). Even through the later twentieth century, however, moulding remained problematic. Perhaps the most notorious case was the silicone moulding of the Rapa Nui stone statues of Easter Island in 1988. These were moulded by Projekt Osterinsel to make casts for the 1989 exhibition 1500 Jahre Kultur der Osterinsel (Frankfurt am Main) but the team did not include

8

9

Other testimony concerning potential damage caused to the sculptures by moulding was given by Henry Weigall (British Museum 1836, 11–18). Generally, however, Weigall suggests that there should not be damage if moulding is conducted carefully. Object 215-1866. Treatment record dating to 27.10.1986.

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conservators or archaeologists familiar with the site. Prior to moulding, the statues were impregnated with methyl cellulose to stabilize the stone surface and to assist with the release of the mould. Once the silicone rubber moulds were released, however, damage to the stone became apparent, including colour change of the surface from grey-black to yellow-red, removal of the patina and lichens, and loosening of parts of surface – some of which were pulled away with the mould. The more heavily weathered sides of the statues were affected to a greater extent and further monitoring revealed that there was increased erosion to these areas after moulding (Van Tilburg 1990, 252–4). This case demonstrates how difficult moulding can be even with the use of release agents and highlights the risk that a large stone surface will not necessarily react in a uniform manner to the application of foreign substances. Silicone rubber trials were conducted prior to moulding, showing that even with testing it is not possible to ascertain definitively that a certain moulding material is absolutely safe. With this in mind, we may consider the recent growth of the application of non-contact technologies, particularly 3D imaging. As digital imaging techniques have advanced, these may now replace certain applications of moulding and casting. Some of the most common types include: 3D laser scanning: The laser beam is reflected by the object and recorded by a sensor producing data points that construct a ‘point cloud’. The point cloud consists of a series of XYZ coordinates either using time-of-flight calculation or triangulation. In the latter, the fixed, known distance between the laser source and the sensor enables coordinates to be calculated. Time-of-flight scanning is also known as LiDAR (Light Direction and Ranging) and tends to be used for larger objects or landscapes. A laser pulse is sent towards the object and the point cloud is generated by calculating the length of time the laser takes to be reflected back to the scanner. Structured light 3D scanning: This is a very similar approach to 3D laser scanning. Instead of a laser beam, a known pattern of lights is projected onto the object and a point cloud calculated using triangulation or projection geometries. This technique is discussed in more detail in the next chapter. Photogrammetry: Photogrammetry allows point clouds to be created from standard digital photographs. A series of overlapping photographs providing different views of an object is taken and uploaded to a photogrammetry software tool. The software creates the point cloud by comparing and measuring the position of the same points across the different photographs.

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CT scanning (X-ray computed tomography): A series of virtual 2D crosssections is taken by rotating an X-ray source and detector around the object. These depict radio-density, which is the principle that materials block or transmit X-rays to different extents. The closer a pixel is to white, the more radio-dense the material it represents. These 2D images can then be combined to form a black and white 3D image (Payne 2013, 17). Other advanced digital imaging techniques, such as reflectance transformation imaging (RTI), record some 3D data but not full, accurate 3D models; however, they can be very useful for the analysis of fine surface details, such as reading faded inscriptions. For RTI, multiple digital images are taken with different illumination directions; each pixel stores colour information and ‘normal’ values representing surface shape. The embedded information enables calculation of light reflection, allowing the object image to be artificially relit from different directions to reveal surface texture (Payne 2013, 17–18). RTI offers very high resolution images, limited only by the specification of camera used, presenting a modern-day alternative to the low-relief moulds taken by Petrie and Carter for archaeological documentation. For those methods providing 3D data, the digital file can be made into physical copies by 3D printing, if required. Again, there are numerous, ever-expanding options, including: Stereolithography: Layers of photo-curable resin are built up and cured by exposure to an ultraviolet laser. Inkjet/powder printing: A printing head moves across a powder bed depositing liquid binding material to solidify the powder in cross-sections of the desired shape. These are built up to form the 3D model. Fused deposition modelling: A nozzle heats thermoplastic resins (or metals) to liquefy them and deposit them in layers to build up the 3D model. This method is also now used with ceramics (FDC: fused deposition ceramics). Selective laser sintering: A laser scans across a powder bed (or plaster, metal, ceramic or glass powder) to fuse cross-sections of an object, as programmed by the input of 3D data. Paper-based printing using selective deposition lamination: Paper slices are laid down and combined with water-soluble adhesive. These can also be colour-printed.

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CNC milling: Stone copies can be made by inputting 3D imaging data into CNC (computer numerical control) automated tooling machines. These new techniques of digital copying have advantages and disadvantages over traditional methods of moulding and casting. One of the main advantages of 3D imaging is that it is a non-contact technology: it does not require the application and removal of foreign substances and the high level of object handling thus necessitated. It is particularly useful for copying objects at high risk of damage by traditional moulding, such as those with friable or porous surfaces, or with surviving polychromy (for an example, see Østergaard 2007). 3D imaging is also invaluable for analysing and reproducing objects with complex internal parts or undercut sections that would be otherwise impossible to mould. Digital models of such objects can be created by CT scanning and physically copied by inputting the data to 3D printing machines. Even when physical copies are not made, digital models can now be made more readily available around the world via platforms like Sketchfab. A final advantage of particular relevance to this study is the ease of metric analysis; measurements can be extracted from the digital files and numerous 3D models can be uploaded and digitally compared. Such models can function simply as an archive but may also aid investigative archaeological work, such as the virtual reconstruction of fragmentary objects, and they have been trialled for conservation purposes such as condition monitoring.10 Many of the disadvantages of 3D imaging relate to 3D printed models rather than the digital files. While the techniques discussed above can produce excellent digital models, there are difficulties retaining their high level of accuracy and resolution when transferring the digital data to physical replicas via 3D printing techniques. Visible contour lines are often left where the material is either sintered away or fused together, requiring hand-finishing for the best results (Payne 2013, 25–6). In cases where a physical copy is required, moulding and casting performed by a specialist continues to supply a more faithful, detailed final product. The technologies are improving all of the time; for instance, machines may now print in a wider range of materials such as clay; but a price is attached. A major catch to both 3D imaging and 3D printing is their cost. The machinery required for CT scanning, 3D laser scanning and structured light 3D scanning is 10

Various different projects have taken advantage of this – see, for instance, Padfield and Saunders 2005; Zollikofer et al. 2005; Brown et al. 2008; Karsten and Earl 2010; Toler-Franklin et al 2010. See also Stanco et al. 2011.

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particularly expensive: prohibitively so for many academic projects. Photogrammetry offers a more affordable alternative, but like the other digital techniques requires professional training for reliable outcomes. 3D printing can also be a costly business. Fused deposition modelling is the most affordable technique and machines are now widely available; however, this technique has relatively low accuracy and resolution. Although costs are slowly reducing, inkjet/powder printing and stereolithography are considerably more expensive but also have much higher levels of accuracy and resolution. Yet traditional moulding and casting also requires specialist skill and intensive labour that comes at significant cost. While the start-up costs for 3D imaging and printing can be very high, if we exclude the most expensive machines (such as CT scanners) then in the long-run it is likely to become more time- and costeffective. Moulding and casting can easily become more expensive than photogrammetry and RTI, both of which are possible using standard camera equipment already available in most museums and universities, together with free or affordable software. Appropriate training is necessary but is more readily and cheaply available.11 The Parthenon sculptures are made from long-suffering marble rendered weaker and more porous by centuries of exposure and ill-handling; they are also now known to retain pigment traces (see p. 147). While the sculptures were moulded in the past, 3D imaging now presents a much safer and more versatile tool for their investigation. A number of 3D imaging projects have already centred on the Parthenon and its sculptures. In 2003, a team from the Institute for Creative Technologies (ICT) from the University of Southern California, USA, scanned the structure of the Parthenon using a time-of-flight laser scanner made by Quantapoint.12 The ICT also scanned casts of the Parthenon sculptures at the Skulpturhalle in Basel, Switzerland using a custom-built structured light scanner. Their models of the sculptures were combined with scale models of the Parthenon depicting the building at different points in its history (Stumpfel et al. 2003). The models created, both of the Parthenon itself and of the casts in Basel, were used to make a computer animation of the Parthenon and its different sculpted elements, including a polychrome reconstruction (Debevec et al. 2011). A 3D imaging project focused on the digital restoration of South Metope IV (in the British Museum) also allowed its separated heads (in Copenhagen) to be reattached (Williams et al. 2007).

11 12

See, for example, http://culturalheritageimaging.org (accessed 29 August 2020). Relating to this work was an MSc thesis by Lundgren (2004).

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More recently was a three-year research project commenced in 2011 by GeoAnalysis S.A. and run in partnership with the Acropolis Museum and the Laboratory for Machine Tools and Manufacturing Engineering at Aristotle University, Thessaloniki. All of the original blocks of the Parthenon’s West Frieze were 3D scanned at the Acropolis Museum, as well as the two blocks of this part of the frieze housed at the British Museum (Bouzakis et al. 2016). This work aimed to record the colours of the stone and to investigate the geometry of the blocks. The data gathered from this project enabled certain geometric features of the frieze to be identified and characterized. The narrow edging stripes running along the top and bottom of the front of each block were investigated. The top stripes are around 14 mm wide and 55 mm deep and the bottom stripes are around 7 mm wide and 47 mm deep. As suggested by the edging stripes, the carving of this shallow frieze is slightly deeper towards the top of the blocks than the bottom; these stripes were used to mark out the working area for the sculptors as well as for aligning the blocks when they were positioned onto the architraves. The 3D imaging facilitated virtual reconstruction of the frieze, exploring how the blocks were assembled onto the architraves in antiquity. The sixteen blocks of the frieze were set across five architraves, which were positioned in a slightly convex arrangement with the third, central architrave projecting around 66.5 mm more than the outer edges of the architraves on each end of the western façade. The reconstruction showed that this opens very small triangular gaps between each block of frieze. The frieze blocks situated above columns and sitting across two architraves (IV, VII, X and XIII) were found also to have a slightly trapezoidal front view. The 3D imaging project covered in the next chapter also centres primarily on the West Frieze; however, its focus is narrower in scope than either of the projects discussed above, dealing instead with smaller points of interest within the carvings of the frieze. Like the scanning conducted by the ICT, this work combines imaging of both original sections of the Parthenon sculptures and plaster casts. However, rather than using the casts as a substitute for the marble sculptures to produce a reconstruction, the purpose of this research was to take a more critical look at the casts to answer two fundamental questions. First, how accurately do the casts reproduce the marble sculptures? And secondly, to what extent do the historical casts preserve surface details now lost from the marble sculptures? The casts certainly seem to represent a promising archaeological resource, retaining a level of detail long since worn or hacked away from the marble sculptures. This is particularly relevant to the West Frieze, most of which remained

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in situ on the Parthenon for the better part of two centuries after moulding by Fauvel and Elgin. There are few better case studies for examining the significance of casts as potential records of preservation, capturing an earlier form of the sculptures when they had not spent quite so long exposed to the elements, pollution and the impulsive human hand. The key word here is ‘potential’: what exactly do these casts now preserve? This is a question that the following chapter will seek to answer. Certainly, the theory from the point of their acquisition by the British Museum, and encouraged by Elgin’s narrative of events to Parliament, was that they should act as time capsules; the originals were subject to vicious attack and mouldering decline, but these casts presented a glimmer of hope – preserving a record of the state of the originals when moulded. This was an idea carried forward to the growing use of casting on active archaeological excavations through the nineteenth century and commonly repeated in discourse surrounding the Parthenon sculptures through to the present day. Following Newton’s investigation and the printing of Hege’s photographs in the Illustrated London News this view of the casts has been commonly repeated but rarely investigated. For example, St Clair (1998, 215–16) later wrote: The plaster casts of the west frieze which Lord Elgin’s moulders made in 1801 and 1802 reveal many features including whole heads which were broken off or defaced from the originals shortly afterwards. In some cases the originals were almost entirely obliterated and Elgin’s casts are our best record of what they once looked like.

In Mary Beard’s popular 2002 book on the Parthenon, she also restated this perspective, noting that ‘the marbles left in Athens have not survived unscathed’, accompanied with two images: one of the Elgin cast of West Frieze VIII and one of the corresponding 1872 Merlin cast. Similarly, on the Ashmolean casts (including casts purchased from the British Museum), it has been written: Many casts, in particular those of sculptures displayed outdoors, are in a much better state than the originals are today. Examples are the casts of the frieze of the Lysikrates Monument in Athens, of the Parthenon Frieze, of the reliefs from the Column of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius, and of the great relief panels from the Arch of Trajan at Beneventum. Frederiksen and Smith 2011, 8

However, casts are not pure, cryogenically frozen versions of the originals; they are separate entities with their own distinct origins and histories. In the

80 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

main, they were products of nineteenth-century craft practices of the formatori; moreover, the earliest of the British Museum’s Parthenon casts, those from the Elgin collection, were created outside of the museum’s auspices. In order fully to understand the nature of the evidence presented by these casts, we need therefore to investigate in detail their relationship with the marble sculptures from which they were taken. In 1990, Ian Jenkins made a number of photographic comparisons between the British Museum’s Parthenon casts and the originals, which will be expanded upon in the next chapter. John Boardman (2000, 253) also supported work of this kind, raising the possibility of distinctions between casts and originals resulting from both the notorious cleaning incident of the Parthenon sculptures at the British Museum and the exposure of the originals left in place in Athens. In particular, he identifies the Parthenon’s West Frieze, the Caryatids of the Erechtheion, the Temples of Hephaestus and Athena Nike, and the friezes from the Lysicrates Monument and the Tower of the Winds, stating that: ‘Comparisons of casts and present-day condition are called for.’ Such use of casts has been referenced in recent exhibitions, including the 2013 exhibition at the British Museum on the travel drawings of Edward Dodwell and Simone Pomardi, and in the redisplay and cataloguing of casts in Ithaca, New York (Kramer and Ramage 2005). In 1993, Wolfgang Ehrhardt produced a systematic comparison between the casts and originals of the Lysicrates Monument using a combination of drawings and photographs of the originals and casts. However, the use of these materials to provide comparisons is limited. Boardman (2000, 243) called attention to the fact that the nature of such drawings is determined by the individual approach of the artists, and even photographs are unreliable, varying dramatically in appearance depending on the circumstances under which they were taken and how they were printed. Katherine Schwab (2004, 152) likewise notes that photographs do not capture the range of detail visible upon first-hand visual inspection. She reports that her examination of metopes from the eastern façade of the Parthenon revealed that a ‘rich array’ of detail was still preserved but not evident in Brommer’s 1967 published photographs. It is similarly difficult to photograph casts, especially plain white ones, to ensure illumination of all aspects of surface features for comparison with the originals. Physical side-by-side comparisons are not a practical alternative. The objects in question are bulky, heavy and housed in separate countries. Moreover, visible distinctions in surface morphology are obscured by differences in the appearance of the surface of the casts and originals: in both colour and reflectivity. 3D imaging technology therefore

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presents an invaluable tool for the comparative investigation of form between objects held thousands of miles apart. Newton’s testimony and the 1929 photographs provide a very strong indication that some of the casts contain valuable surface information no longer evident in the marble sculptures. Despite the endorsement by Boardman and frequent mentions by other scholars, the subject has not been explored in depth beyond Jenkins’ 1990 paper. Perhaps one reason for this is the contentious issue of authenticity and the casts, raised for example by Beard (1997, 163). She questions which might be considered the more ‘authentic’: the original stone worked by Phidias and cohort but now greatly eroded, or the crisp nineteenthcentury casts preserving the sculptures in better condition: ‘Which would we rather lose? Which gives us the most accurate impression of Greek sculpture?’ The question of authenticity will be addressed in Chapter 6; however, the intention of this work is not to pit the casts against the marble sculptures or to suggest that the casts are now more valuable than them. We do not need to choose one or the other. Rather, each set of objects, both marbles and casts, will be further illuminated by the other. Just as the casts are illustrative of an important aspect of nineteenth-century craft practice and archaeological history, as well as their capacity to contain lost sculptural details, so the marble sculptures naturally embody both archaeological information and deep historical significance. Whether or not the finished surface remains apparent, they consist of the ancient marble laboriously worked over by the craftspeople of antiquity: quarried, carved, polished, painted; yet the point stands that if the casts might retain evidence of morphological features since lost from the marble sculptures then this is worth investigation. Newton’s discovery indicated that visible changes to the West Frieze of the Parthenon had already occurred between 1802 and 1872. Given that this section remained in situ for a further 121 years, the divergence of the originals from the casts would be expected now to be even greater. Exploring the presence, absence and possible distortions of fine surface details by comparing the casts and originals is an important first step in the study of the finish of these sculptures. This will help to establish the accuracy of the casts and the extent to which details have truly been lost from the originals. In turn, this information may be used in future work to guide understanding of the state of preservation and history of deterioration of the originals, as well as aspects of the ancient creation of the sculptures such as the desired finish and physical characteristics of the subjects rendered. 3D models are used for this research to conduct detailed visual analysis of the separate casts and originals to examine their condition and surface

82 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

features, and – crucially – their capacity to facilitate quantitative comparisons of surface morphology. These comparisons will enhance our understanding of the accuracy with which the casts reproduced the marble sculptures and will help to characterize and interpret differences between the two. Ultimately, the results will clarify the usefulness of such historical casts for archaeological study.

4

3D Imaging and the West Frieze

3D scanning of the West Frieze: structured light scanning 3D scanning is the first step towards the creation of 3D models for the investigation of surface morphology. For this project, a Breuckmann smartSCAN was used to scan corresponding casts and originals at the British Museum and the Acropolis Museum.1 This machine is a triangulation-based 3D scanning system employing structured white light scanning and a patented miniaturized projection technique. It consists of two monochrome (four megapixel) cameras and a projection unit. The projector illuminates the object with a known light pattern: a sequence of Gray-coded binary (also known as reflected binary code) fringe patterns. Each linear stripe of light projected onto the object is identified with a number; the cameras observe the extent to which the light patterns are distorted on the surface of the object compared to a flat plane. Because the cameras capture the fringe pattern from fixed, predefined viewing angles, precise coordinates for the construction of a point cloud can be obtained using triangulation. The following terminology is based on the definitions discussed by Moitinho de Almeida et al. (2017), and helps us to understand scanning specifications: Accuracy: Accuracy is the degree to which a measurement or calculation conforms to a known correct value or to a particular standard or model. Resolution: Resolution refers to the smallest change in the value of a measured quantity that a measuring system is able to meaningfully distinguish. Precision: Precision is defined by how closely quantity values agree when these are obtained by repeated, replicate measurements under specified conditions. 1

For this work, I won the Bernd Breuckmann Award 2014. I was provided with training in the use of the 3D scanner and its software at AICON 3D Systems, Meersburg, Germany. The 3D scanner was lent to me for a period of four weeks. The AHRC also contributed funds towards the travel costs. Scanning was completed in April and May 2015.

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84 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Accuracy, precision and high resolution do not necessarily go hand-in-hand. It is possible, for instance, for a 3D scanning system to be very precise but highly inaccurate. For the best results, a scanner must be very accurate, very precise and have high resolution. Resolution in 3D scanning is generally measured as the smallest distance between two spatial values; these spatial values may be measured either between pixels generated or between 3D coordinates taken within a particular area or length. The resolution of structured light scanners using fringe projection systems is generally very high; they will typically generate a 3D coordinate (X, Y, Z) for each camera pixel. The full specification of the system used for this research is given in the Appendix. Although some structured light scanners offer colour imaging, monochrome cameras were used for this work for two reasons. Firstly, monochrome cameras encourage a better quality of 3D data than colour cameras because they capture more light per pixel and produce less pixel noise (Rieke-Zapp and Royo 2017, 249). Secondly, the main focus of this research is the comparison of surface morphology between the plaster casts and the marble sculptures; differences in surface colour between the casts and the marbles can distract from such comparisons, as observed in standard photography. Assembling the 3D scanner required the two cameras to be screwed onto the main body of the projector. In order to obtain measurements that are both accurate and precise, the cameras capture light from fixed, predefined viewing angles. To ensure that the cameras are correctly positioned, a calibration plate containing a grid of points is first scanned. This reveals whether all points on the plate are accurately detected, or if further adjustment to the positioning of the cameras is necessary. For this project, the equipment was calibrated when first set up at each different location and calibration checks were additionally conducted before each scanning session. The scanner is a high-end model with fast data acquisition and X, Y resolution of up to 140 microns, essential for detailed surface analysis. AICON OptoCat, Breuckmann’s proprietary software was used to create and process the scan data.

Data acquisition and processing The system used had a 400-millimetre field of view and one metre working distance. The scanner was fixed to a tripod upon which it could be moved around and raised or lowered. In order to image each desired analysis area, multiple

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overlapping scans were taken to try to capture the carved reliefs. However, it was not always possible to obtain full data for the most recessed areas of detail. Scanning took place in the Parthenon Gallery at the Acropolis Museum during visiting hours within a cordoned-off area, and in storage rooms at the British Museum (and its off-site location, Blythe House). Structured white light scanning is affected by the ambient light conditions; good contrast of the light patterns is required and this can be tricky in bright or shifting light. The Parthenon Gallery is bathed in natural light through large windows offering direct views of the Acropolis; the storage room at Blythe House also had large windows with no available coverings. Therefore, the quality of the scan data was checked after each run and deleted and recaptured if necessary. Once obtained and checked, the point clouds of overlapping sections were processed into triangulated meshes, stitched together, aligned and merged. 3D models created in this way will almost always have small holes where insufficient data was gathered; this was the case for recessed areas of detail for which it was not possible to place the scanner in the necessary position. It is very easy to fill such holes using the processing software (and necessary for creating models for 3D printing). However, for this project, holes in the data were allowed to remain to ensure that all features observed are those imaged directly from the sculptures, rather than having later been fabricated. The finished 3D models can be used for standalone visual analysis; the models of corresponding casts and originals can also be overlaid to highlight and quantify differences through the creation of deviation maps (see Hess 2015). These use colour scales (converted to greyscale for this book) to illustrate differences in measured data points between the 3D models of the casts and the 3D models of the originals. For these comparisons, stereolithography (STL) files were used. Such files are most commonly used for 3D printing, but are very versatile and can also be opened using many different software suites. Within these quantitative comparisons, different maximum deviation limits can be set, revealing different levels of information.

Image key For the greyscale deviation maps presented in this chapter, the darker the grey, the greater the deviation between the two models compared. Two maximum deviation levels are shown. For those with a limit of 5 mm deviation the key is as

86 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

follows: very dark grey/black > 5mm; dark grey > 3 mm; mid grey > 1.5 mm; pale grey < 1.5 mm. For those with a limit of 1 mm: very dark grey/black > 1 mm; dark grey > 0.6 mm; mid grey > 0.3 mm; pale grey < 0.3 mm.

Benchmarks Comparative analysis is necessarily based on the initial assumption that the casts reproduce the originals with a significant degree of accuracy. This is a reasonable assumption based on visual observation. Some loss of detail inevitably occurs during moulding and casting, but this can be very slight. A study by Bernard Frischer (2014, 141–4) has demonstrated that a good first-generation cast (from a mould taken directly from the original) will reproduce most of its surface to within one millimetre. Several of the British Museum’s Merlin casts are now lost, but those remaining are first-generation casts. Upon dismantling Papera’s Elgin casts from exhibition in 1939, it was discovered that their condition had seriously declined. They were moulded in gelatine and two new sets were made: one set was white and one varnished, now appearing a brown colour (Jenkins 1990, 112).2 Most survive to this day but mean that the ‘Elgin casts’ as they now exist are no longer first-generation casts. Gelatine moulds do, however, facilitate extremely close copies and retain the seam lines from the original piece moulds. Therefore, based on Frischer’s findings, it can be hypothesized that deviations from the original of >1 millimetres in the Merlin casts and >2 millimetres in the Elgin casts can reasonably be assumed to relate to subsequent changes to the original or to differences introduced by the formatori, rather than loss of detail from the moulding process.

Analysis of surface texture In addition to quantitative comparisons, surface texture was characterized using Gaussian curvature and mean curvature. Gaussian curvature is an 2

Some corrections were also made to these casts to rectify known faults in the Elgin casts, but they appear otherwise faithful to the earlier set. These faults are described by Jenkins (1990, 113): ‘In slab VI the cloak hanging down the right leg of figure 12 was not completed. Also in slab X the right wrist of figure 19 is incomplete. The error in slab VI must have been in the original mould, since it is reproduced in the engraving of this slab for Museum Marbles. Both faults are reproduced in Smith’s publication of 1910. The errors were corrected, however, in the remade moulds, presumably by copying Merlin’s casts which do not contain the same faults.’

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algorithmic calculation of curvature, which can characterize surface roughness in the 3D models. Zero Gaussian curvature indicates a perfectly smooth surface, whereas positive and negative Gaussian curvature indicate concave and convex features. This is particularly useful for analysing the finish of the sculptures. Mean curvature, the mean of the principal curvatures, can also be used to reveal differences in surface texture. As it involves the calculation of an average, mean curvature is less sensitive than Gaussian curvature. While Gaussian curvature is useful for characterizing very fine details, the mean curvature can more effectively characterize larger features. In the images presenting these calculations in this chapter, Gaussian curvature and mean curvature appear as surface noise with positive Gaussian or mean curvature in mid grey and negative Gaussian or mean curvature in dark grey.

The West Frieze of the Parthenon The Parthenon Frieze in its entirety is typically understood to represent various elements of the Great Panathenaia festival, with particular emphasis on the participants of the Panathenaic Procession. The West Frieze depicts a moving procession of horsemen preparing for the festival. It begins the first of two branches of the frieze, running from the southwest corner of the temple towards the northern side, flowing from right to left (south to north) where it gains energy as the men finish their preparations. These horsemen continue onto the North Frieze. Ahead of them is depicted a chariot race (the apobates) and then a procession of walking figures including elders, musicians and men leading sacrificial animals. Turning to the East Frieze, there are processions of girls carrying vessels for libations; towards the centre of the East Frieze, at the front of the procession, there are marshals and non-processional figures. These include male figures conversing while leaning on staves, perhaps magistrates, officials or the heroes after whom the ten Athenian tribes were named. Beyond them are the groups of gods and the peplos scene. This was the culminating event of the Great Panathenaia and involved the dedication of this garment to Athena (Neils and Schultz 2012; see Breton Connelly 2014 for an alternative interpretation). The second branch follows the South Frieze, from west to east, and echoes the North Frieze with its procession of horsemen, chariots, elders, musicians, sacrificial victims and so forth. Again, it turns onto the East Frieze with the vessel-carrying girls leading up to the central scene (Jenkins 1994, 21–5).

88 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age Table 4.1 Frieze slab

Areas scanned

Marble sculpture (Acropolis Museum)

Early Nineteenth Century Cast (British Museum)3

North XXXVI

Head of Figure 96 Head of Figure 97 Head of Figure 98

ü

ü ü ü

Table 4.2 Frieze slab

Areas scanned

Marble sculpture 1802 Elgin cast 1872 Merlin (Acropolis (British cast (British Museum) Museum) Museum)

West III

Head of Figure 5 Head of Figure 6 Head of Figure 15 Head of Figure 22 Head of Figure 23 Whole of Figure 30

ü

ü 1816,0610.48

Missing

ü

ü

ü

ü

ü 1816,0610.57

ü

ü

ü 1816,0610.61

Unavailable

West VIII West XII

West XVI

Five blocks of the Frieze were identified for investigation, with scanning focused on particular areas of interest within them: primarily the heads of the sculpted figures. These selections were limited by restrictions on time and access, but were designed to include sections of sculpture displaying visible differences between the cast and marble of varying type and extent. The marble sculptures were scanned at the Acropolis Museum; at the British Museum, where possible, both earlier and later casts of the same section of frieze were scanned. Four blocks from the West Frieze and one from the North Frieze were investigated. White casts were more suitable for 3D scanning than the darker, varnished casts, which are subject to interference from reflected light. Therefore, varnished casts were scanned only when white versions were not accessible.

3

This cast of the North Frieze is from the first half of the nineteenth century, but its precise date is uncertain. I grouped this with the Elgin casts in Payne (2019b); however, further investigation has suggested that it most likely dates to the 1830s or 1840s when additional pieces of the North Frieze were excavated. The ‘restorations’ found in this cast, as discussed through this chapter, are consistent with those found in the Elgin casts of the West Frieze.

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Summary of areas scanned West Frieze III The third block of the West Frieze portrays three standing male figures and a horse reined in. The head of Figure 4 is significantly damaged in both the original and the Elgin cast. Figures  5 and 6, however, display differences between the marble sculpture and the cast. Figure 5 is a bearded man draped in a himation and talking to Figure 6, a nude youth. The heads and upper torsos of these two figures were scanned in both the marble sculpture and the Elgin cast. The features preserved in Figures 5 and 6 in the Elgin casts are sharp and crisp but appear blunted in the marble sculptures (Figs  4.1–4.3). This is particularly evident through examination of the details of the carved locks of hair. Such blunting is a characteristic result of sugaring of the marble: a common type of deterioration caused by weathering. Other, sharper areas of damage perhaps attributable to vandalism can be found around the noses of both figures and the eye of Figure 6.

West Frieze VIII This block depicts Figure  15, a bearded cavalry commander (hipparchos) controlling his horse. It is centrally located in the West Frieze and forms a dynamic standalone composition. The horseman wears an exomis and chlamys, which billows behind him. His head is now lost, but it is clear that he wore a fox skin cap. The head and upper torso of this figure was 3D scanned in the marble sculpture and in both Elgin and Merlin casts (Figs  4.4–4.7). Immediately obvious upon examination of this slab is the complete loss of the head in the marble sculpture and Merlin cast. The loss of the head presents as a sheer fracture from the stone. Such fractures can occur naturally, following large-scale exfoliation caused by the decay of alumino-silicate veins present in the marble. These erode differently to the main calcitic matrix: large cracks and fractures can occur, as well as exfoliation, where layers parallel to the surface begin to separate and can sheer away. However, in this instance, the balance of probability points to a deliberate instance of vandalism: the loss is largely confined to the head and we know that the heads were specifically targeted for petty attacks and removal for collectors.

West Frieze XII The composition of this block is arranged around Figure 23 at the centre. He wears a chiton and chlamys and stands in front of a horse. His right arm is raised,

90 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

perhaps in the act of giving an order and in his left, he holds a riding crop. To the left is Figure  22, a youth wearing a chlamys and looking down at an object – perhaps a strigil. To the right is Figure 24, a servant carrying a himation over his left shoulder and holding an object in his right hand – again perhaps a strigil. For this block, both Elgin and Merlin casts were available. The heads and upper torsos of Figures 22 and 23 were 3D scanned in both sets of casts and in the marble sculpture (Figs 4.8–4.10). Like West Frieze III, this block has been subject to general weathering as evidenced by the blunting of certain features including the locks of hair and details of the ears. There are also sharper, more substantial areas of loss to the forehead of Figure  22 and the face and right forearm of Figure 23. Of note is the fact that these substantial losses are visible already in the 1872 Merlin cast.

West Frieze XVI Block XVI depicts Figure  30, a standing nude youth with a chlamys hanging over his left shoulder and arm. The entire figure was 3D scanned in the marble sculpture and the Elgin cast (Figs 4.11 and 4.12). The condition of this carved figure is the poorest of those examined with the features of the face almost entirely washed away and blunting of features found across the whole figure. Apparent in the marble sculpture is a sheer fracture across the upper left side of the block (running down the proper right side of the figure’s head and shoulder). This must be attributed either to one of the violent events in the Parthenon’s history or to an early aborted attempt to remove this block from the frieze. The bulk of the dislocated section has been rejoined but significant losses to the carved features remain. The damage to this side of the block is not evident in the Elgin cast; however, this is misleading, as will be discussed below.

North Frieze XXXVI In addition to these four blocks of the West Frieze, one slab from the North Frieze was also investigated (Figs  4.13–4.14). North Frieze XXXVI includes four horsemen, Figures  96–99. To the left, Figures  96 and 97 are riding their horses side-by-side. At the centre, Figure  98 sits atop his galloping horse and looks out towards the viewer. He wears a sleeveless chiton. Figure 99 rides on the right of the block, also wearing a sleeveless chiton. The current state of the

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Fig. 4.1 West Frieze III.

Fig. 4.2 Elgin cast of West Frieze III, reproduced from Smith (1910).

original marble shows that the left side of the face of Figure 98 is lost, as well as the top left corner of the block including the head of Figure 96. Rather like the case of West Frieze XVI, the missing areas do not appear to be lost in the early cast.

92 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Fig. 4.3 West Frieze III, Figures 5 and 6 (Elgin cast): primary analysis area (3D model).

Fig. 4.4 West Frieze VIII, Figure 15.

3D Imaging and the West Frieze

Fig. 4.5 Elgin cast of West Frieze VIII, reproduced from Smith (1910).

Fig. 4.6 Elgin cast of West Frieze VIII (3D model).

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94 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Fig. 4.7 Merlin cast of West Frieze VIII (3D model).

Fig. 4.8 West Frieze XII.

3D Imaging and the West Frieze

Fig. 4.9 Elgin cast of West Frieze XII, reproduced from Smith (1910).

Fig. 4.10 Merlin cast of West Frieze XII: detail of Figure 23 (3D model).

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96 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Fig. 4.11 West Frieze XVI, Figure 30 (3D model of original).

Fig. 4.12 Elgin cast of West Frieze (3D model).

3D Imaging and the West Frieze

Fig. 4.13 North Frieze XXXVI.

Fig. 4.14 Cast of North Frieze XXXVI, reproduced from Smith (1910).

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Results of 3D analysis The accuracy of the casts Comparative analyses of the 3D models reveal that both sets of casts analysed here and taken during the nineteenth century were in most cases even more accurate than expected. The following calculations were made by excluding substantial changes of more than 5 millimetres, which are most likely to have been caused by factors like weathering in conjunction with severe pollution or vandalism (rather than poor moulding practice). Looking firstly at West Frieze III, comparison of the analysis areas between the marble and the Elgin cast shows that the cast has an average deviation from the original of approximately 0.9–1.0 millimetres. The Merlin casts of West Frieze VIII and XII display deviation of approximately 0.3–0.5 millimetres. The early cast of the North Frieze block XXXVI is also close to the marble, with an average deviation of around 0.59 millimetres; this is likely a first-generation cast. Full comparative data is given in Table 4.3. Following the benchmarks established by Frischer’s study, as first-generation casts, we expected the Merlin casts to reproduce the marble sculptures to within 1 millimetre; as second generation casts, we expected the Elgin casts to reproduce the marble sculptures to within 2 millimetres. The results of comparative analysis using the 3D scanning data show that both sets of casts reproduce the marble sculptures to well within the levels of deviation anticipated. Moreover, these measured levels of deviation include not only differences introduced by the moulding practices of the formatori but also those resulting from weathering and other damage to the originals that occurred after moulding took place (excluding those of over 5 millimetres). Of course, the areas compared in this study are relatively small; however, the deviation between the Elgin casts and the marble sculptures was consistently less than 2 millimetres and all except one measurement, that for the more severely weathered West Frieze XVI, was within 1 millimetre. When comparing the Merlin casts and the marble sculptures, the levels of deviation measured were consistently below 0.5 mm. Measurements made between the two sets of casts show that the combined average deviation between the Elgin and Merlin casts (0.917 millimetres) was almost exactly the same as that between the Elgin casts and the marble sculptures (0.948 millimetres). If we also include the measurements from North Frieze XXXVI, which likely stood in the cella of the Parthenon for several decades before being moved to the Acropolis Museum, then the average deviation recorded between

99

Average

Average

NXXXVI

WXVI Combined average

WVIII WXII

WIII

0.897

0.923 0.741 Figure 23 0.786

Figure 6 0.896

Figure 22 0.376 0.413

0.292

n/a

Merlin

Figure 23 0.450

1.308 n/a 0.948 0.353 Deviation from original in early nineteenth century cast 0.590

Figure 22 1.007

Figure 5 0.947

Elgin

Deviation from original

Figure 22 0.865 n/a 0.917

0.824

1.009

n/a

Figure 23 0.782

Average deviation of Merlin from Elgin cast

Table 4.3 Average deviation of analysis areas between the casts and originals (excluding areas >5 mm) (mm)

100 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

the early and later casts is in fact slightly greater than that between the early casts and the marble sculptures (0.896 millimetres); this is perhaps a result of the small sample set. Overall, however, these results suggest that the practices of the nineteenth-century formatori were capable of producing casts of the highest accuracy. In spite of this excellent level of accuracy, the comparative 3D analysis reveals some new features introduced during the moulding process. Incremental reduction of the maximum permitted deviation reveals finer degrees of difference between the surface of the cast and that of the original. This includes not only seam lines, but also areas where different sections of the piece-mould are fractionally offset, rather than completely flush (e.g. Fig. 4.31) However, these are very small flaws: the pieces are offset by less than 1 millimetre. Moreover, the presence of seam lines became through the nineteenth century an important marker of the quality and accuracy of a cast (see also p. 6). This was noted in 1885 by American classical archaeologist Lucy Mitchell: Great importance is well attached to the faultlessness of the execution of all these casts. The raised lines, which always show the union of different pieces of a mold, are never removed for fear of injury to the surface, but are kept as fine as possible, so that, in most cases, only close inspection will reveal the gossamerlike threads.

The finish of the sculptures Surface analysis using Gaussian curvature reveals areas of the marble sculptures that were deliberately textured: the hair and clothes of the figures are noticeably rougher than the smooth planes of skin and background of the frieze. This surface working is almost impossible to detect through ordinary visual analysis because of the distracting effects of colour variations and changeable light and shade. The surface working is also more apparent in the casts than in the originals, demonstrating not only that fine details of the sculptures can be closely transmitted to the casts but also that this transfer of medium enables textural distinctions to be analysed more effectively. Plaster is much less reflective and promotes higher quality 3D models than marble (Frischer 2014, 141). Comparison of the Gaussian curvature analysis applied to Figure 23 in the casts and the marble demonstrates this problem: the textured appearance of the chiton and chlamys is much clearer in the casts (Figs  4.15–4.17). These algorithmic textural analyses do not, however, avoid the need for any

3D Imaging and the West Frieze

Fig. 4.15 Gaussian curvature, Elgin cast, Figure 23, West Frieze XII.

Fig. 4.16 Gaussian curvature, Merlin cast, Figure 23, West Frieze XII.

Fig. 4.17 Gaussian curvature, original marble, Figure 23, West Frieze XII.

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interpretation of the data produced. Gaussian curvature accentuates rough, weathered patches similarly to those purposefully textured, as can be seen in the damaged arm of Figure 23. It is likely, however, that the rougher surface texture of the hair and clothes relates to the polychromy of the sculptures. Wolfgang Maßmann (2014), for instance, has suggested that such distinctions in finish were determined in collaboration between sculptor and painter. In his study of the Archaic Berlin Goddess (Altesmuseum, Berlin), Maßmann also notes that the skin was given a very smooth finish while the chiton displayed fine hatching; the hair was also finely grooved. Similar variations in surface finish can also be observed on the Sciarra Amazon (Glyptotek, Copenhagen) of the Roman period (Østergaard pers. comm.).4 The data produced by the analyses of these casts does not allow us to identify the precise nature of the textured finish (for instance, whether cross-hatched or grooved); we can identify only a general roughness. Nevertheless, the finding gives further substantiation to Maßmann’s idea that varied levels of fine stone working were employed in conjunction with the application of polychromy to provide the desired finished appearance. Here we find evidence of such practice, indicating a close working relationship between sculptor and painter, also in the Classical period.

Evidence of deterioration between the originals and the casts The cast exhibiting the greatest average deviation from the original is the Elgin cast of West Frieze XVI. This is the only measured section to demonstrate average deviation of greater than 1 millimetre. This block was located at the end of the frieze and appears to have suffered more severely from weathering in this exposed position (Figs 4.34 and 4.35). The Elgin casts all reveal features that appear much sharper and crisper than those of either the Merlin casts or the marble sculptures. This is particularly pronounced in West Frieze VIII and XII. In the case of West Frieze VIII, the entire head of Figure 15 is present in the Elgin cast but missing in both the Merlin cast and the marble (Figs 4.22– 4.25). Similarly, in West Frieze XII, the face of Figure 23 is present in the Elgin

4

My thanks to Jan Stubbe Østergaard for bringing this, and Maßmann’s work, to my attention. The project concerning the restored metope (South IV) with heads from Copenhagen also involved 3D imaging (by the National Museums Conservation Centre, Liverpool), which revealed fine details of carving including ridges to mark drapery on the youth’s thigh, which was perhaps to be finished in plaster after an accident in the carving (Williams et al. 2007).

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cast but missing in the Merlin cast and the original, as well as the forehead and nose of Figure  22 (Figs  4.26–4.33). More restricted differences to the facial features can be observed in Figures 5 and 6 of West Frieze III (Figs 4.18–4.21). These losses are all greater than 5 millimetres, which is not unsubstantial for a relatively shallow relief like the Parthenon Frieze. The maximum depth of the relief is 5.6 centimetres at the top and 3.6 centimetres at the bottom (Marconi 2009, 160). This level of loss on the frieze is conspicuous and disfiguring. It is also greater than might be expected. A committee appointed by the British Museum in 1836–7 to examine the Parthenon Marbles for traces of pigment determined when examining fragments of the Erechtheion that the original surface was: ‘highly polished, and that the general surface of the marble had been pretty equally worn away to the depth of about one-twentieth part of an inch by corrosion’ (Hamilton 1842, 103). This is the equivalent of around 1.3 millimetres of surface loss over the course of its more than two-thousand-year history. The Erechtheion is located on the northern side of the Acropolis and was constructed as part of the same Periclean building programme responsible for the Parthenon. The same white, fine-grained calcitic Pentelic marble was used for both structures and so the rate of surface deterioration of the Erechtheion and the Parthenon should be very similar. While the comparative 3D analysis of these sections of Parthenon Frieze shows that there has not been uniform surface loss of greater than 1 millimetre in the mere two hundred years or so since the moulds were produced for the Elgin casts, significant areas have been subject to losses of over 1 millimetre, and even above 5 and 10 millimetres. As discussed above, many of these losses occurred not only through natural weathering processes or even through the effect of human pollution on the stone, but through violence enacted on the marble. This includes damage caused by wartime explosions, petty target practice and vandalism, and deliberate removal of pieces of sculpture for sale. The 3D image of the marble of West Frieze VIII reveals possible traces of chisel marks around the edges of the missing area, suggesting that this was a case of attempted removal for the trade in antiquities (Fig. 4.36). It is similarly conceivable that at least some of the losses found in West Frieze XII were achieved with human assistance. While less pronounced than that of Figure 15, the loss of the face of Figure 23 is particularly sheer and the torso remains remarkably intact; however, no clear tool marks have been detected (Fig. 4.37). The losses seen in West Frieze III can likely be related in these instances to petty vandalism given the limited areas affected, in addition to general weathering.

104 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Fig. 4.18 West Frieze III Figure 5. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 5 mm limit.

Fig. 4.19 As Fig. 4.18 with 1 mm limit.

3D Imaging and the West Frieze

Fig. 4.20 West Frieze III Figure 6. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 5 mm limit.

Fig. 4.21 As Fig. 4.20 with 1 mm limit.

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106 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Fig. 4.22 West Frieze VIII. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 5 mm limit.

Fig. 4.23 As Fig. 4.22 with 1 mm limit.

3D Imaging and the West Frieze

Fig. 4.24 West Frieze VIII. Deviation map: Merlin cast and original: 5 mm limit.

Fig. 4.25 As Fig. 4.24 with 1 mm limit.

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Fig. 4.26 West Frieze XII. Figure 22. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 5 mm limit.

Fig. 4.27 As Fig. 4.26 with 1 mm limit.

3D Imaging and the West Frieze

Fig. 4.28 West Frieze XII. Figure 22. Deviation map: Merlin cast and original: 5 mm limit.

Fig. 4.29 As Fig. 4.28 with 1 mm limit.

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110 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Fig. 4.30 West Frieze XII. Figure 23. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 5 mm limit.

Fig. 4.31 As Fig. 4.30 with 1 mm limit.

What is odd about the results of the quantitative 3D comparisons is that there is almost the same (and sometimes greater) deviation between the Elgin and Merlin casts as the Merlin casts and the originals. There were seventy years between the creation of the moulds for the Elgin and Merlin casts, but 143 years between the moulding of the Merlin casts and the time of 3D imaging; and 121 years between the moulding of the Merlin casts and the date that the originals were moved into the Acropolis Museum. The obvious verdict to draw is that

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Fig. 4.32 West Frieze XII. Figure 23. Deviation map: Merlin cast and original: 5 mm limit.

Fig. 4.33 As Fig. 4.32 with 1 mm limit.

there was a period of particularly rapid deterioration between 1802 and 1872. It is noteworthy, however, that this timeline suggests that the decay of the sculptures appears to have slowed during the twentieth century precisely when problems with sulphurous emissions and acid rain were most acute. It is difficult to avoid the conclusion that the most significant type of deterioration enacted on the sculptures was that of deliberate human attack through the nineteenth century, rather than the more insidious effects of the environment. The almost absent level of change between the Merlin casts and the marble sculptures suggests that

112

Fig. 4.34 West Frieze XVI. Deviation map: Elgin cast and original: 5 mm limit.

Fig. 4.35 As Fig. 4.34 with 1 mm limit.

Fig. 4.36 Possible chisel marks, West Frieze VIII. 112

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Fig. 4.37 Sheer break edge, Figure 23, West Frieze XII.

these attacks subsided through the later nineteenth century following Greek independence and increased restoration efforts. Interpretation of the comparative 3D models might, then, be straightforward: there are some very fine differences caused by moulding practices, there is some overall weathering, and there are more significant areas of loss caused by vandalism. However, interpretation of the casts, their accuracy and their archaeological importance, is complicated by the fact that as well as these losses there are also additions. There are known instances where the casts of damaged sculptures were altered so that they would appear more complete, calling into question the accuracy of the information they preserve. There are two documented instances of such additions made to the early nineteenth century casts: Figure 98 of North Frieze XXXVI and Figure 30 of West Frieze XVI.

‘Restoring’ the Parthenon sculptures through their casts In 1910, Arthur Hamilton Smith (p.  59) noted the abnormal appearance of Figure 98 in the early nineteenth century cast suggesting that the loss to the side

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of the face observed in the original had already occurred when moulded and was instead made up in clay (Fig. 4.14). Close examination of the face plainly shows that it has been manipulated to provide the impression that the face is complete. A clear join can be observed between plaster moulded from the original and from the addition (Figs 4.38 and 4.39). Smith’s theory was restated by Stanley Casson (1921, 111), who suggested that the heads of all three riders in this slab were entirely made up: ‘The cast of this slab in the British Museum has been roughly restored by the moulder. Heads have been given to all three riders and other minor restorations have been made.’ The 3D image shows an area of the head of Figure 96 that appears clay-like in texture supporting the idea that some additions have been made to the now-missing top left corner (Fig. 4.40). However, the heads of Figures 96 and 97 are far finer than the crudely shaped addition to the head of Figure 98, which appears incongruous. The presence of such an addition on the original appears still to be visible in an 1850 daguerreotype of North Frieze XXXVI, which shows the roughly restored head of Figure 98 and relatively complete heads of Figures 96 and 97 (Fehlmann 2006, 168). These additions are missing by 1865 as visible in an albumen silver print by Dimitrios Constantin (Fig. 4.41); however, this photograph also shows Figure 96 in a more complete state than is now the case (compare with figs 4.13 and 4.14) indicating some continued decline through the mid-nineteenth century. It is likely, therefore, that the section in the cast at the British Museum was composed of original fragments (since lost) combined with clay additions. The addition to Figure 30 in West Frieze XVI is a little more carefully modelled, filling in the missing areas to the side of the face and shoulder. This was spotted by Ian Jenkins (1990, 113) and the edges of the addition are smoother and flusher with the original parts than in Figure 98. Such additions are perhaps unsurprising and were probably made not only to create a more uniform appearance but to facilitate moulding and casting. Moulding sculptures requires preparation of the object including the application of a release agent, but more pertinently, the filling of any undercuts not possible to mould when using a rigid technique like plaster piece-moulding. This would rarely have been necessary when moulding the shallow Parthenon Frieze, but it would certainly have been a familiar technique to the formatori and it is not a huge leap to jump from filling undercuts with clay to supplying missing areas. The instructions for Elgin’s formatori, such as they survive, reveal that they enjoyed a considerable degree of autonomy: – (16) The Signori Formatori are required to take charge of moulding those pieces of ancient sculpture that have been judged the best and most worthy of

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preservation, according to the opinion of Signor Theodoro [Ivanovitch] and Signor Bernadino [Ledus]. [. . .] – (19) The Signori Formatori will attend to the moulding of those fragments of elegant ornaments selected by Signor D. V. Balestra. He will provide them with all necessary assistance for the construction of scaffolding to be used by both Signori Formatori, and Signor Theodoro [Ivanovitch]. Istruzione per i Signori Artisti andando in Atene. (Quoted by Gallo 2009, 44)

Ledus, Rosati and Papera will have worked according to their own established methods. It was Elgin’s private secretary, Hamilton, who appointed the formatori and checked on Papera’s casting in London, reporting back to Elgin in 1808 that he had: ‘made some admirable casts, superior many of them in preservation, and equal all in sculpture to the best of the originals’ (Smith 1916, 304). The idea that a cast might be superior in preservation to the originals even when the moulds were fresh provides a further indication that damaged areas were sometimes artificially completed in the moulds. These additions must also be considered in the context of the restoration treatments still applied almost ubiquitously to works at this point in the early nineteenth century and Elgin’s initial intention to have the marble sculptures of the Parthenon restored (see p. 63). We may then ask: to what extent do these casts truly contain lost archaeological details and to what extent have they been manipulated? The sculptures have suffered from weathering, the effects of pollution and vandalism. However, the presence of additions in the casts indicates that some of the more significant areas of damage may in fact predate 1802 and the moulding of the Elgin casts; the additions have made the condition of the sculptures at this time appear to deviate more substantially than was truly the case from their condition in 1872 when the Merlin casts were created. This hypothesis is further substantiated when we take a closer look at the comparative analyses in conjunction with the individual 3D models, bringing to light more cases of possible additions. It seems highly likely, for example, that the sections of the face and forearm of Figure 23 (West Frieze XII) missing in the Merlin cast but present in the Elgin cast were also added in clay by the formatori. The deviation map reveals patterns of change characteristic of human intervention in the Elgin cast. These are visible around the moulding seam lines, as expected; however, there are also clear indications of intervention around the hand (Figs 4.31–4.32). The 3D model of the face of Figure 23 reveals a distinction in texture between those parts extant and those now lost (Fig. 4.44). This softer texture is not observed in the model of the now-missing head of Figure 15 (West Frieze VIII); however, it is harder to

116 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Fig. 4.38 3D model of original, Figure 98, North Frieze XXXVI.

Fig. 4.39 3D model of cast, Figure 98, North Frieze XXXVI.

3D Imaging and the West Frieze

Fig. 4.40 3D model of cast, Figure 96, North Frieze XXXVI.

Fig. 4.41 North Frieze XXXVI, Dimitrios Constantin, 1865. Albumen silver print.

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118 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Fig. 4.42 3D model of original, West Frieze XVI.

Fig. 4.43 3D model of Elgin cast, West Frieze XVI.

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compare missing and extant areas in this case because the whole head is lost (Fig. 4.45). The deviation map for West Frieze VIII reveals some patterns around the moulding seam lines, but nothing clearly indicative of deliberate additions. We can conclude, therefore, that this head was cast from the original, which was lost between 1802 and 1872. These cases illustrate the complexity of the casts and show that analysis of the 3D models still requires a good deal of human interpretation. Although different materials (marble from the sculptures and clay from the additions) are moulded for the production of the casts, these separate elements are all cast in plaster. Distinctions in surface texture are transmitted to the plaster cast rather than being observed directly, muddying clear material distinctions. Even the most advanced imaging technologies cannot yet definitively and objectively characterize these types of surface so that they can be distinguished without

Fig. 4.44 Figure 23, West Frieze XII: softer texture following seam line.

120 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Fig. 4.45 West Frieze VIII: no clear textural distinction.

doubt. They provide an additional tool; one that can be considered in complement with more traditional sources, such as contemporary drawings and other surviving casts.

Other historical sources: drawings and casts The Parthenon has long been a popular subject for drawing. In 1674, an artist, perhaps Jacques Carrey of Troyes, made a series of drawings of the Parthenon sculptures for the French ambassador to the Ottomans, Charles-Marie-François Olier, Marquis de Nointel (1635–85).5 These are particularly important because they predate the 1687 Venetian bombardment. They include the two pediments, all thirty-two metopes on the southern side, the East Frieze and the West Frieze, and around a third each of the North Frieze and the South Frieze. The more damaged metopes of the other three sides were not included. Thirty-five of the drawings are extant, now held by the Paris Bibliothèque Nationale. Drawings of the remainder of the frieze were probably made but have not survived (Bowie 5

Cook 1997, 21. For the sake of simplicity, I refer to these as the ‘Carrey drawings’.

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and Thimme 1971, 8–9).6 In 1749–50, the English draughtsman Richard Dalton accompanied Lord Charlemont on his Grand Tour and produced a number of his own drawings of Parthenon sculptures (Smith 1916, 167). Some of these were published in 1751 and the complete collection was published in 1791. These drawings are, arguably, even less reliable than photographs. The draughtsman was similarly limited according to the perspective and lighting under which he might view the sculptures. And, rather like the formatori, what he could not see he might invent.7 In spite of their unreliability, drawings, casts and written accounts comprise all of the available evidence regarding the Parthenon sculptures during the time of Elgin and his predecessors. The only option is to compare all of this material and the present state of the sculptures to determine their most likely true appearance when drawn and moulded in 1802. Some comparisons of the drawings by Carrey and Dalton and the sculptures (via the medium of casts) have been made by Berger and Gisler-Huwiler (1996) using the collection of Parthenon casts at Basel. This study also includes drawings by William Pars (1765) and by Theodor Ivanovitch (1800–2), the draughtsman in Elgin’s retinue. Unlike the others, Ivanovitch had the advantage of the scaffolding constructed for the formatori, enabling him to get very close to the sculptures (Gallo 2009, 157). His drawings include all of the sections of the West Frieze under examination in this chapter, but not North Frieze slab XXXVI, which was blown away from the building in 1687. Most of the Basel casts used for Berger and Gisler-Huwiler’s work were acquired from the British Museum and display the additions found in the Elgin casts. Their descriptive text mentions Jenkins’ note of the addition to West Frieze XVI, but does not note Smith’s identification of the addition to North Frieze XXXVI or provide further discussion on this topic. Ivanovitch’s drawings went to the British Museum with the rest of the Elgin collection.8 Luciana Gallo (2009, 30–2) has shown how the accuracy of his drawings was strongly contended, with Edward D. Clarke claiming that he combined ‘the most astonishing genius with the strictest accuracy and the most exquisite taste’, while another contemporary wrote: 6

7

8

The drawings were published by Henri Omont in 1898 (Athènes au XIIe siècle [Paris: Ernest Leroux]) and more recently by Bowie and Thimme in 1971. The drawings attributed to Carrey remained relatively unknown through the eighteenth century and until important figures like Quatremère de Quincy started to cite them (Bowie and Thimme 1971, 3). Stuart and Revett’s Antiquities also contains some drawings of the Parthenon and its sculptures (particularly volumes 2 and 4). Department of Greece and Rome: Volume Four of the ‘Elgin Drawings’. Volumes One, Two, Three, and Five are devoted to architectural subjects drawn by the architects Balestra and Ittar.

122 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age The Calmuk Feodor (as we heard him constantly called) is a man highly gifted with much talent, whose neat drawings nearly always reveal taste and spirit; however, it may be doubted, without being unfair towards him, that, for his role in the venture, he possessed the necessary refined and extensive knowledge of antiquity and artistic monuments, and that he observed constantly and attentively the delicate shades of the different styles of the latter which he transferred into his drawings. But because meanwhile casts were taken from all remarkable sculpture, one has no reason to demand extreme accuracy for drawings produced on the spot presumably with various inconvenience.

Interestingly, the implication here is that unlike the drawings the casts would be of ‘extreme accuracy’. Ivanovitch is known to have added entire missing sections. Fifteen of the metopes from the southern side of the Parthenon were destroyed in the 1687 explosion and another two had since fallen. However, Ivanovitch inserted these seventeen missing metopes into his drawing (Gallo 2009, 157). On the other hand, he demonstrated considerable accuracy when dealing with smaller lost and damaged elements, frequently resisting the urge to complete them himself. In the original slabs, most of the faces of Figure 1 (WI), Figure 4 (WIII), Figure 9 (WV), Figure 16 (WIX) and Figure 25 (WXIII) are lost or damaged and this is similarly evident in Ivanovitch’s drawings: he did not attempt to recreate these areas. Therefore, it is significant that he included the heads of Figure 15 (WVIII) and Figure 23 (WXII), as did Dalton in 1749 and Carrey in 1649; the back of the head of Figure  23 was also already shown as worn. Are we wrong, therefore, to conclude that parts of the face and arm of Figure 23 were already damaged by the early nineteenth century and that these sections were filled in using clay by Elgin’s formatori? Even these comparisons do not resolve the issue fully; there remain inconsistencies. For instance, Ivanovitch included the head of Figure 20 (WXI 9), which is missing in the cast. This head was absent in Carrey’s drawing, which makes it unlikely to have been a recent loss. The head was drawn in Dalton’s illustration (often less faithful than those by Carrey), which perhaps encouraged Ivanovitch’s own invention (Berger and Gisler-Huwiler 1996 [Tafeln], 25). Crucially, Ivanovitch also depicted Figure 30 (WXVI) as complete, albeit with a certain blank ambiguity to some of the left portion of the face, when this is known to have been missing and completed by the formatori. Therefore, it remains difficult to draw firm conclusions on the basis of these drawings. While largely accurate they were still subject to the flair of the artist with the 9

BM 2012,5004.4.57.

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representation of some of the figures influenced by earlier draughtsmen and, perhaps interdependent on the work of Ivanovitch’s colleagues, the formatori. The casts of Fauvel form another important early source of evidence. Unlike Elgin’s formatori, Fauvel shipped casts rather than moulds from Athens. Many were lost or damaged en route to France, but derivations of some still exist. A number made it to Paris, from where copies were purchased by the Akademisches Kunstmuseum of the University of Bonn in 1821 (Himmelmann and Sinn 1981, 23). The Royal Academy, London, also holds a number of casts derived from those of Fauvel. The Fauvel and Elgin casts were first produced from moulds taken directly from the Parthenon sculptures within fifteen years of each other. However, given the seemingly rapid decline in condition of the sculptures during this period, we would expect that the slightly earlier Fauvel casts should reflect the originals in a somewhat superior state of preservation. There is some evidence to support this conclusion. The Royal Academy holds a Fauvel cast of Eros (Figure  42) from East Frieze VI.10 This slab of the frieze included a scene portraying the seated figures of Artemis and Aphrodite with the boy Eros standing and resting his arm on his mother’s knee. It was drawn by Carrey in 1674 but later split into pieces, perhaps as a result of the 1687 explosion; the part containing Artemis fell to the ground but was later found and moved to the Acropolis Museum. Eros remained in situ but Fauvel’s cast shows that the upper portion of Aphrodite was already missing. The piece containing Eros was also lost in the years before Elgin’s retinue arrived, although some fragments including parts of Aphrodite’s face and arms have been discovered much more recently (see Mark 1984, 295). Another figure carved in East Frieze VI is a bearded man leaning heavily on a stick. This is Figure 46: identified either as a magistrate or one of the eponymous heroes after whom the ten tribes of Athens were named. The Royal Academy also holds a Fauvel cast of this piece,11 the original sculpture of which was taken by Elgin and now resides in the British Museum. This section of the frieze was badly defaced in the years between moulding by Fauvel and removal by Elgin; the block was sawn in half and all that remains of this particular figure in the marble slab at the British Museum is an outline showing where the figure was chiselled away. From East Frieze VI, Elgin also took the mutilated remains of two marshals (Figures 47 and 48), standing to the right of the bearded man. The 10

11

RA 05/2939. For image, see https://www.royalacademy.org.uk/art-artists/work-of-art/cast-of-erosand-right-leg-of-aphrodite-from-east-frieze-figure-42-of-slab (accessed 29 August 2020). RA 05/2918. For image, see https://www.royalacademy.org.uk/art-artists/work-of-art/cast-ofeponymous-hero-magistrate-from-east-frieze-of-parthenon-figure-46 (accessed 29 August 2020).

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corner containing the legs of Figure 48 is missing, as is the top portion of his head. The Royal Academy’s Fauvel cast of Figure 48, however, presents the figure largely intact; the head and left foot have since been discovered in Athens. A close look at the head of Figure 48 in Fauvel’s cast,12 suggests that this is a clay addition along the lines of those found in the Elgin casts: the join between the remaining marble and the addition can be seen, following roughly the level of the bottom of the nose and the details in this added section have been fashioned only roughly. Casts derived from those of Fauvel should not, therefore, be assumed to be more reliable than those commissioned by Elgin. ‘Restoration’ conducted either at the point of moulding or through later supplements to casts was common practice, as Pinatel (2005) has shown was applied to other copies of Fauvel’s casts. Recent research by Norman Rodger (2019) on the casts at the Edinburgh College of Art has also indicated that the complete heads observed in the collection’s cast of East Frieze VII (obtained in the 1830s from the Louvre) were created in the Louvre’s restoration workshop.13 A further case can perhaps be observed in the Parthenon casts displayed at Basel. The Basel cast of West Frieze VII originates from the British Museum but has been supplemented with additions made to the Fauvel cast, including the head and torso of Figure 13 and the mouth of the right horse (Berger and GislerHuwiler 1996, 47). These sections are missing from the Elgin cast and omitted by Ivanovitch (See Jenkins 1990, plate 12 and Berger and Gisler-Huwiler 1996 [Tafeln], 17). Moreover, examination of the earlier drawings suggests that they were lost many years before Fauvel’s campaign. Dalton’s drawings are unreliable, depicting Figure 13 as looking backwards towards Figure 14, even though the remains of the original show that he faced forwards, as in the Fauvel cast; Figure 13 is also incomplete in Carrey’s 1674 drawing. This evidence, combined with that found in the British Museum’s casts, makes it increasingly clear that the alteration of casts constructed at the beginning of the nineteenth century or earlier was far from uncommon; perhaps it was even expected, based on Hamilton’s opinion that the Elgin casts were admirable and superior in preservation to the originals (see p. 115). Nevertheless, it is unlikely that different moulders working at different times would make precisely the same interventions.

12

13

RA 05/2919. For image, see https://www.royalacademy.org.uk/art-artists/work-of-art/cast-ofmarshal-from-east-frieze-of-parthenon-figure-48-of-slab-vi (accessed 29 August 2020). Such instances in the East Frieze were widespread; certainly, Figure  46 also looks to have been subject to similar restoration, judging by differences in images of the casts at the Edinburgh College of Art (see Rodger 2019) and the Royal Academy (see note 11). See also discussion of Fehlmann 2006, 166 for restoration of this part of the frieze.

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Interestingly, not only are the face and arm of Figure  23 (WXII)14 and the head of Figure 15 (WVIII)15 included in the drawings of Ivanovitch, but they are also present in the casts at Bonn; photographic comparisons suggest that these areas are extremely similar in the Fauvel and Elgin casts. Unlike some of the 3D textural analysis, this evidence points to the conclusion that these areas were cast from parts of original sculpture that were lost in the years between 1802 and 1872. Yet a further issue that still makes this conclusion uncertain is the fact that the Bonn casts were not purchased until 1821. The British Museum’s casts were in circulation by this time and there is a significant possibility of ‘contamination’: of these sections having been added from the British Museum’s casts to those of Fauvel to try to provide the most complete example of each slab of frieze available. Unfortunately, the casts at Bonn do not include WXVI, so it is not possible to compare instances with more securely identified additions. Furthermore, while the Fauvel casts sometimes appear to show the Parthenon sculptures in better condition than they seem in the Elgin casts, there are also instances where the opposite is the case. The noses of Figures 5 and 6 (WIII) appear more complete in the Elgin cast than in that at Bonn. We may surmise that the formatori here modelled small pieces of clay to reduce the appearance of existing damage to the facial features. This finding is supported by the analysis of the 3D models, lending weight to its utility for investigation of the casts. Examination of mean curvature is particularly useful for identifying clay smoothing marks in the additions. In the early nineteenth century casts, what appear to be such smoothing marks can be found not only in the known additions of Figures 30 and 98 but also in the facial features of Figures 5 and 6 precisely where discrepancies can be seen in the casts at Bonn: primarily to the tips of the noses (Figs 4.46–4.49). There are marks that could be clay smoothing lines in the arm of Figure 23, but these are less clearly defined than those observed in the other cases (Fig 4.50). Figure 23, therefore, remains a conundrum. However, the fact that these small additions to Figures  5 and 6 have been more certainly identified suggests that the extent to which the moulds and casts were adjusted by the formatori may have been rather greater than previously understood. This also means that the rate of deterioration between 1802 and 1872 was a little slower than a calculation made purely through comparison of the Elgin and Merlin casts would suggest. Fairly considerable decay, largely due to anthropogenic factors, had already occurred by Elgin’s day but was disguised to

14 15

BM 2012,5004.4.53. BM 2012,5004.4.49.

126 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Fig. 4.46 Mean curvature showing possible clay smoothing: West Frieze XVI.

Fig. 4.47 Mean curvature showing possible clay smoothing: Fig. 98, NXXXVI.

3D Imaging and the West Frieze

Fig. 4.48 Mean curvature showing possible clay smoothing: Figure 5, West Frieze III.

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Fig. 4.49 Mean curvature showing possible clay smoothing: Figure 6, West Frieze III.

Fig. 4.50 Mean curvature, Figure 23, West Frieze XII.

some degree by the formatori. The dating and quantification of this damage is significant for the understanding and quantification of stone decay. We do not yet have any reliable means of calculating with any precision the level of stone decay that would be expected for a given ancient monument. The extensive range of variables, including the properties of the raw material (bedding

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planes, inclusions etc.), together with changing atmospheric conditions (varying levels and types of pollution), and in particular the often-volatile human element (use, reuse, iconoclasm, fire, explosion, restoration) make this impossible. However, the continued use of 3D scanning at periodic intervals of time would mean that we can begin to quantify current rates of decay in ways not previously possible.16 One of the purposes of the creation of casts through the nineteenth century was to enable just this and while the casts of Elgin (and Fauvel) contain additions that somewhat stymie such use, comparative 3D imaging has shown that, on the whole, the accuracy of the casts is excellent. This same technique provides an effective tool to measure and visualize changes that have occurred between the casts and the originals. Since plaster scans more effectively than the specular marble surfaces of the originals, these accurate casts provide a particularly useful medium for analysing the sculptures, including investigation of the original finish. Moreover, although these early casts have since been drawn upon heavily in academic displays, photographs and scholarship, they were also the inspiration for the wider and more strategic adoption of casts by archaeologists in the following decades. Unlike the Elgin casts, the Merlin casts were made under the close instruction of the British Museum, which had by now become particularly concerned with the accuracy of its casts. For instance, after casts of newly discovered fragments of Parthenon sculpture had arrived at the museum in the 1850s, following a commission by Newton, a number were reordered: ‘New specimens are requested, with the edges left rough, as those sent, having been worked off, are useless for the purpose of joining to the Elgin frieze.’17 Here, even the break-edges were required to be accurately cast. Admittedly, this concern was in part connected with the aim of presenting the frieze as completely as possible, using either casts or the original marble pieces. One might imagine that this aim could encourage the ‘restoration’ of missing pieces in the casts. However, since analysis of the Merlin casts has not revealed any additions from the formatori and since they are shown to reproduce the sculptures with exceptional accuracy, it seems that the likelihood of interventions made to casts in this way declined through the nineteenth century. This chimes with the more restrictive attitude to restoration that also grew during this period and emphasizes that the

16

17

Doehne and Price (2010, 3–4) have emphasized how important this is, and yet how conservators have thus far failed to make significant advances in this area. Officers Reports. 55. 7 December 1855. Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities, British Museum.

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use of casts to preserve the forms of vulnerable sculptures had become an increasingly well-defined aim. The presence of interventions, particularly in the earlier casts, is important to recognize: using casts as a means to view the original sculptures is not always straightforward. We may question whose touch is being preserved and transmitted within these casts. Close examination of the West Frieze casts displayed in Room 18b at the British Museum, for instance, shows that they do not consist of one particular set of historical casts; rather, they are a mixture of casts derived from the Elgin and Merlin groups. The missing head Figure 15 (the hipparchus) of slab WVIII is present in the casts of 18b. As discussed above, this head is missing both in the original and the 1872 cast; it is preserved only in the 1802 cast of Elgin and so it is from this set of casts that the figure must derive. The head and forearm of the central figure in WXII is also present and similarly found in the cast of Elgin but lost from the original and later cast. We might, therefore, assume that this set of casts is derived from those of Elgin. However, closer investigation reveals that this is not the case. In WIII, the features in the cast of 18b, with the flattened noses and mouths of figures 5 and 6, are much closer to the appearance of the original, indicating use of the later, Merlin set of casts rather than those of Elgin. The information given in Room 18b points out the preservation of the hipparchus’s head in WVIII but does not discuss this mixed use of the different sets of casts, created at different times and by different hands. Surely, however, it is even more important that the layers of intervention and touch contained within these casts are explained when they are used as handling objects. These facts are sometimes ignored because it is more convenient to view and use casts as straightforward reproductions of the original sculptures. Their role as surrogates not just for preservation but for experimental work and as objects for touching, has often come about because they are viewed as more disposable and more reproducible than the originals. However, while casts can, in many circumstances, form useful surrogates it is essential to recognize that they contain additional layers of touch and intervention and are objects in their own right, separate from the sculptures from which they were moulded.

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5

3D Imaging and Cleaning the Parthenon Sculptures

The Parthenon’s West Frieze remained in place on the building until 1993 when it was removed for museum display. While still on the Acropolis, the sculptures were exposed to the elements and at much greater risk of damage and deterioration than they are now in the modern, controlled environment of the Acropolis Museum. The pieces removed by Elgin entered a museum setting much sooner, brought to the British Museum in the early nineteenth century. Museum objects are now cared for by professional conservators, but this acquisition was long before the emergence of conservation as a scientific discipline. This development was itself in part prompted by the treatment of the Parthenon sculptures. The over-vigorous ‘cleaning’ of the marble works in the 1930s has become an infamous episode not just in the history of the Parthenon sculptures but in the history and evolution of conservation. While Chapter  4 analysed the differences between the weathered and vandalized sculptures left on the Acropolis and plaster casts taken at various points in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, this chapter will look at the pieces removed by Elgin, changes caused to their condition during their time at the British Museum, and whether these can be similarly investigated using the aid of plaster casts. Certain terms will crop up throughout the chapter. At its 15th Triennial Conference in 2008, the Committee for Conservation at the International Council of Museums (ICOM–CC) adopted a resolution defining key conservation terms, which I quote here: Conservation: All measures and actions aimed at safeguarding tangible cultural heritage while ensuring its accessibility to present and future generations. Conservation embraces preventive conservation, remedial conservation and restoration. All measures and actions should respect the significance and the physical properties of the cultural heritage item. 131

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Preventive conservation: All measures and actions aimed at avoiding and minimizing future deterioration or loss. They are carried out within the context or on the surroundings of an item, but more often a group of items, whatever their age and condition. These measures and actions are indirect – they do not interfere with the materials and structures of the items. They do not modify their appearance. Remedial conservation: All actions directly applied to an item or a group of items aimed at arresting current damaging processes or reinforcing their structure. These actions are only carried out when the items are in such a fragile condition or deteriorating at such a rate, that they could be lost in a relatively short time. These actions sometimes modify the appearance of the items. Restoration: All actions directly applied to a single and stable item aimed at facilitating its appreciation, understanding and use. These actions are only carried out when the item has lost part of its significance or function through past alteration or deterioration. They are based on respect for the original material. Most often such actions modify the appearance of the item.1

Early conservation While conservation was not recognized as a fully-fledged scientific discipline until the mid-twentieth century, that is not to say that actions aimed at conserving objects were not applied in earlier years. Numerous cases have been documented where rules and guidelines were put in place to protect important objects. Within the National Trust’s Manual of Housekeeping (2006), Madalaine Abey-Koch has shown that from as early as the sixteenth century, the term ‘housekeeping’ incorporated various measures that we would now recognize under the umbrella of ‘preventive conservation’. Covers for floors and carpets were widely used from the mid-eighteenth century. These provided protection from light, dust, dirt and smoke, as well as from general wear-and-tear. Guidelines for domestic staff working at country houses were developed: for instance, regarding which objects should be cleaned and how; as well as how objects could be protected from pests like moths and other insects (Abey-Koch 2006, 21–9). Records also reveal 1

ICOM–CC Resolution Terminology 2008: http://www.icom-cc.org/242/about/terminology-forconservation/#.XqwGRi2ZMdU (accessed 1 August 2020).

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remedial activities on paintings, certainly from the seventeenth century, particularly through the application of protective coatings of wax-resin mixtures (te Marvelde 1999). Such care of objects can be traced right back to antiquity. According to Pliny (NH XXXV.97), the Greek painter Apelles coated his paintings with a thin black varnish to protect them from dust and dirt, as well as to enhance the colour. Statues were subject to washing, repair and repainting sometimes as religious ritual but also following general programmes of maintenance. Taxes for the renovation of public statuary are attested on inscribed ostraca in Egypt and it is likely that similar programmes were instituted across the ancient Greek and Roman world. The ancient sources rarely discuss purely practical activities, which might involve new applications of protective wax, polishing, and repainting and gilding; however, there are mentions of those with a ritual function (Hannestad 1994, 17; Bourgeois 2014). Ovid (Fasti 4.133–4), for instance, described women attending to the statue of Fortuna Virilis and Pausanias (5.11.10) reported that the statue of Zeus at Olympia by Phidias was regularly treated with olive oil (Stewart 2003, 263; Steiner 2001, 111). As a colossal chryselephantine sculpture, the oil would help to prevent its ivory features from drying out and cracking. Deborah Steiner (2001, 112) notes that these types of anointments provided a combined function: they were practical preservation measures that performed an important ritual function, maintaining the power and vitality of ceremonial objects. These activities are a testament to the power of sculptures as living, interactive objects; they would not typically be considered suitable conservation measures today, at least following the western tradition, because of the two abiding, related principles of ‘reversibility’ and ‘minimum intervention’ (Clavir 2002).2 Reversibility is the idea that it should be possible to undo all conservation treatments completely if, for instance, a new type of more effective intervention is to replace an older, failing one. ‘Minimum intervention’ involves employing only the lowest level of treatment necessary to stabilize an object, limiting restoration treatments.3 Recent conservation discourse has, however, questioned the enduring validity of these principles: very few conservation treatments are truly reversible and minimum intervention is not in all cases a desirable

2

3

See also Akagawa 2016 for a more nuanced discussion on the idea of ‘eastern’ and ‘western’ traditions of conservation discourse. See on minimum intervention and reversibility, for instance, paragraphs  3.5, 3.8, and 3.9 of the ICOMOS Charter: Principles for the Analysis, Conservation and Structural Restoration of Architectural Heritage. Ratified by the ICOMOS 14th General Assembly in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, 2003.

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objective.4 Treatments like those described by Pausanias would not meet the criteria of reversibility and minimum intervention, but there is little question that they would have enhanced the longevity of an object. The issue is whether an object should be frozen at a specific moment in time or if it should be allowed to change and evolve. This depends partly upon our perspective of an object: does it remain an integrated part of our society or is it to be removed and revered as representative of a past age? Museum objects typically fall into the latter category with conservation treatments still largely designed to accommodate this and to facilitate research by archaeologists, which may preclude the introduction of certain materials for fear of contaminating analytical results, for example. The issue of the historical accuracy of artefacts had been raised in the late seventeenth century when historians began to consider the relative importance and relationship between literary evidence and non-literary sources – particularly coins but also statues (Momigliano 1950, 294–6). Through the Enlightenment, non-literary sources were increasingly relied upon and often used to check the veracity of literary evidence (Momigliano 1950, 311). Restoration of sculptures during this period remained widespread but a more cautious discourse surrounding the practice slowly emerged (see pp. 173–5). When Elgin took the sculptures from the Parthenon at the turn of the nineteenth century they were not restored. This was not initially a deliberate strategy by Elgin but rather a result of the refusal of the sculptors he approached to work on them. As we have seen in Chapter 2 (see p. 44), Canova’s refusal to restore the sculptures was reputedly down to his judgement that they ‘had attained the highest degree of perfection’ and that, therefore, ‘it would be sacrilege in him, or any man, to presume to touch them with a chisel’ (Elgin 1811). Seemingly, therefore his refusal was down to fear of not doing justice to the sculptures rather than not wishing to change the ancient surfaces; however, the very fact that the question of whether or not the sculptures should be restored was debated shows the beginnings of a sea change that would wash through the nineteenth century. The British sculptor John Flaxman expressed similar reluctance to work on the sculptures, noting that it would cost at least £20,000, and that ‘when done the execution must be far inferior to the original parts, in many instances where conjecture must be indulged, it would be a source of dispute among Artists, whether the restored attitudes were correct, or otherwise, and 4

Issues surrounding reversibility have been discussed by Michael Petzet (2004). On reversibility see Pye 2001, 32–4 and on reversibility and minimum intervention, 145–7. On minimum intervention, see also Jones and Yarrow 2013, particularly pages 6 and 11.

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that on the whole he could not but be of opinion that the operation would lower rather than raise the intrinsic value of the collection’ (as reported in a letter from Hamilton to Elgin, 23 June 1807: Smith 1916, 298). In the report of the Select Committee convened by the House of Commons to discuss the potential purchase of the Parthenon sculptures from Elgin, it is noted that the unrestored condition of the works may well render them unattractive to private collectors for the purpose of ‘the decoration of country houses’ and that their value may by such collectors be valued as ‘much inferior to what may be denominated its intrinsic value’. Rather, it is suggested that ‘It should therefore be considered as forming a Whole, and should unquestionably be kept entire as a School of Art, and a Study for the formation of Artists’ (Parliament of Great Britain 1816, 10–11). There appears to be no serious question by this stage that the sculptures would be restored. This decision can be seen as a reflection of the turning of the tide regarding restoration but the refusal to treat such highprofile sculptures would also become a key event that encouraged the spread of a more cautious approach to the practice. An untouched ancient Greek fragment became viewed as the most authentic means to connect with the now seemingly distant world of antiquity. Alexander Potts has emphasized the ‘refurbished and purified Greek ideal in sculpture’ that emerged in the early years of the nineteenth century, inspired by a small collection of classical Greek fragments, most notably, those of the Parthenon. While the idea that such Greek pieces had a greater depth of ‘truth’ can be traced back to Anton Raphael Mengs (1728–79), it became far more widespread once the Parthenon sculptures arrived in London (Potts 1980, 106, 152). Few other works could live up to this ideal, but the notion that sculptures should remain untouched had a swift impact on the practice of restoration. After visiting the Parthenon sculptures in London in 1815, as the Vatican’s General Inspector of Antiquities, Canova ruled that it was preferable for Vatican purchases to be from pieces that were ‘non tocchi’: untouched by restoration (Pinelli 2003, 68). The Vatican did continue to conduct restoration on some sculptures acquired, but this was conducted in-house. Pietro Tenerani restored the Apoxyomenos and the Prima Porta Augustus at the Vatican Museums in the mid-nineteenth century but he was the last important sculptor to partake in such work (Haskell and Penny 1981, 124). Similar developments occurred in Naples when in 1818, the Accademia Ercolanese formulated a royal decree to forbid integrative restoration practices for antiquities (Milanese 2013, 25). The decree stated that: ‘restorations are an obstacle to the certain interpretation of ancient monuments’ and that ‘it is universally desired by scholars that ancient works of art are left in the state in

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which they are found, adding fragments only in a way that does not alter the ancient ones’.5 Restoration stopped until 1821, when new stricter rules were formulated (Milanese 2013, 26). The more restrained approach to restoration begged the question as to how sculptures and other artefacts should be treated and looked after. The Select Committee’s concern that the Parthenon sculptures should be kept together rather than sold separately to private collectors points to the new role of public museums in this period for providing safe environments in which artefacts might be studied and appreciated by both scholars and the wider public. The British Museum had opened to the public in 1759 and according to the Board of Trustees, its collections were to ‘be preserved and maintained, not only for the Inspection and Entertainment of the learned and the curious, but for the general use and benefit of the Public’ (Caygill 2003). Here we see already that the museum’s responsibility for ‘preservation’ is explicitly stated, although there is little evidence that active steps were taken to achieve such an aim until rather later. Marjorie Caygill (2003, 24) notes that the early members of staff were too few and too poorly paid, and that until the latter part of the century, ‘The collections rotted, displays became increasingly cramped as more objects arrived, “duplicates” were sold and the printed books combined into one library, thereby losing their identity.’ The Reading Room was ‘dark, cold, and damp’ with the Principal Librarian, Matthew Maty, making a complaint to the museum’s trustees in 1774 (Goldgar 2000, 202). Elsewhere some attempts were being made to provide conservation care for museum objects by the early nineteenth century, as has been shown by H. B. Madsen (1987). In 1807, Denmark’s National Museum in Copenhagen established the Commission for the Preservation of Artefacts, the task of which was deemed to be ‘collecting and preserving from destruction the prehistoric monuments that are so important to historians, and as far as possible undertake a complete revision of the still extant antiquities’ (Quoted by H. B. Madsen [1987, 343] from Fyens Stifts Adresse-Avis, Wednesday 27 May 1807). Christian Jürgensen Thomsen was appointed to care for the artefacts and developed methods to deal with the different types, particularly those made from stone, copper or iron. Conservation methods for organic materials were developed later by C. F. Herbst of the Old-Nordic Museum, who focused on waterlogged wood. Such approaches did not become more widespread until the turn of the next century. In 1888, a laboratory for collecting and testing recipes for treating 5

Quoted by Risser and Saunders 2013, 52. For the full version, see Irollo 2007.

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museum objects was founded by Friedrich Rathgen at the Königlichen Museen, Berlin (Plenderleith 1998, 129). At the British Museum, there would be no equivalent until the twentieth century. There was a team of stone masons, who would have helped to move the sculptures around, create mounts, and shape replacement parts (such as missing noses) where desired. Ad hoc testing was also conducted, particularly for cleaning efforts. However, when the Parthenon sculptures came to the British Museum there was not yet any concerted effort for their conservation. Andrew Oddy (2002), former Keeper of Conservation at the British Museum, has nevertheless shown that the museum’s marble sculptures received sporadic conservation interventions through the nineteenth century. As mentioned in Chapter  3, the 1836–7 investigation into the presence of polychromy on the Parthenon sculptures noted that in preparation for moulding, the sculptures were coated with a barrier layer of soft soap, applied as a gel, to act as a release agent for the plaster piece-mould. To remove this after the mould had been taken, the marble would be washed twice either with ‘soap leys’ (an alkaline liquid created as a consequence of soap manufacture) or ‘some other strong acid’ (Oddy 2002, 146). These extreme campaigns of washing may well have also reduced the visible impact of the soupy London pollution on the Parthenon sculptures; however, the grubby condition of other works was brought to the attention of the museum authorities. In 1830, it had been noted that a number of objects from Ephesus had become noticeably afflicted by the dirty atmosphere, not helped by the coal-fired stoves used to heat the galleries (Jenkins 2001b, 4; Oddy 2002, 146). As a remedy, the Trustees approved use of a ‘wash’ devised by the famous nineteenth-century scientist Michael Faraday: ‘a more frequent and very careful washing . . . the application of a little carbonated alkali (as soda) [i.e. a solution of sodium carbonate] with the water would be better than soap, inasmuch as the last portions of it are more easily removed’ (quoted by Oddy 2002, 146–7). Faraday was responsible for some of the earliest work in the field of archaeological science during the 1830s and 1840s, performing chemical analyses on a wide range of artefacts (Moshenska 2015). His wash appears to have superseded the more extreme use of strong acids and alkaline solutions earlier applied post-moulding. Oddy concludes that we can assume it was applied regularly, but the museum records pertaining to such treatments are too poor in this period to be certain. During the 1850s, the use of ‘clay-water’ for cleaning was recommended by the Keeper of Antiquities, Edward Hawkins, and further investigated by Westmacott (Junior). This was applied as a poultice to draw impurities out from

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the marble and was reported to have been very successful: ‘the cleaning of the sculptures has, so far, answered quite as well as could be expected. An immense quantity of dirt has been discharged by more washing after leaving on thick claywater for some hours. My intention is to continue the washing constantly – proceeding all through the collection – and not to have only periodical cleanings, leaving the marbles till they are again loaded with dirt’ (10 March 1858, Westmacott to Anthony Panizzi: Oddy 2002, 148). Similar poultices are still employed by conservators today; however, they tend to be of synthetic materials applied with a barrier layer. For instance, the use of a Laponite RD ® poultice, on top of a layer of Japanese tissue, is not so different from Westmacott’s application of ‘thick clay-water’. Clay minerals are typically phyllosilicates (sheet crystal structures) and Laponite is a synthetic clay material now used by conservators. It consists of a fine white powder that produces a clear thixotropic gel when mixed with water to form a colloidal dispersion (Tomás et al. 2018). Laponite has now largely replaced the use of another popular clay poultice material, sepiolite. This is a natural clay supplied as a powder for mixing with water to form a paste. Through to the 1870s, Westmacott also used Fuller’s earth for sculptures that were not sufficiently cleaned by the clay-water poultice (Oddy 2002, 148). This is a further material composed of natural clay minerals largely superseded by sepiolite and Laponite, but still used for conservation work throughout the twentieth century. Some preventive measures were also introduced at the British Museum during this period. Over the decades, the Parthenon sculptures were shuffled between the two Elgin Rooms in a range of compositions, and an extension was made to the Second Elgin Room between 1868 and 1873 (Jenkins 1992, 75–99). Certainly, the sculptures were then again washed under the direction of Charles Newton who also put the frieze behind glass to try to protect it from the sooty London air and reduce the need for cleaning (Jenkins 1992, 98; Jenkins 2001b, 6). The glazing stayed in place until the gallery was dismantled in preparation for the Duveen Gallery in the 1930s. The pedimental sculptures meanwhile remained on open display and were washed periodically (Jenkins 2001b, 6). By the early twentieth century, a scientific approach to object conservation was more widely adopted. Following the foundation of his laboratory in 1888, in 1898 Rathgen published a book, which was translated into English in 1905 as The Preservation of Antiquities: A Handbook for Curators. In this we see just how far the discipline had come following the work of nineteenth century scientists. In his book, Rathgen documented and explained issues like soluble salts, rusting of iron and the corrosion of other metallic objects including bronze, silver, lead and

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tin. There is brief discussion on glass iridescence and of the deterioration of organic objects including biological attack. As well as technical explanations of these deterioration processes, he detailed various methods adopted to halt or prevent them including cleaning methods, ‘steeping’ (a term that appears to include both the removal of salts and consolidation of friable objects), gap-filling of losses, and treatment of corroding metal objects by reduction. The book is not limited to remedial treatments. Preventive measures are also suggested, such as sealing seriously corroded metal artefacts in air-tight cases free from moisture; other objects may be kept in glass cases to keep them free from dust, and should also be protected from sunlight and kept away from heating systems; the public should be prevented from touching objects and those who do have to handle them should wear gloves, particularly in the case of metal artefacts. Flinders Petrie was well-known as a pioneer of archaeology and for the conservation methods he developed for use in the field in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. He had already noted in a short paper of 1888 (p. 85) that: ‘Though the private collecting and custody of antiquities is now so general, yet there are no simple directions published for the processes so often needed for their treatment and preservation.’ In this article, he gave some brief directions, primarily for the cleaning of metal artefacts. Later, in 1904, he would devote a whole chapter in his handbook Methods and Aims in Archaeology to ‘preservation’. The methods described include his coating of friable wooden objects (such as painted mummy portraits) with paraffin wax, now notorious with conservators: ‘If the wood will not bear lifting, it may be coated by dashing on superheated paraffin wax almost at boiling-point. This will soak deep into the wood like hot water, and consolidate it so that it can be moved quite safely’ (Petrie 1904, 90). Without such treatment many objects would simply have perished. However, it is impossible to remove the impregnated wax completely, which can later become discoloured and prevent effective application of new treatments (Horie 2010, 6.1.2).6 Nowadays, cyclododecane may be used. This is another wax, but one that will sublime at room temperature, enabling it to be used as a temporary consolidant for vulnerable objects (Rowe and Rozeik 2008). Petrie focused on materials found most commonly in ancient Egypt and so there is no section on marble sculpture. His comments on restoration, however, epitomized the shifts of the previous century: ‘The horrible destruction which has gone on under that term [restoration] is now somewhat recognised, after much, or most, of the original buildings of our ancestors have disappeared 6

On Petrie and the mummy portraits see also Wrapson 2006.

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beneath scraping and recutting, so that we only possess a copy of what has been. And in museums till within the last few years, statues were so elaborately built up out of what was – or was not – to be had, that it is often a difficult preliminary study to set aside the shams’ (Petrie 1904, 172). He recommended instead the use of casts to assist with interpretation: ‘The only full solution of the matter is the great extension of the use of casts; and the ideal museum of sculpture would have the originals untouched on one side of a gallery, and the full restoration of casts of the same things on the other side’ (Petrie 1904, 172–3). A new approach to conservation, more akin to that of Rathgen, was precipitated at the British Museum by events following the First World War. During the war, many objects from the British Museum were sent to be sheltered in the deep tunnels of the London Underground. When they were later recovered, there was great shock at the rapid deterioration that had clearly taken place. Metal artefacts had corroded in the damp atmosphere, while objects of stone and pottery were seriously damaged by the migration and crystallization of soluble salts, and organic materials were covered with mould (Plenderleith 1998, 129; Oddy 2011, 56). In response, the Trustees brought in Alexander Scott as scientific consultant on the recommendation of the Royal Society, and by 1920 an emergency laboratory had been set up.7 In 1924, Harold Plenderleith was also appointed to the laboratory (Plenderleith 1998, 130; Oddy 2011, 56–7). Scholarly literature was relatively slow to develop. Plenderleith (1998, 129) noted that ‘Dr Rathgen’s book remained for many years the only collected scientific documentation in the field, and in my early days I found it very useful.’ Oddy (2011, 57) documents some journals in the 1920s that occasionally included papers on the treatment of museum objects, including The Museums Journal (UK) and Mouseion (France). In the 1930s, the Fogg Art Museum at Harvard University started to publish Technical Studies in the Field of Fine Arts.8 In 1934, Plenderleith published his own booklet The Preservation of Antiquities, which became an invaluable resource for students of archaeology. A student of Petrie, Ione Gedye (1987, 16) wrote that while she was studying classical archaeology at the University of London, before there was training in conservation, she helped to ‘restore’ various objects on excavation with mixed results. Gedye would become a pioneer in the study and teaching of conservation. The Institute of Archaeology was established in 1937 at St John’s Lodge, Regents

7

8

Scott published some of the results of his work in The Cleaning and Restoration of Museum Exhibits (three reports published 1921, 1923, 1926). On the history of conservation and scientific analysis at the Fogg Museum, see Keyser 1999.

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Park, where its brand-new Conservation Department had a small adjoining building. Gedye started to give lectures and Plenderleith advised on the scientific principles behind the restoration treatments recommended. After the Second World War, a one-year full-time course was initiated in conservation and this was later expanded to become a two-, and then a three-year course by the time that the Institute moved to its new and current building in 1957 (Gedye 1987, 18). From 1952, the Studies in Conservation journal was published quarterly (Plenderleith 1998, 136). In 1950, the IIC (International Institute for Conservation) was founded, which in 1960 held its first international congress in Rome (Oddy 2011, 59; Plenderleith 1998, 135). Two organizations were also founded by UNESCO: ICOM (the International Council of Museums) and ICOMOS (the International Council on Monuments and Sites). In 1959, ICCROM (the International Centre for the Study of the Preservation and Restoration of Cultural Property) was also founded and funded via UNESCO (Plenderleith 1998, 137). These developments encouraged formal training like that now offered by the Institute of Archaeology and a theoretical framework and body of literature for the discipline started to emerge with, for instance, the Venice Charter for the Conservation and Restoration of Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS 1964) and Cesare Brandi’s (Head of the Istituto Centrale del Restauro, Rome) Teoria del Restauro (1963). Plenderleith meanwhile developed his role to incorporate many tasks conducted by conservators today, working closely not only with the museum’s curators but also with archaeologists including Leonard Woolley, Howard Carter and Carter’s chemist Alfred Lucas,9 as well as providing advice to various museums, churches and universities across the country. He described some of the components of his role as follows: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

9

By making for them simple chemical analyses of materials. By providing technical descriptions of specimens from excavation useful in their publications. By preparing objects for exhibition. By drawing attention to artifacts on exhibition or in storage that seemed to require laboratory treatment. By providing evidence of age, or wear, or by pointing out artificial patinas, etc., not to mention the more mundane matters related to technical correspondence, a time-consuming routine in all large museums. Plenderleith 1998, 131

Lucas himself also published a book on restoration: Antiques, Their Restoration and Preservation, 1932. This focuses particularly on Lucas’ experiences in Egypt, where limestone was used more commonly than marble for sculpture.

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His 1934 booklet was followed in 1956 by a highly successful textbook, The Conservation of Antiquities and Works of Art: Treatment, Repair and Restoration. This included a section on ‘The Influence of Environment’ in which he identified the main problems as humidity, contaminated air and neglect, providing explanation of the resulting issues that can arise.10 When the British Museum’s objects had been packed up again during the Second World War to Aldwych Tube Station, Plenderleith oversaw the process and imposed storage conditions of 60 per cent relative humidity, achieved using air-conditioning (Plenderleith 1998, 132; Oddy 2011, 58). This time the objects survived without injury. The Parthenon sculptures were not among the pieces moved to the Underground in the First World War; rather, they were sandbagged. However, they were sent to the tunnels during the Second World War; this was fortunate, since the Duveen Gallery was bombed (Jenkins 2001b, 8) (Fig. 5.1). Plenderleith (1956, 306) stated that now the British Museum’s solution for washing marble sculptures consisted of 10 grams of soft soap (B.P.), 100 ml of distilled water, and 1 ml of ammonia (0.88). This should be ‘just enough to cause a slight frothing when applied with a soft brush’ and is not dissimilar to that

Fig. 5.1 Moving the sculptures back to the British Museum following their stay at Aldwych Tube Station during the Second World War. 10

The importance of monitoring and controlling temperature and humidity are also discussed at the beginning of his 1934 booklet (pp. 1–2). Figure 3.

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recommended by Faraday in the previous century. The process started with a dry-cleaning method to remove loose dust and he provided further instructions as follows: After the marble has been dusted with a feather whisk, washing operations are commenced at the top of the statuary. The cleansing solution is worked with a soft brush into a froth on a small area at a time, taking care to prevent dirty water from lying in the hollows or running down in rivulets over areas of unwashed marble. When clean, this area should be dried with a soft towel before proceeding farther. Only when all the marble has been cleaned and mopped dry is the stone washed freely with fresh water to remove the last traces of soap, which would soon collect dust again if allowed to remain. For marble that has been neglected and allowed to accumulate dust for years, it may be necessary to use a stronger detergent, such as the froth from Lissapol, Teepol, or one of the proprietary cleansers made from such materials. A convenient quantity is 2 oz. of detergent in one gallon of water, and this concentration should not be exceeded. Such a solution is not for regular use and should only be applied in exceptional circumstances, taking the same precautions as before to prevent rivulets of dirty water from running down the marble. Plenderleith 1956, 307

The processes described here by Plenderleith are much the same as those recommended in his 1934 booklet (p. 27). Indeed, Jenkins (2001b, 6) reports that the Parthenon sculptures were initially, in 1932–3, cleaned following Plenderleith’s methods. The great controversy surrounding the cleaning of the Parthenon sculptures dates to a second campaign of cleaning in 1937–8, which involved the use of copper tools. Notably, Plenderleith did not mention this instance of the cleaning of the Parthenon sculptures in his 1956 book. However, he did write: The use of copper chisels has been advocated as a means of cleaning marble gravestones and the like. Since copper is of the same order of hardness as fresh marble the procedure is not so drastic as it would appear to be. It is, nevertheless, quite unsuitable for museum work where surfaces are studied at close quarters and patina, an important feature of the specimen, must be preserved at all costs. Plenderleith 1956, 314

We must assume that this statement remarks pointedly towards the earlier cleaning of the Parthenon sculptures. The cleaning programme had been initiated in response to the construction of the new gallery for their display, funded by Sir Joseph Duveen. By 1928 it was reported that the Parthenon frieze was around 40 per cent cast and 60 per cent marble, following the earlier drive

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by Arthur Hamilton Smith to display it in its entirety. However, in this year, a report by the Royal Commission on National Museums and Art Galleries on the question of the re-exhibition of the Parthenon sculptures was opposed, against the wishes of Smith, to the display of marble and plaster together (Jenkins 1992, 226; Jenkins 2001b, 3). The new Duveen Gallery would show the sculptures with all plaster elements removed. The gallery was completed by 1939 but with the intervening war and bomb damage to the Duveen Gallery, the sculptures were not moved in permanently until the 1960s (Jenkins 1992, 228) (Fig.  5.2). In the meantime, they were displayed back in the old Elgin Room (Jenkins 2001b, 12). The sculptures were prepared for the gallery from 1936 by the museum’s stone masons, not by the conservation laboratory. Oddy (2002, 149) writes that it was Duveen who was particularly keen for the sculptures to appear a pure, uniform white and claims that he most probably paid a tip to the masons to try to achieve this (see also Jenkins 2001b, 8, 14). To try to get the desired white appearance, the masons used a range of copper scrapers and carborundum stone on the sculptures. It was only when this work and its effects became clear to the director, Sir John Forsdyke (1883–1979) that work ceased (see Jenkins 2001b, 6–7 for further details). Plenderleith was drafted in to report on the extent of the effects of the cleaning and collected the tools used, which are pictured in Oddy’s

Fig. 5.2 Installing the frieze in the Duveen Gallery, 21 December 1961.

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2002 paper (p. 149).11 Plenderleith was a vicious critic of the cleaning, writing in his brief report: According to this process, the surface of the marbles has been chipped with a variety of copper chisels, the tool marks being removed thereafter from the marble by rubbing with a piece of carborundum; the surface patina has thus been skinned off, with what I feel to be most disastrous results, exposing the light crystalline sub-surface of the stone in its raw condition, in some places to a depth of about one tenth of an inch below the original tooled surface. Quoted by Jenkins 2001b, 36 (appendix 1) – from Plenderleith’s report of 26 September 1938

The incident has been clouded by controversy and scandal ever since, fuelled by the failure of the museum at the time to publish a detailed report of events and the impact on the sculptures, and thus allowing a number of vocal critics to place their own spin on what happened.12 In 2001(b), Jenkins published the volume Cleaning and Controversy and in so doing provided what comes closest to a full account of events from the museum, albeit decades too late. Jenkins goes to great pains – and is convincing – to show that what transpired was not so serious as Plenderleith’s comment suggests and notes that his brutal reaction was most probably coloured by frustration that his own procedures had been flagrantly ignored. The minutiae of Jenkins’ argument will not be repeated here, but it is clear that the major scandal of the case was that (a) unauthorized cleaning methods were used, and (b) the museum failed to act promptly and transparently, publishing a detailed inspection of the impact on the sculptures affected. The severity of the over-cleaning remains open to debate. It is important to remember that this incident occurred in the 1930s in the very early days of conservation. While significant advances had been made, as represented by the various publications of the early twentieth century by Rathgen, Plenderleith et al., the discipline was only just – in the very year of 1937 – being taught to students, and so different attitudes and awareness of its importance abounded. As we saw above, while Plenderleith deplored the use of copper tools on the Parthenon sculptures, they were later recommended for marble sculptures not in museum settings. This point is reinforced by Jenkins, who notes that in 1953, Plenderleith even recommended the use of a

11 12

See also Jenkins 2001b, 24: plate 10. E.g. Hitchens (2008), St Clair (1998), Brandi (1950). Many of the points made by St Clair are disputed by Jenkins (2001a).

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‘soft copper chisel’ to Homer A. Thompson of the American School of Classical Studies in Athens for cleaning the frieze of the Hephaesteum. These were not ultimately used by Thompson; he instead plumped for the use of brass brushes and even harder steel chisels (see correspondence between Plenderleith and Thompson, 1 July 1953, quoted by Jenkins 2001b, 21). Mechanical cleaning using hard tools is sometimes employed by today’s conservators, although always under magnification and rarely when dealing with stone. Conducted carefully and under microscope, this type of cleaning can be more controllable than wet cleaning using solvents. However, laser cleaning is most typically used within contemporary stone conservation for the removal of hard, unwanted encrustations.13 Of course, the key issue is to decide precisely which encrustations should be removed. Petrie had already noted in 1888 (p. 85) that: Broadly speaking, all dirt – that is encrustations of all kinds which are not derived from the material beneath – should be removed entirely; while compounds formed from the material itself should be more or less removed, according to the extent to which they hide the original work. The ultimate object being to shew as much as possible of the workmanship in as pleasing a manner as may be, but in no case to destroy or alter any original feature.

Much of the problem with the cleaning of marble sculptures, and particularly those of the Parthenon, was understanding which parts were original features and ‘formed from the material itself ’. What appears to have happened both on the Hephaesteum and on the affected areas of the Parthenon sculptures at the British Museum is the removal of discoloured friable outer parts of the pollution crust, but sections of the underlying orange-brown patina (where preserved) were perhaps also removed. As discussed in Chapter  3, recent cleaning programmes including laser cleaning at the Acropolis Museum, have focused on safe removal of the outer layer of the gypsum crust while preserving the inner component as well as the orange-brown patina (Frantzikinaki et  al. 2007). As Jenkins points out, however, much of this underlying patina (or, as he terms it, a ‘coating’) had already been lost when Elgin took the sculptures; it is now absent on the majority of the sculptures not only in the British Museum but also in the Acropolis Museum, which were not subject to the 1930s cleaning. The fact that the extent of the damage is so difficult to identify suggests that the cleaning was probably less severe than some of the colourful media stories imagined. Indeed,

13

For an overview, see Siano et al. 2012. Also, the LACONA conferences.

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while the 1836–7 investigation into the possibility of remaining polychromy on the sculptures had suggested its absence, particularly following Faraday’s comments that any traces would surely have been removed by the washing of the sculptures following moulding, it is important to bear in mind that firm evidence of pigment has now been discovered. In 2009, conservation scientist Giovanni Verri applied his new technique of visible-induced luminescence (VIL) imaging to the Parthenon sculptures, confirming the presence of pigment on the belt of the pedimental figure of Iris (Figure N, West Pediment) (Abbott 2009; Verri 2009). The technique can be used to detect and identify the pigment Egyptian blue in the presence of visible light: the pigment absorbs the visible light and emits infrared radiation, which can be recorded using a modified camera. Further examples of this pigment have since been discovered on Figures K, L and M (Fig. 6.6) from the East Pediment; some of these are even visible to the naked eye. These pigments appear to be more commonly found in areas which retain the orange-brown patina; however, the fact that they are present at all suggests that the surfaces were perhaps not ‘skinned’ to the extent feared.14 In the VIL images of Figures L and M, Egyptian blue is predominantly present in the areas of orange-brown patina and largely absent both from whiter and blacker areas.15 It is not the case that the orangebrown patina is always found beneath the blackened outer surface; therefore, while it is likely that further evidence of such pigment would have been removed in the case of any loss of the orange-brown patina during cleaning, it is probable that cleaning focused most on the darker black areas where the pigment was already lost. The fact that these pigment traces have been found is encouraging and also disproves Faraday’s suggestion that the moulding processes used on the sculptures would have removed all such evidence (Jenkins 2001b, 16).16 Consistently identified in the early reports as having been particularly severely affected are Figure G, the head of Selene’s horse and the Helios group – all from the East Pediment. Jenkins (2001b, 24–8) also attempts to identify the areas affected based largely on any general blunting of surface features observed. He admits, however, that this is in part speculation: ‘It may be wrong to presuppose that such blunting, the creation of an artificial sfumato, must necessarily all be the results of the 1930s cleaning’ (Jenkins 2001b, 24). The use

14

15

16

See images: https://blog.britishmuseum.org/paint-and-the-parthenon-conservation-of-ancientgreek-sculpture/ 23 May 2018, Kasia Weglowska. Accessed 11 August 2020. See images: https://blog.britishmuseum.org/paint-and-the-parthenon-conservation-of-ancientgreek-sculpture/ 23May 2018, Kasia Weglowska. Accessed 11 August 2020. As Jenkins (2001b, 17) has also noted is true of the frieze from the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus.

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of photographs to compare the condition of the sculptures before and after the cleaning has its place but changes created by light and shade make comparisons inherently difficult. Photographs taken before the cleaning are also black and white, making identification of areas covered by the orange-brown patina tricky. As with the frieze comparisons discussed in Chapter  4 perhaps we can again here look to plaster casts for further information. John Boardman (2000, 247) has suggested that: ‘The only safe comparison is with good plaster casts from which the physical appearance of the marbles can readily be judged, though not of course their coloration’. The white plaster casts will also not reveal the extent of the patina, but, as we have seen in Chapter 4, can provide detailed information on surface texture and morphology. Boardman (2000, 250) points particularly to the head of Selene’s horse, including a comparison with the nineteenth-century cast in Oxford: The weathered and discoloured surface of the marble often resolved itself a pattern of harder ridges and softer furrows, perhaps a millimetre lower, following the natural strata of the stone. On some places in the background to the frieze these have been smoothed away, leaving somewhat incongruous flat areas beside the rough. It has also happened on some figures . . . Only detailed comparison with early casts can be decisive on these points. It seems to appear on the muzzle and reverse side of the horse of Selene from the east pediment where the cast shows the rills, but now there is a somewhat smoother surface. The original surface . . . is now perhaps a millimetre lower than it was.

Jenkins (2001b, 24) disagrees that the muzzle of the horse was affected, commenting that such claims ‘are indicative of how little this problem has been understood’. But he continues that ‘The back is, however, rubbed.’ In the final part of this chapter, I will explore whether the plaster cast of Selene’s horse created before the cleaning and acquired from the British Museum by the Ashmolean Museum may help us to understand the impact of this incident. Following the example of the previous chapter, the use of 3D imaging is investigated to see if this can quantify the extent of any surface damage. The horse of Selene, goddess of the moon, was widely copied and cast through the nineteenth century, becoming one of the most iconic of the Parthenon sculptures (Fig.  5.5). The flared nostrils, gaping mouth, veined face and sinewy neck suggest a palpable, barely-contained energy. Belonging to Selene’s quadriga, the horse formed part of the sculptures of the East Pediment with the gods bearing witness to the birth of Athena. The horse became a popular subject for drawing (Figs 5.3 and 5.4) and Haydon (1960, 114) had been particularly mesmerized by it:

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. . . the Elgin Horse’s head . . . [is] a perfect example of what the highest genius will do, when curbed & guided by science. Here is the highest degree of fire . . . I never look at that horse’s head but I fancy I see the Artist in a fury fix his chisel at a point, and with a blow rip round with the rapidity of lightning – and top – he then changed his direction and with another blow ran along the verge of incorrectness with perfect security – again checked his fire – where he ought. In an instant that furious eye started from the stone – the next moment the nostril, the mouth, the jaw, and every muscle that ought to move trembled on the marble.

3D imaging of the horse’s head was conducted using the same equipment, procedures and software as that used for the frieze and described in Chapter 4. The results, however, are much more complex and difficult to interpret. At the Ashmolean Museum, the plaster cast was moved from its display plinth to a separate room to allow as many angles as possible to be captured. At the British Museum, however, it was not possible to move the heavy marble horse nor to remove the metal barrier fixed around the plinth; scanning had to take place in the Duveen Gallery in a short space of time before the museum opened to the

Fig. 5.3 Head of a Horse, after the Parthenon by Eugène Delacroix (c. 1825). Pen and brown ink, over a little black chalk on laid paper.

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Fig. 5.4 Studies of Horses (after the Elgin marbles). Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux. 1871. Black and white chalk on brown paper.

Fig. 5.5 Head of horse from the Parthenon, British Museum. Albumen silver print by Adolphe Braun c. 1865.

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public in the morning. This meant that it was not possible to capture all angles of the horse. Consequently, there is some missing data in the 3D images, particularly around the open mouth and the top of the head, as it was not possible to get the scanner to the necessary angle to capture these sections. Once the 3D imaging was complete, the models created of the marble and cast were compared. Figures 5.6 and 5.7 show a comparison of the cast and the marble with a maximum deviation limit of 10 mm. The vast majority of the object is reproduced within this limit. However, this by no means indicates that the cast and original are close: up to a centimetre of difference is very substantial for a finely carved sculpture. The average deviation calculated by this comparison is 3.662 mm: much less than a centimetre but significantly more than that calculated for the frieze– either in the Elgin or the Merlin casts. Is this evidence that the sculpture was ‘skinned’ after all? Perhaps not; the issue becomes all the more complicated when we look at the results of the 3D comparisons in further detail. A key stage when creating these digital comparisons is to align correctly the plaster cast and the marble sculpture. In order to do this, the operator selects a number of matching points, preferably at a reasonable distance apart in order to allow the software to align the two 3D meshes (Fig.  5.8). This step was straightforward when running comparisons of the frieze; selecting different points at which to align the two meshes resulted in negligible difference between the final results, reinforcing the accuracy of these casts. With the horse, however, selecting different locations for the alignment resulted in quite different outcomes to the quantitative comparisons.

Figs. 5.6 and 5.7 Selene’s horse. Deviation map between cast and original (10 mm limit). Image key: Very dark grey/black > 10 mm; dark grey > 7 mm; mid grey > 3 mm; pale grey/white < 3 mm.

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Fig. 5.8 Aligning the scans of the original (left) and cast (right) of Selene’s horse.

The calculated closeness with which the cast reproduces the original varies from alignment to alignment. Different parts of the horse appear more and less accurate in the different comparisons. For instance, in alignments 1 and 2, much of the horse’s forehead deviates between cast and marble by at least 5 mm. In alignment 3, however, at least the lower portion of the forehead is calculated to deviate by only 1.5–3 mm (mid grey in the image) (Figs 5.9–5.11). The bridge of the nose also appears much closer between cast and marble in alignment 3 than in alignments 1 or 2. Looking carefully at these objects, we see that, particularly along the forehead and pointing down towards the bridge of the nose, these discrepancies follow the raised seam lines indicating where the different sections of the plaster piece-mould were assembled to enable casting. Already in Chapter 4, we saw that there are areas present in the casts of the frieze where the different sections of the piece-mould were fractionally offset. Fortunately, in the case of the frieze, this seems to have occurred primarily in the background and the pieces are offset by less than a millimetre. The offsetting is more severe in the cast of Selene’s horse, which as a sculpture in the round rather than a relief would have been more difficult to position perfectly during casting. The lower jaw is misaligned; we can also see (Fig 5.12) that the way the horse’s cheek appears to deviate by more and more to the back of the head suggests that this section was slightly tilted in the piece-mould. The risk of such offsetting was noted by Brigham (1874, 27–8) who commented that one possible ‘defect is where the pieces of the mould are not bound firmly together, and one or more yield to the pressure, and the corresponding portion of the cast is raised or sunk below the common surface’. While the offsetting found in the cast of the horse is more

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Fig. 5.9 Deviation map: alignment 1 between cast and original of Selene’s horse, 5 mm limit. Image key for Figures 5.9–5.11 (maximum limit 5 mm): Very dark grey/ black > 5 mm; dark grey > 3 mm; mid grey > 1.5 mm; pale grey/white < 1.5 mm.

Fig. 5.10 Deviation map: alignment 2 between cast and original of Selene’s horse, 5 mm limit.

Fig. 5.11 Deviation map: alignment 3 between cast and original of Selene’s horse, 5 mm limit.

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significant than in the frieze, it is still slight. Nevertheless, it highlights the potential shortcomings of this method of comparative imaging because it now becomes impossible to provide an accurate quantitative comparison of the entire surface morphology between the cast and the marble sculpture. However, we can still glean some information from the comparisons. The two areas highlighted as having perhaps been damaged during the 1930s cleaning are the back of the head and the muzzle. Unfortunately, the very end of the muzzle and much of the back of the head did not align well. In alignment 3, the closest of those run, we can see that much of the very back of the head, including the details of the mane are here reproduced to within 1.5 mm of closeness between the cast and the marble (Fig.  5.12). Even more of the area around the nose is also reproduced to within 1.5 mm. Furthermore, given the difficulties with aligning the marble and cast, it is reasonable to assume that these are at the upper end of the true deviation between marble and cast; the true deviation between these areas of the surfaces (ignoring misalignment of the piece-mould) may very well be rather less than 1.5 mm. Therefore, although we cannot rule it out absolutely, it is very likely that Plenderleith’s claim of the loss of one-tenth of an inch (2.54 mm) was indeed

Fig. 5.12 Deviation map: alignment 3: side of the head, 5 mm limit. Image key (maximum limit 5 mm): Very dark grey/black > 5 mm; dark grey > 3 mm; mid grey > 1.5 mm; pale grey/white < 1.5 mm.

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Fig. 5.13 3D model of detail of the mane of Selene’s horse (cast).

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Fig. 5.14 3D model of detail of the mane of Selene’s horse (original).

exaggerated. This is reinforced by visual analysis of the 3D models. Jenkins suggests that the areas affected by the cleaning may be identified by a general blunting of the surface features. However, if we compare the details of the mane on the back of the head, there is no clearly observable difference between the marble and the cast (Figs 5.13 and 5.14). Moreover, if we compare the models of the section between the nostril and the eye, where there is some clear surface deterioration in the marble, we find not only that this is also present in the cast but that it seems smoother in the cast than the marble (Figs 5.15 and 5.16). This may well be attributed to material differences between plaster and marble and the level of detail transferred. However, it also suggests that if smoothing of this damaged area did take place in the 1930s, then it was very slight.

Fig. 5.15 3D model of detail of nose of Selene’s horse (cast).

Fig. 5.16 3D model of detail of nose of Selene’s horse (original).

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These results, therefore, indicate that the impact of the 1930s cleaning on the surface morphology of the Parthenon sculptures was minor. Although the manner of cleaning would certainly no longer be employed, it must be considered in the context of its time and the damage caused was less severe than feared. However, these conclusions are not as secure as those drawn for the Parthenon frieze, underscoring potential complications with such comparative use of casts, particularly for objects in the round, and revealing the interdependence of such analysis on the casts being high-quality and accurate reproductions of the originals.

6

An Authentic Source of Evidence?

The previous two chapters have gone some way towards ascertaining the accuracy of the iterations of the Parthenon casts and their usefulness today as sources of archaeological evidence. But how were casts considered in earlier years? We know now that those from the first half of the nineteenth century quite often contained ‘restorations’ in the form of additions, of varying quality, while those from later that same century reproduced the sculptures more faithfully. How does this shift in the materiality of the casts reflect, or indeed promote, changes in how such objects were commissioned, treated and perceived more widely? This chapter will consider these questions through the lens of different concepts of authenticity applied to the casts and the consequential impact on their materiality. I will argue that two parallel, sometimes overlapping, concepts of authenticity developed in relation to the casts through the nineteenth century but that these do not necessarily map onto contemporary understanding of the term. The shifting attitudes towards casts through the nineteenth century can be best understood through their relationship with restoration practices and with other reproductive objects created during this period, notably the sculpturing machine and the photograph. Authenticity is a term frequently referenced when discussing nineteenthcentury reproductions, particularly following Walter Benjamin’s treatises in the twentieth century. In his famous 1935 essay ‘The work of art in the age of mechanical reproduction’, Benjamin situates authenticity only in the original artwork, arguing that the reproduction runs counter to the concept and indeed diminishes the ‘aura’ of authenticity of the original: ‘that which withers in the age of mechanical reproduction is the aura of the realm of art’ (1969 [1935], 4). According to Benjamin, even a perfect reproduction cannot hold the ‘aura’ of the original because it cannot align with the original’s specific existence in material, and in time and space. It is because Benjamin locates authenticity in the uniqueness of a piece that the creation of close copies is believed to diminish the aura of the original. Benjamin’s emphasis on this combination of uniqueness 157

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and originality was certainly a contributing factor to the disparagement of casts through much of the twentieth century.1 However, his theories regarding the reproduction, and particularly its application to casts, have been critiqued following the re-evaluation of these objects beginning in the 1980s with publications like that of Haskell and Penny (1981), which highlight the important role played by reproductions in raising the status of certain original ancient works.2 Mari Lending (2017, 103–4) has recently discussed the idea that Benjamin’s ‘aura’ might in fact be ‘transplanted from the original to the reproduction’ and that such reproductions may have the potential to ‘capture the effects of displaced or fragmented architectural structures, without corrupting a Benjaminian aura’. Indeed, the term ‘authenticity’ is now frequently applied to the reproductions themselves. Marc Fehlmann (2006, 161–72), for instance, writes of the creation of an ‘authentic antiquity’ based on ‘mechanical reproductions’ like photographs and plaster casts. But what does this term ‘authenticity’ mean when applied to a reproduction of an ancient sculpture, and how can it help us to understand its materiality? Today, the idea of an authentic reproduction suggests that it has two particular properties. The first is veracity: that the reproduction should be the ‘real thing’ i.e. if it claims to be a firstgeneration cast of the Parthenon frieze created by the Brucciani company then that is precisely what it should be.3 The second relates back to accuracy: in order to represent the ‘real thing’ then the authentic reproduction should accurately reproduce the original, as far as possible with the technology available. Through the nineteenth century, growing importance was attached to both of these features in the production and physical manifestation of casts. Chapter 4 has already shown the increasing value attributed to the accuracy of casts through 3D analysis of casts made earlier and later in the century. However, there is a wealth of other evidence relating to the cultivation of accuracy during this period and reflected in the materiality of casts. As the role of casts as 3D repositories of archaeological information grew, for example, there was also recognition that the fine surface details captured by the casts needed to be carefully preserved. In 1862 (p. xi), John Charles Robinson, then Superintendent of the Art Collections at the South Kensington Museum, had remarked that: ‘. . . plaster casts are by no means such exact reproductions as is generally supposed; the difficulties of the actual processes of moulding, in many cases, are such as to afford at best but very imperfect and inadequate reproductions of fine works 1 2 3

Benjamin focuses on photography but much of his discussion can also be related to plaster casts. See also the discussion of Falser (2019, 35–8). See discussion of authenticity in Matero 2007, 53.

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of art’. Around this time and in the following decades, growing attention therefore was paid not only to the development of new, more accurate casting techniques, as outlined in Chapter  1, but also to the design of protective treatments for casts, which did not alter their appearance or obscure their features. In the midnineteenth century, a Dr Reissig was awarded a prize by the Prussian government for his formulation of a way to make casts water-resistant by converting the upper layer of calcium sulphate into an insoluble compound such as barium sulphate or calcium silicate. Once treated, a soap solution was applied to the casts to further promote water-resistance and durability. Such developments were key to the care of casts whose soft, porous plaster bodies were easily scratched and disfigured by dirt penetration if left untreated (Brannt and Wahl 1919, 308–9; Payne 2020). Preparation and testing of new casting materials and protective applications was further encouraged in the 1870s by the formation of the German Commission for Consultation on the Treatment and Conservation of Plaster Casts, established under the direction of the Royal Ministry for Education in Berlin (Badde 2009; Payne 2020, 7). Reissig’s work was developed by a Dr Von Dechend, who designed a machine to treat and clean plaster casts (Fig. 6.1). This comprised an adjustable atomizer nozzle attached to a fine spray of hardening and cleaning preparations onto casts of different shapes and sizes. The machine could also produce a stream of air to remove dust from the casts without wiping, thus reducing the risk of staining. By 1885, this apparatus had been installed at many museums across Germany. By 1890, it was in use across the Atlantic at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, and had been ordered by museums in New York, Chicago and Norwich. In Britain, many orders of casts from Germany were sent with notes requesting that the ‘hardening process’ be applied to the casts. As referenced in archives kept at the V&A relating specifically to casts obtained by Walter Copeland Perry in the 1880s for what was then the South Kensington Museum, this process pertained specifically to the work of Von Dechend. At the Science Museum in London, a Dr Hodgkinson also conducted experiments inspired by this work (Payne 2020, 8). These new treatments helped to protect the ‘indexical’ nature of the casts by preventing the need for more hands-on conservation treatments. The idea of the indexical is now commonly used to describe the relationship between sculpture and reproduction, and may be related to the question of accuracy (e.g. see Di Bello 2018, 15). In theory, an indexical technology allows the original touch of the artist to be transmitted directly to the reproduction without the need for any additional, intermediary human layers of touch. Thus, the surface of the sculpture

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Fig. 6.1 Von Dechend patent (Deutsches Patent- und Markenamt No. 31032).

comes into direct contact with the soft moulding material – plaster, gelatine etc., the forms and details of which are transferred exactly when cast in plaster. The importance of the touch of the sculptor came under the spotlight in the later nineteenth century as sculptors were keen to be perceived as master artist rather than labouring artisan (e.g. Hosmer 1864). Again, the term authenticity here crops up, this time with regard to what Angela Dunstan has called the ‘imprint of authenticity’. Dunstan (2014, 10) shows how this perception can be seen in the writings of Edmund Gosse (1849–1928), who viewed touching sculpture and physical evidence of the artist’s touch as a way for the viewer to make a direct connection with the sculptor. Indexical means of reproduction like moulding and casting in plaster therefore held particular value for their ability to convey the artist’s touch.4 These imprints marking the ‘authenticity’ of the original connect with Falser’s (2019, 39) reading of Georges Didi-Huberman’s ‘empreintes’ 4

The ability for bronze sculptures in particular to capture the fingerprints of the artist was a contributing factor in the valuing of bronze over marble sculpture (which could only be worked using hard tools) in this period. It also connects to the value ascribed to the sculptors’ ‘original’ clay and plaster models from which marble sculptures were worked.

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in which: ‘This moment of direct and intimate contact with the original (in the process of translation) imbues the imprint/moulding with authenticity and authority.’ Thus, moulding and casting can present a way in which the authenticity of the original object is ‘retranslated’. Plaster casting was not the only indexical method used for creating reproductions of ancient sculpture in the nineteenth century. There were also newly invented ‘sculpturing machines’. James Watt (1736–1819), for example, designed two machines based on the principle of the pantograph: a sculpture was copied into a soft material like wax, alabaster, plaster or wood, using parallel hinged arms: one attached to a pen to trace the original, and the other to a blade to carve the material for the copy. One of Watt’s machines produced a reduced version of the original and one produced a same-size copy.5 The idea caught the imagination of nineteenth-century inventors and John Isaac Hawkins (1772–1855) designed a similar machine, which was refined in the 1820s by his student, the sculptor and inventor Benjamin Cheverton (1794–1876). This was a reducing machine for the production of miniature copies of marble busts and was quickly applied to those most famous of works, the Parthenon sculptures. Cheverton patented his ‘three-dimensional pantograph’ on 16 January 1844 which was presented at the Great Exhibition of 1851, where he won a gold medal for his alabaster copy of the ‘Theseus’ (Figure D, East Pediment). Very similar machines were developed in France, most notably, that of Achille Collas (1795– 1859) who invented a machine for the copying of sculpture (reduced, enlarged, or equal-sized) also using a pantograph system. Collas’s machine à réduire was patented for fifteen years on 22 March 1837 with additions and improvements registered on 13 June 1838 and 9 September 1840 (Shedd 1992, 37; Di Bello 2018, 23). From 1838, Collas worked with the bronze foundry of Ferdinand Barbedienne. There, as well as for the models of contemporary sculptors, the Collas machine was used for the production of precise bronze reductions of classical sculptures, including those from the Parthenon. Their sculptures were exhibited at the ninth (1839) and tenth expositions (1844) of French industry and Collas was awarded silver medals on both occasions. In 1855, he was awarded a grande médaille d’honneur at the Exposition Universelle for his contributions to the industrial arts (Shedd 1992, 36. See also Barbedienne 1867, 50–9). Casts and the products of the sculpturing machine, often termed ‘machine copies’ were frequently presented side-by-side, unified by their apparently indexical nature and with little discussion of their divergent methods of 5

Science Museum Reducing machine: 1924–79/1935; same-size machine: 1924–792/1924.

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manufacture. Brucciani, for example, one of the largest suppliers of plaster casts in the UK through much of the nineteenth century offered ‘machine reductions’ as well as plaster casts of many different sculptures, as can be seen in the 1864 Catalogue of Reproductions of Antique and Modern Sculpture on sale at D. Brucciani’s Galleria delle belle arti. Similarly, the availability of various reductions is noted in the 1874 Cast Catalogue of Antique Sculpture by William T. Brigham, published in Boston. This is not the catalogue of a formator but a list of casts considered likely to be desirable to those involved in art education with information on where they can be sourced. For example, of the Apollino (Florence) and of the Sandal-Binder (often known as the Cincinnatus (Louvre)) it is noted that casts can be purchased from the Bureau du Moulage, Paris, and machine reductions are cast by Brucciani; both casts and machine reductions are available from Brucciani for the Dancing Faun (Florence) (Brigham 1874, 47, 80, 95). A machine reduction by Barbedienne is also said to be available of the Villa Albani bronze Apollo Sauroktonos (Brigham 1874, 48). The precise nature of the ‘machine reductions’6 and their relationship with the ancient sculptures is left unclear, contrasting strikingly with Brigham’s detailed introduction to the making of plaster casts (Brigham 1874, 25–30). Barbedienne’s were certainly of bronze and made with the assistance of a Collas machine (Brigham 1874, 40); their 1867 catalogue gives a little more detail, noting the mathematical processes ‘les procédés mathématiques’ used to make reductions from the antique using the patents, machines and models of Collas. They note that the reductions are also available in wood, ivory, marble and malachite, all produced using the Collas machine (Barbedienne 1867, 59). Brucciani’s were presumably of plaster and in both cases the reductions would have been made by tracing full-sized plaster casts rather than the original works, as is suggested by the differing locations of the sculptures and the makers of the machine reductions.7 When Brucciani’s catalogue lists ‘Reductions by Machinery, from the Antique’ these must be referring to casts from the originals as ‘from the Antique’, which are distinguished from ‘Modelled Copies’ of statuettes. In general, therefore, such ‘machine copies’ were one step further removed from the originals than the casts.8 Other firms mentioned by Brigham as offering reductions included M. Gherardi (Paris) (see Malone 2016), Servent (Paris), and Garey 6

7 8

Interestingly the catalogue also lists ‘reductions’ in addition to ‘machine reductions’. Whether or not this is a separate category or if the term was just simplified is not absolutely clear. However, given that many are listed as on offer from Barbedienne and Brucciani, the same companies offering clearly stated ‘machine reductions’, we may assume it is a simple contraction of terms. See also Shedd 1992, 40–4 on casts acquired by Collas and Barbedienne for this purpose. On Brucciani casts and reductions see Wade 2019, 50–2.

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(Boston – later taken over by P. P. Caproni and Brother) (see Dyson 2010, 572).9 Similarly, the catalogues of Caproni (e.g. 1894) divide available casts into ‘original size’ and ‘reductions’, providing the West Frieze of the Parthenon for instance in both full and reduced-size. These catalogues similarly provide no information on how the reductions are achieved save for a small note on the Victory of Samothrace, which is said to be a ‘mechanical reduction from the original’ (Caproni 1894, 111). This is in stark contrast to the boasts made by such firms on the nature and high quality of their casts (Payne 2019a, 14–16).10 Although silent on the precise nature of their production, comments on the quality of the reductions are sometimes made in Brigham’s list. For instance, it is written of Charles Townley’s Clytie that ‘Most of the reductions are very poor’ (the names of the firms selling them are not listed) (Brigham 1874, 69). Meanwhile, ‘Excellent reductions are made by Servent in Paris’ of the head of Menelaus discovered at Hadrian’s Villa (Brigham 1874, 37). Even though the prevalence of full-sized casts in surviving collections indicates that these were preferred for educational purposes, Brigham’s willingness to include ‘machine’ works in his list demonstrates that they were in some cases used interchangeably.11 Regarding the Parthenon sculptures specifically, reductions certainly became highly desirable to private collectors with bronzes available from Barbedienne. Fig. 6.2 illustrates the Reclining Fates (Figure L and M from the East Pediment) as restored by Clésinger and copied using the Collas machine, as indicated by the stamp ‘Reduction Mecanique / A Collas’ (Brigham 1874, 120; Barbedienne 1867, 15).12 Photography is another indexical technique invented in this period. The form of an object is touched by light and recorded on a light sensitive surface. The use of light sensitive silver salts to capture images was observed as early as 1725 by Johann Heinrich Schulze and similar experiments were conducted in the 1790s by Thomas Wedgwood and Humphry Davy (Burnett-Brown et  al. 2000, 8). However, it was not until the 1830s that good quality images could be captured. The daguerreotype was introduced in Paris in January 1839 by Louis Jacques Mandé Daguerre and involved fixing an image onto a polished metal plate coated with a uniform layer of light sensitive silver iodide. The plate was 9 10

11

12

I have not yet found any further information on Servent. On the importance of first generation casts/moulding from the originals directly see Wade 2019, 44, 50. As has been noted by Wade (2019, 53), however, this was not the case by the mid-twentieth century, when the accuracy of such reductions was questioned. Collas had also developed a new engraving machine in the early 1930s. A similar machine was invented in Britain by John Bate. The accuracy of these machines was debated, see ‘Abstract from the Report and Minutes of Evidence given before the British Museum Committee of the House of Commons, during the Session of Parliament, 1836’ in the appendix by V. Nolte in Chorley 1838.

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Fig. 6.2 Reduction of the Reclining Fates, East Pediment, as restored by Clésinger and copied by Collas.

Fig. 6.3 Maker’s stamp of Collas on the bronze reduction of the Fates.

positioned into a camera and exposed to light. A hot vapour of mercury was then applied to the plate until an image emerged. To desensitize the silver iodide, the plate was finally put into a hot salt solution and rinsed in water. The daguerreotype process allowed very detailed images to be created, but they were easily wiped away from the plate (for the technical details, see Barger and White 2000). Permanent photographs created on paper were pioneered by William Henry Fox Talbot during the same period. In 1841, Talbot patented his ‘calotype’ process in which a negative image from a camera was used to create multiple positive images by contact with paper sensitized to light using the reaction between silver nitrate and potassium iodide. These paper prints produced much softer, grainier images than the sharp details captured by the daguerreotype, which remained more popular during the very early years of photography (Hunt 1854). Through the 1850s the use of glass-plate negatives and albumen paper, known as the collodion process, replaced calotype and daguerreotype, combining the positive attributes of both to produce sharper, larger and easily reproducible images (Szegedy-Maszak 2005, 340–2). The potential of photographic techniques to record the forms of ancient sculpture was quickly recognized and, like the sculpturing machine, applied very early to the Parthenon and its sculptures. The Parthenon was revered as the embodiment of Greek genius and so made a popular subject (e.g. see Potts 1998, 102). The earliest daguerreotypes of the Parthenon taken in situ were those by Canadian, Joly de Lotbinière, taken in October 1839 and published in Excursiones Daguerriennes (1842–4) put together by Nicolas-Marie Paymal Lerebours

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Fig. 6.4 Plaster casts of sculptures from the Parthenon/Relief antique, moulage en plâtre. Attributed to Charles Nègre c. 1845. Daguerreotype.

(Szegedy-Maszak 2005, 335). Calotypes of the Athenian Acropolis were made in the late 1840s and early 1850s by the British photographer George W. Bridges and the Parisian architect Alfred-Nicolas Normand (Szegedy-Maszak 2005, 340). Daguerreotypes of details of the Parthenon sculptures had been created in Paris as early as the 1840s. Unlike the photographs taken in situ on the Acropolis, however, these were not images of the ancient marble, but of reduced plaster casts, including the miniature versions of the frieze made by John Henning (see the top two rows in Fig.  6.4). Plaster casts like these had a number of advantages. Not only were they more readily available than the ancient marble sculptures but the use of reductions also meant that they could more easily be moved into a suitable light and position, see for instance Séguier’s ‘Still Life with Plaster Casts’ (Fig. 6.5). The play of the light on the delicately cast surface was thought to produce a particularly desirable effect for photography, as noted by Brigham (1874, 25): We may proceed to a description of the processes by which these treasures may be enjoyed everywhere. Photography, although the cheapest means, is also the least satisfactory when taken alone; for, if the pictures are large, the proportions

166 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age are distorted, and the stained surface of most ancient marbles and their position in ill-lighted halls, where it is often impossible to obtain a good view, render the photographer’s work often unsatisfactory. On the other hand, it preserves to us the marking and defects of the marble, and often allows us to distinguish modern restorations and repairs. So a collection of casts should also be accompanied by a collection of photographs of the originals. Those who wish finer pictures will select photographs taken from casts, as casts have a better surface, and can be placed in a better light.

All three of these different types of indexical reproductions were used in close conjunction with each other, unified particularly by the role of the cast, which often played an intermediary role by standing in directly for the original: as subject for the photograph or as the model to be traced by the pantograph of the sculpturing machine. Fehlmann (2006, 164) argues that the choice of casts as subjects for the new daguerreotypes related not just to their ‘material quality’ but their ‘status as worthy substitutes of the authentic’ with plaster itself viewed as an intrinsically authentic material.13 According to Fehlmann’s argument, therefore,

Fig. 6.5 Still Life with Plaster Casts. Baron Armand-Pierre Séguier. 1839–42. Daguerreotype. 13

Here, he draws upon claims regarding casts made in the late eighteenth century by Winckelmann and Etienne Falconnet.

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such use of plaster casts as subjects reinforced the perceived authenticity of early photographs and had the wider impact of ‘fostering the idea of an “authentic” antiquity’ (Fehlmann 2006, 162). According to this purified view, casts were refined objects of form, with their clean white lines and clear areas of light and shade uninterrupted by marble veins or burial deposits and providing a more authentic impression of form than the marbles from which they were moulded. When applied to classical works and to the Parthenon sculptures in particular as the perceived epitome of ancient Greek art, the priority of form represented by the casts was also used specifically to advance the idea that these objects could capture the genius of Greek sculptors like Phidias.14 In the words of Fehlmann (2007, 44), ‘White plaster not only reproduced the physical qualities of the original sculptures in an identical form, it also emulated their material and colour. It implied purity and the essence of the form that was perceived as material evidence of the idea of the “authentic Greek”.’ Such an approach to plaster had an impact that reached far beyond only classical sculpture. Lending (2017, 74–7) has articulately drawn upon Marcel Proust and the range of architectural casts displayed at the Trocadéro in Paris to show that while the original works were subject to the ‘tyranny of the particular’, ‘the cast testified to a more truthful version of the original than the original itself could ever present’. Isabelle Flour (2014, 64–5), working on material from Cambodia, has also written of the ‘authenticating power’ of plaster casts and the ‘reality effect’ that they bestowed upon reconstructions made in this medium based on understanding of the indexical nature of the process. We can probe Lending’s ‘more truthful version of the original’ and Fehlmann’s ‘authentic antiquity’ perpetuated by ‘authentic’ casts a little further by returning to the main idea I linked with the term authenticity, and that is veracity or the ‘real thing’. As mentioned above, casting firms made particular boasts about the accurate nature of their casts, particularly if they were able to create firstgeneration casts from moulds directly from the originals. To meet the conditions of veracity, these claims would of course need to be materially truthful. The high-quality casts produced by these renowned firms held particular prestige and could be recognized by certain physical markers. This sometimes included the presence of fine seam lines (see pp. 6, 100) but well-known formatori also created their own stamps and name plates to be attached to the casts, 14

It is important to note, however, that this view was never uniformly accepted. Colvin (1877), for instance, speaks of the importance of casts for the teaching ‘laboratory’ but emphasizes that the ‘delicacy and partial translucency of surface . . .’ cannot be reproduced in the ‘dead, unpleasant, dull surface’ of the plaster cast (p. 1021).

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providing a legally-recognized cachet (Payne 2019a, 16–18).15 Specific physical markers signifying accuracy and veracity, and presenting a visual language of perceived authenticity, can also be found in photography. Not only were these photographs often taken of the ‘authentic’ casts, lending an additional layer of authority, but Joel Snyder (1998) has also demonstrated how nineteenth-century photographers developed a practice in which sculptures were captured in set composition under standardized light conditions (diffuse daylight). The whole sculpture would be included in the frame, photographed at a right angle to the camera. The numerous interventions made to create these standardized photographs have also been emphasized by Stefanie Klamm (2017). To ensure focus was placed on the sculpture alone, the background would typically be removed. Since the sculptures can be difficult to move and hence were frequently photographed in situ, Klamm (2017, 51) describes how the negatives were physically manipulated, inking around the external contours of the sculpture in black, presenting the object as a pale silhouette, removing any indication of context and reducing any impression of colour differentiation on the surface (see also Snyder 1998, 30). These interventions re-insert the human hand into an otherwise indexical process and do so in a way that reflects the conception of sculpture promoted by the proliferation of the pure white cast – that of an idea of form alone. Thus, the ‘more truthful version’ as a theoretical idea takes physical form in both cast and photograph. In the case of photography, the standardized visual language of physical markers is not just a stamp of veracity but a signifier of scholarly authority; material interventions are adopted to promote a particular view of ancient sculpture.16 Photographs of this sort are well-illustrated in the publications of Heinrich Brunn. Brunn was an influential German archaeologist and principal figure in the collection of both casts and photographs. He used these to facilitate close, comparative examination of sculpture for Kopienkritik, the study of Roman ‘copies’ to try to discover the nature of the Greek ‘masterpieces’ thought to be behind their creation (see e.g. Marvin 2008, 121–67 for a good overview). 15

16

In the 1890s, the Brucciani firm, then owned by Joseph Louis Caproni (c. 1846–1900) won a lawsuit concerning counterfeit Brucciani casts. These had been made by a formator in Manchester named Alberti and some had retained the Brucciani signature on the casts, while undercutting the Brucciani prices (see Wade 2019, 130). However, the legal status of casts was an oft contested issue with inconsistent results. There were also law suits surrounding the works of Collas and Barbedienne in France; their works were found to have been in the public domain because they were made by mechanical means (see Shedd 1992, 36–44). While such markers of ‘authenticity’ in photographs may have helped to identify an ‘authentic antiquity’, the potential subjectivity of photography and its capacity to eliminate context was of course considered by Benjamin to be an argument for the lack of authenticity in photography (Benjamin 1969 [1935] 3–4).

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Photography also took the portability of sculpture to a level beyond even that of the cast, enabling greater circulation through projects such as Brunn’s Denkmäler griechischer und römischer Skulptur, a serial publication commenced in 1888 and consisting of collections of collotypes; his student Adolf Furtwängler published a book of the same title in 1898, followed by a smaller selected edition subsequently published in 1911. Plates 18 and 19 of Furtwängler’s 1911 edition demonstrate that examples from the Parthenon were prime candidates for the silhouette technique. The two images here representing this larger body of architectural sculpture are of the ‘Reclining Fates’ and the ‘Theseus’ from the East Pediment (Figs  6.6 and 6.7). An earlier example following the same mode of composition can be seen in Edward Falkener’s 1860 albumen print (Fig.  6.8). This isolation of the pedimental works into photographs of what appear to be separate, freestanding sculptures was arguably encouraged not only by these new conventions of photography, removing contextual information, but also the already popular reductions of these individual parts of the sculptures. While the photographs gained perceived authenticity though the adoption of these conventions, it is abundantly clear that they are highly subjective, reflecting and promoting the orthodox views of the time. Casts and photographs combined forces to engender these new ‘authentic’, but emphatically not objective, conceptions of antiquity. The question of veracity within this ‘authentic antiquity’, of whether or not an object is what is claims to be, may here be linked to Lending’s notion of the ‘more truthful version’ of the original embodied by the notion of the cast. This regards not just the priority ascribed to material form in casts but the very composition of that form.

Fig. 6.6 ‘Reclining Fates’, East Pediment, Parthenon. Reproduced from Furtwängler (1911, plate 18).

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Fig. 6.7 ‘Theseus’, East Pediment, Parthenon. Reproduced from Furtwängler (1911, plate 19).

Fig. 6.8 Clotho and Lachesis. Edward Falkener. 1860. Albumen silver print.

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In Furtwängler’s 1911 edition, one of the standardized images presented is Myron’s Discobolus (plate 33) (Fig. 6.9). The photograph reverses the paradigm of inky black background and pale sculpture as described above, instead presenting a white background with a darker sculpture (compare Fig. 6.10 for the more typical composition). This convention is adopted throughout the book specifically for the presentation of bronze statues; except, of course, that the Discobolus is not really a bronze statue. The sculpture photographed here is a plaster cast that has been bronzed. No full-sized bronze sculpture of the Discobolus has survived from antiquity and instead this is an attempt to recreate Myron’s ‘original’ from the marble versions that have been found. This cast was constructed not from only one marble sculpture, but is a composite made from at least two. Most of the body is from the Castelporziano Discobolus discovered in 1906, while the head is from the Lancellotti Discobolus. These two sculptures are now displayed next to each other in the Palazzo Massimo, Rome. For the cast, what has been considered the ‘best’ part of each sculpture (i.e. that believed to be nearest to the original) has been selected to reconstruct Myron’s Discobolus, with the surface bronzed for the full effect. The composite cast has been photographed using the flipped version of the image conventions with a white

Fig. 6.9 ‘Myron’s Discobolus’. Reproduced from Furtwängler (1911, Plate 33).

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Fig. 6.10 Le Discobole de Myron. Vatican. James Anderson. 1859. Albumen silver print.

rather than a black background to accentuate the sculpture’s bronzed appearance. It has also been captured at an angle that minimizes the presence of the structural supports, necessary for the marble works but not for the bronze.17 This conjunction of both manipulated cast and manipulated photograph once more underlines the fact that the ‘authentic antiquity’ they exemplified presented a very particular, subjective view of ancient sculpture; that is the emphasis placed by scholars like Brunn on Meisterforschung and Kopienkritik, which stressed the genius of Greek sculptors at the expense of those from the Roman period. Does this cast display the features of accuracy and veracity? On accuracy, I wrote at the beginning of this chapter that ‘an authentic reproduction should accurately reproduce the original’. To some extent, the Discobolus meets this criterion: from visual inspection of the Lancellotti and Castelporziano versions of the sculpture, there is no reason to believe that the subsidiary casts of the different components are not accurate. It also meets the condition of veracity, at least in part: the construction of this cast is explained, albeit in a footnote. As a whole, however, 17

For recent research into structural supports and later efforts put into hiding them, see Anguissola 2018.

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the cast is presenting an object that does not exist, instead conjecturing the form and appearance of a lost Greek bronze. We cannot know if this cast truly reflects what it claims to be. In trying to reach the impossible, to glimpse the lost Greek bronze, however, we may say that it reflects Lending’s idea of casts created to produce a ‘more truthful version’ of the original (in fact, creating a ‘fictitious perfection’) (Lending 2017, 92),18 in this case demonstrating the tendency in that period to value the search for the Greek ‘original’ above all else. The creation of casts such as the bronzed Discobolus was instigated by the success of the notion of this ‘authentic’ Greek ideal advanced through the prevalence of Parthenon casts spread mainly from the British Museum in the earlier nineteenth century. Therefore, there are two main paths that casts of ancient sculpture might follow, two main functions they might authentically fulfil, that become more distinct through the nineteenth century. The first is the accurate, archaeological cast ideally created from a first-generation mould. The importance for this sort of cast to be free from any additions or restorations was increasingly emphasized. If restorations were included then they would often be identified to the viewer, as demonstrated in Edward Robinson’s catalogues of casts from the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston (1887 and 1892). The second path involved the creation of casts not as a record of particular archaeological objects but as tools of conjecture used to recreate sculptures either lost or fragmentary. The bronzed Discobolus is a clear example of this sort of cast. These two potential routes reflect contemporary debates concerning the proper application of restoration. The practice of restoration of ancient sculpture generally became much more restrictive through the nineteenth century. Already in the late eighteenth century, probably influenced by his friendly association with Winckelmann, Bartolomeo Cavaceppi started to formulate explicitly how concerns for historical accuracy might be applied to restoration practice in his essay Dell’ arte de ben restaurare le antiche statue busti, testi cognate (1768–72).19 Winckelmann had also objected in 1762 to 18

19

See also her discussion on casts of the Siphnian Treasury: ‘In fact, some instantly canonical works existed in plaster perfection only. After the French excavations at Delphi in the 1890s, the unearthed artifacts remained in Greece. The Louvre’s atelier de moulage (plaster-cast workshop) boldly translated the debris from the porch of the Treasury of the Siphnians into a Greek monument that premiered at the 1900 Exposition universelle in Paris. Until the modernist refurbishment of the Daru stairway in 1934, it proudly marked the entrance to the Louvre alongside the Nike of Samothrace. This modern French invention – initially a copy without an original – soon travelled to museums around the world, serving to showcase developments in early Greek architecture by denoting a non-existent structure in Greece’ (Lending 2017, 7). See Howard 1992, 53 for discussion. Earlier, in the seventeenth century, Orfeo Boselli in his Osservazioni della scoltura antica also appeared to articulate a preference for restoration sensitive to the iconography of the sculpture; however, Jennifer Montagu (1989, 151–61) has shown that Boselli’s three paradigmatic examples demonstrate that he did not apply these principles in the same way as a modern scholar.

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certain practices adopted by restorers of ancient bronze works, but change was more rapid in the nineteenth century (Winckelmann 2011 [1762], 97). Yet again, the term authenticity appears. Orietta Rossi Pinelli (2003, 62) has written that: ‘By the end of the nineteenth century “authentic” had come to be used in a stricter sense, and had gained a sacred aura.’ This ties in with Dunstan’s ‘imprint of authenticity’, which centres on the physical manifestation of the direct touch of the master sculptor on the original piece. This type of authenticity can, then, be compromised by restoration practices interfering with the original work of the sculptor. This particular construction of authenticity and the corresponding changes in restoration were encouraged by the establishment of the public museum. Pinelli (2003, 62–8) identifies the inception of the PioClementino Museum and the installation of the Parthenon sculptures at the British Museum as having been particularly pivotal.20 In these new settings, the sculptures became historical documents and masterpieces of aesthetics, not just decorative objects. Through Canova’s refusal to restore the Parthenon sculptures and their public display in London, these works marked a turning point in restoration, theorized by Cavaceppi, but now increasingly put into practice. Restoration was not, however, one streamlined discourse. Disagreements arose, epitomized by the figures of John Ruskin and Eugène Viollet-le-Duc on opposing sides; and we can see these two divergent ideas represented in the use of casts in the later nineteenth century. Ruskin was a proponent of the ruin and although he allowed for necessary repairs, he despised any idea of restoration. He wrote of historic buildings in his 1849 publication, The Seven Lamps of Architecture: ‘We have no right whatever to touch them’ (p.  186). For Ruskin, interfering with the ancient fabric of these works would render them wholly inauthentic; he referred to restoration as ‘the most total destruction which a building can suffer: a destruction out of which no remnants can be gathered; a destruction accompanied with false description of the thing destroyed’ (Ruskin 1849, 184). We can see Ruskin’s views reflected in the first path: the drive for accurate casts free from additions and restorations that grew through the nineteenth century and was encouraged by scientific endeavours like those rewarded by the Prussian and German governments for close care of the delicate surfaces. For Viollet-le-Duc, however, restoration was an essential tool to realise the aims of the original maker. In fact, Viollet-le-Duc (1858, 14) took this one stage further, often restoring not to what once was (so far as could be ascertained) but to what he felt was the intention of the designer, whether or not that had 20

See also discussion in Howard 1973 on the Pio-Clementino Museum.

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been physically realized. This type of restoration certainly aligns very closely with the path embodied by the bronzed cast of the Discobolus. That there was explicit recognition of these two routes for casts, and that they co-existed, is embodied by the cast of the Lysicrates Monument at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, discussed by Lending (2017, 57). One half consisted of casts reflecting the monument’s ‘present condition’ and the other half ‘in what is believed by the best authorities to have been its original state’. These were additionally distinguished by a ‘slight difference in color’. Such use of casts stretches back to the small models made in the late eighteenth century by craftsmen like Jean Pierre Fouquet, but were now created at full scale (see p. 21). The two paths represent the extremes, as do Ruskin and Viollet-le-Duc. There was, of course, crossover between the two: at what point does a restoration become a reconstruction? While the casts discussed in previous chapters generally sit on Ruskin’s side, at the accurate end of the scale and becoming even more so as the nineteenth century progressed, many other Parthenon casts can be situated in the grey area between the two. Perhaps the most famous, widely spread casts of the Parthenon frieze were those of John Henning, which were also the subjects of some of the earliest daguerreotypes. These plaster casts were not moulded directly from the original. They were instead reduced versions of the frieze. Yet they were also not created through use of one of the new sculpturing machines, an indexical process for the production of accurate copies. Rather, Henning carved slate moulds by hand and then cast them in plaster (Fig. 6.4: top two rows).21 Born in 1771, John Henning (Fig.  6.11) was the son of a carpenter and architect based in the Scottish town of Paisley. In his youth, he also trained as a carpenter but became quite competent at making wax portraits, initially of and for his friends, but from 1800 as a career; he moved to Glasgow in 1801, Edinburgh in 1803, and then London in 1811. Henning’s arrival in London coincided precisely with Elgin’s increased attempts to generate interest in the Parthenon casts and sculptures now on display at his house in Park Lane through his publication Memorandum on the Subject of the Earl of Elgin’s Pursuits in Greece. Shortly after Henning arrived in London, his friend William Murray managed to get him a ticket to see the sculptures and, awestruck, Henning 21

Henning did, however, employ the services of the new engraving machine invented by John Bate, which traced the contours of the three-dimensional sculptures to create a greater sense of depths in the engravings thus produced. In a letter to William Mure of around 1845, Henning includes ‘A specimen of Mr Bate’s machine engraving . . . my Sculpture after the Parthenon and Phygalian Marbles.’(Quoted by Malden 1977. National Library of Scotland MS 4949 f6). See note 12 above on Bate and Collas.

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Fig. 6.11 Henning with Parthenon Frieze. 1843–7.

requested permission from Elgin to draw and model from them. Despite opposition from the President of the Royal Academy, Benjamin West, who famously commented, ‘My Lord, to allow Mr. Henning to Draw from your Lordship’s Marbles would be like sending a boy to the University before he had learned his letters’, Elgin granted permission and Henning began to draw from them on 16 August 1811 (quoted by Malden 1977). Despite the continued coldness of the Royal Academy, Henning worked on his models and drawings of the Parthenon sculptures (later together with the Phygalian sculptures from the Temple of Apollo at Bassae) over many years, gaining the admiration of many, including Princess Charlotte and King George IV.22 He later worked on larger versions of the frieze with his son. In 1828, they produced a version of the Parthenon frieze for the exterior of the Athenaeum Club in Pall Mall. This was carved in Bath Stone and set to be ‘an exact copy of such parts of the frieze of the Parthenon, taken from Marbles in the British Museum as far as they may be sufficient, as the Committee may decide upon, and the remainder of the frieze to be executed and the mutilated parts restored, from drawings which I agree to

22

Henning, however, suffered greatly through pirating of his work, for which he had not gained copyright protection. See Henning’s testimony (British Museum 1836, 493).

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make from those made of the E. frieze on the spot by the artists employed by Lord Elgin, and from the fragments in the British Museum’ (From a letter to Decimus Burton from John Henning Junior, 28 July 1828, Athenaeum Club [quoted by Malden 1977]). Sculptures were also produced for the Hyde Park Arch, as well as for display in internal contexts, including half-sized casts made for Osborne House on the Isle of Wight (Wall 2008, 113).23 These were emphatically not indexical reproductions. As indicated in an 1820 advertisement, Henning’s casts aimed to provide a ‘faithful transcript of the originals’ but also worked to include restorations of ‘the same character’ (quoted by Malden 1977). This meant that he could present the frieze in a continuous, complete state filling in missing parts, restoring any damaged features and adding new parts to aid the flow of the design. John Malden (1977), for instance, identifies some entirely ‘imaginary additions’ to the North Frieze. Henning wrote in a letter to A. T. Symington (8 November 1847. Paisley Museum) that he used drawings of the sculptures, as also mentioned above: ‘My principal difficulty was Drawing the fragments correctly and having accomplished this I was enabled to bring into their natural position; this I could not have accomplished without the assistance of Jean Carry’s Sketchs done about two years previous to the destruction of the Temple; these sketches are very incorrect I could have any trust in them except for the general arrangement of the procession’ (quoted by Malden 1977). It is fairly clear that Henning’s casts are of a different category to full-scale casts moulded directly from the Parthenon sculptures. His hand-carved moulds, efforts to complete damaged and fragmentary areas, and changes to the composition to suit the frame (whether in his popular reduced friezes or the larger scale versions created for architectural settings), mean that his casts undeniably embody an imaginary idea of the overall impression of the Parthenon sculptures as they once were rather than an accurate reproduction of the archaeological pieces. In this sense, his casts lean more closely to the second path 23

Wall (2008) gives various instances of casts commissioned from Henning and also from the British Museum via Westmacott. He suggests that Henning may have created casts from the original Parthenon sculptures, since he was given permission to draw and model (as was Haydon). He also theorizes of Westmacott: ‘One possible scenario is as follows: he took a set of moulds from the Elgin Marbles, from which he produced a first set of casts. He then employed his skill as a sculptor to in-fill blemishes and make good missing features. From this “restored” version a second set of moulds was made.’ (p. 105) He suggests this in light of a ‘restored and idealised’ (p. 105) version of the frieze found at Terling Place in Essex. Wall notes that in Nicolas Pevsner’s Buildings of England, he writes of the neo-Greek room at Terling Place: ‘Its chief decoration is a Frieze by J. Henning Senior’. Wall comments that this cannot be one of Henning’s because it is full-size rather than half-size; this is supported by correspondence in the archives showing that it was from Westmacott. Wall (2008, 205) suggests that these sculptures were made with the assistance of a pantograph.

178 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

and to the ideals of Viollet-le-Duc. However, Henning’s close study of the ancient marble sculptures and use of other available recordings like Carrey’s drawings mean that they do not fall to quite the same extreme as the bronzed Discobolus – they are based on significant, extant material evidence. Henning’s casts were also created relatively early in the nineteenth century when these discourses were still developing. As Fehlmann has argued, they gained a certain air of ‘authenticity’ based on the very plaster from which they were made and were widely circulated not just as reduced casts but within daguerreotypes. Their ability to provide a complete sense of the Parthenon frieze, whether or not wholly accurate, was valued and one of Henning’s letters suggests that the British Museum had by 1847 incorporated his friezes into a display of a model of the building by R. C. Lucas (Letter to A. T. Symington from John Henning (Senior), 1 November 1847. See Wall 2008, 134–4; Malden 1977). Fehlmann (2006, 167) points out that Henning’s casts were also used as models for the prints produced by Achille Collas of the Parthenon frieze for the volume of Trésor de numismatique et glyptique edited by Paul Delaroche and published in 1836.24 Another important set of casts of the Parthenon sculptures, created a little later in the nineteenth century, were those made for the Crystal Palace at Sydenham. Designed by Owen Jones and opened in 1854, the Greek Court at the Crystal Palace naturally contained a display of casts of the Parthenon frieze, including sections from the north, east and west sides. These were full-sized casts that followed scholarly interpretations to reconstruct sections for which the originals were divided between Athens and London. In size and composition, therefore, we may say that there is a keen concern for accuracy, but this accuracy is again very much measured against the idea of what the frieze once was rather than its contemporary condition. This extended not just to the reconstruction of separated fragments but to the physicality of the casts representing these pieces. It was reported of the casts that ‘greater portions of the figures of the frieze have been skilfully restored by Signor R. Monti’. This practice was subsequently described in greater detail by Jones (1854, 17), who stated: The casts obtained from the British Museum were first fixed in their place; the missing portions were then supplied, by inserting casts of portions of the frieze found perfect in other parts of it. Thus, when a head, hand, or foot was wanting,

24

These engravings by Collas were apparently made against the wishes of Henning (see p. 12 in ‘Memorial of facts connected with the history of medallic engraving and the process of M. Collas’ by V. Nolte, appended to The Authors of England. A Series of Medallion Portraits of Modern Literary Characters, engraved from the works of British artists by Achille Collas with illustrative notices by Henry F. Chorley. London: Charles Tilt, Fleet Street, 1838).

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a cast was taken of a head, hand, or foot, where found perfect, and then inserted. So that this frieze, although not an absolute reproduction of the original, is as nearly as possible all Greek. This restoration was confided to Mr. Raffaelle Monti, assisted by Franz Mitterlöchner and Andreas Grass.

Therefore, rather like the Discobolus, pieces from separate ancient works were employed to create the appearance of a uniform, idealized whole. Moreover, while the Discobolus was bronzed, the frieze at Sydenham was ‘coloured in different ways to show the various opinions that are entertained respecting the Polychromy of the ancients’ (Scharf 1854, 93. See also pp. 11–12). Jones (1854, 20–2) had the background of sections of the North Frieze painted blue, the horses of the foreground reddish, and those of the background grey; the figures were coloured with flesh tones (rather than leaving the bare marble as a ‘skin’), their hair gilded, and their draperies of pale blues and pinks. Part of the frieze is just visible in images by Philip Henry Delamotte (Figs 6.12 and 6.13). A similar colour scheme of this same section of frieze was later adopted within Pheidias and the Frieze of the Parthenon (Fig. 6.14) by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, who is thought to have visited the Crystal Palace (Nichols 2015, 111).

Fig. 6.12 Views in Greek Sculpture Gallery, Niobe and her Family. Philip Henry Delamotte. c. 1859. Albumen silver print from glass negative.

180 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

Fig. 6.13 Room of Classical Reliefs and Sarcophagi. Philip Henry Delamotte. c. 1859. Albumen silver print from glass negative.

Fig. 6.14 Pheidias and the Frieze of the Parthenon. Lawrence Alma-Tadema. 1868–9.

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The fact that the ancient Greeks had applied colour to their sculptures slowly gained acceptance (e.g. Semper 1834) but the Sydenham display confronting visitors with the reality of full bright colours came under fierce criticism.25 Jones went so far as to issue an ‘apology’ in which he underlined the experimental nature of the applied polychromy, but also its basis in sound archaeological evidence. Indeed, Jones’ (1854, 7) argument that the sculptures were entirely painted ‘that neither the colour of the marble nor even its surface was preserved; and that, preparatory to the ornamenting and colouring of the surface, the whole was covered with a thin coating of stucco, something in the nature of a gilder’s ground, to stop the absorption of the colours by the marble’ is a theory now supported by some of the most recent research into ancient Greek polychromy. Similar, recent experiments can be seen in the travelling ‘Bunte Götter’ (‘Gods in Colour’) exhibition, based on the most up-to-date scientific analyses (Brinkmann et  al. 2017). Nevertheless, we can see that these Sydenham casts certainly fell between the two extremes. While perhaps based initially on a more indexical process and thus closer to the accurate, archaeological cast than Henning’s reductions, the finished products are again conjectural of a lost idea of the original work (however evidence-based) rather than reflecting an objective transfer of the form and surface qualities of the materially known original. Authenticity, therefore, is a multifaceted and evolving term, but with regard specifically to plaster casts of classical sculptures, we can see that by the end of the nineteenth century there had developed two distinct ways in which such objects might be considered authentic: the accurate, archaeological cast and the conjectural cast reconstructing a lost or fragmentary original. These categories were not always clear and distinct but shifting and overlapping. The materiality of a particular cast and the methods used to make it are key to our understanding of these authenticities. The authenticity appealed to by the formatori manifested through their use of first-generation moulds, precise casting techniques, and physical branding of their worth. This type of authenticity corresponds clearly to both of the qualities discussed at the beginning of the chapter and necessary to a contemporary understanding of authenticity: accuracy and veracity – a close portrayal of the ‘real thing’. The role of the second group of casts of classical sculpture, the reconstructed casts, was promoted by the primacy ascribed to the genius of Greek sculptors during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries but also encouraged by

25

For discussion, see Nichols 2015, 74–7, 187–8. Nichols (2015, 87–123) also explores ideas of authenticity surrounding the reconstructions and casts at the Crystal Palace.

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the rise of the cult of the fragment and the growth of derestoration in the latter end of this period. As the importance of the untouched original grew,26 casts provided a safe medium in which to experiment with form and colour. Both these and the accurate casts may now be viewed as authentic products of their own time, embodying different approaches to classical sculpture and acquiring historical significance. However, while this latter group of casts were, at the time of making, sometimes considered more authentic because of their ability to present what an esteemed original Greek sculpture might have looked like when made, this intention would exclude such objects following a strict interpretation of contemporary understanding of authenticity with emphases on accuracy and the ‘real thing’. Not only is there also now a much more critical approach to this idea of the original Greek ‘masterpiece’, but the very idea of a pure expression of the sculptor’s intent as contained within the ‘original appearance’ of an object has been revealed as largely false. Frank Matero (2007, 52), for instance, has emphasized the transience of such an ‘original appearance’ which, if present at all, would have altered even through its ‘natural life use’. Moreover, while plaster was in earlier years considered an intrinsically authentic substance, reservations were projected onto the authenticity of even the accurate, archaeological casts as scientific techniques for materials analysis advanced and became increasingly widespread through the twentieth century. The growing insistence on material authenticity through the twentieth century, encapsulated by figures like Walter Benjamin and Cesare Brandi, is not the only reason for the decline of plaster cast collections but it is an important one.27 The very properties which had been extolled were now reasons for its decline. The plaster casts, often appearing visually to be so close to the originals – yet so different in material – were now deceptive, false. Casts had been lent authenticity through their inclusion in museum collections, but now they were ejected. We see in the 1930s, for instance, the meticulous removal of all incorporated plaster cast fragments from the British Museum’s display of the Parthenon sculptures leaving only the material ‘real thing’. These remain removed; other reconstructions endure, such as that at the Basel Skulpturhalle, but this is wholly of plaster. It is very clear then that our understanding of authenticity can shift and may even be applied dissimilarly to different sorts of object at the same time. Yet 26

27

This concerned not only restoration but also handling of the objects, which was increasingly forbidden – see Di Bello 2018, 14. See Matero 2007 for discussion on Brandi. Benjamin (1969 [1935] 3), for instance, commented: ‘The presence of the original is the prerequisite to the concept of authenticity. Chemical analysis of the patina of a bronze can help to establish this . . . The whole sphere of authenticity is outside technical – and, of course, not only technical – reproducibility.’

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perhaps the weight often now placed on authenticity is something of a red herring and indeed a remnant of the cult of the original fragment. While we may now recognize a more discursive interpretation of authenticity as understood in previous centuries, it is important to emphasize that we do not need to force objects into continued categories of authenticity in order to appreciate them. As Elizabeth Pye (2001, 60) has argued, significance and authenticity are not the same thing. The two may overlap but an object, such as a cast, does not need to be ‘authentic’ in order to be ‘significant’; nor does a lack of authenticity mean an object must be ‘fake’.28 The casts unquestionably have historical significance and certainly it is important to gain understanding of how various concepts of authenticity have been applied to them; however, we do not now need to label casts as ‘authentic’ in order to value them, or we have not learnt from the single-minded prioritization of the ‘original’.

28

On fakes, see Jones 1992.

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Closing Remarks

The past chapters have explored aspects of the historical and archaeological significances of casts, enlightened by the results of 3D imaging. Recent discourse has started to emphasize the status of casts as important historical objects, reflecting through their very materiality a specific and partial view of the sculptures and monuments they purport to represent, rather than an accurate 3D archive of the archaeological record. Of course, this is true. However, casts are not one homogenous group of objects; they were created by different makers, at different times, with different materials, following diverging principles, and were constructed for different clients and functions. Casts of the Parthenon sculptures were particularly numerous and found all over the world; this book has examined only a tiny portion of them; there remains considerable scope for future work to bring these collections together. Many casts were intended for display but others, the British Museum’s ‘store casts’ for example, performed different roles. The specialists working at Berlin’s Gipsformerei are now also very clear that their particular collection is distinct from others. Their casts, or ‘models’, as they prefer to call them, are considered tools and are materially distinct from the casts offered by the institution to others. Most casts supplied by the Gipsformerei are produced from these models rather than the originals to which they pertain. Such diversity of casts was attested at the Near Life exhibition, celebrating the 200th anniversary of the Gipsformerei;1 displayed were casts made in the ancient world, nineteenth- and twentieth-century casts and models including anthropological casts, casts from nature, and casts from sculpture, as well as contemporary art objects (Tocha 2019). A number of the Gipsformerei’s models were presented, including a crocodile cast directly from life, probably at Berlin’s zoo. As explained by Fabian Burg (pers. comm.) of the Gipsformerei, this piece had to be supported in a very particular way for exhibition; it could not hold its 1

Near Life. 30 August 2019 to 1 March 2020. James-Simon-Galerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin.

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own weight since the head was cast solid. The object was never designed for display but was kept in storage in separate parts; new casts made from it for distribution would be cast hollow, again emphasizing the material diversity of these objects. This range of casts appeals to Lending’s (2017, 29) comment: ‘When looking at different editions of casts, we see neither a perfect reproduction salvaged from the destructive work of time, nor a replica documenting a monument at a particular moment, but irreproducible historical objects, impregnated with age value.’ This book further confirms her statement but adds greater nuance. Taking our examples of casts from the Parthenon sculptures, we have seen on one side that even those casts with the most ‘archaeological’ origins i.e. those made on site and not extensively restored and reworked to provide the conjectured appearance of the ‘original’ when first made, may contain small adjustments and additions introduced by the formatori, excluding them as perfect reproductions or wholly accurate replicas. These altered forms of the sculptures gained credence through their spread far and wide both in physical form and via photographs, acquiring perceived authenticity even if, as discussed in the last chapter, this is not necessarily a helpful term to apply to the casts. P. P. Caproni’s 1902 booklet Art for Schools opened with a wide array of photographs of schoolrooms furnished with casts, most often of the Parthenon Frieze. Many such casts were dismantled or neglected through the twentieth century but some are now being rediscovered and their historical value reassessed, as recently demonstrated at Surbiton High School.2 These are casts of the West Frieze, including the additions made by the formatori. Similarly, we find in the 1906 catalogue of the New York moulding company Castelvecchi, a cast of Parthenon NXXXVI displaying the very same alterations as found in the British Museum’s cast. Its cast of WVIII also contained the now lost head of Figure  15, but the heads of Figures  22 and 23 of WXII appear damaged as in the 1872 cast and the original. There is no question that such casts are historically significant and ‘impregnated with age value’. However, the suggestion that they do not document a monument at a particular moment is worth further investigation. The comparative 3D imaging conducted for this project has shown that certain of the later nineteenth century casts do accurately reflect the morphology of the sculptures from which they were cast; even in the earlier casts which display a greater propensity for alteration by the formatori, such interventions are often identifiable if not by the naked eye then by 3D analyses, with the bulk of their 2

See https://classicalsocietysurbiton.wordpress.com (accessed 20 August 2020).

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Fig. 7.1 Cast of North Frieze XXXVI, as advertised in Castelvecchi (1906).

surfaces providing an accurate reflection of the original. Historical casts must of course be viewed with a critical eye, but many do have demonstrable archaeological value, even if they are not straightforwardly accurate replicas. Newly developed techniques, especially comparative 3D imaging, have allowed us to appreciate the multiple layers of significance encapsulated within casts and to demonstrate with greater precision their full potential as examples of skilled moulding and casting, and as archaeological records of changing condition. The casts form an early counterpart to modern use of 3D imaging to track changes in condition over time; they are also objects from which we might learn in this respect. 3D technologies are similarly subjective and prone to alteration and artificial completion, with varying degrees of transparency, as researchers like Valeria Vitale (2016) have highlighted. With better understanding of both, we can bring these different types of reproductive technology together, the analogue and the digital, to enhance and extend further in time (past and future) our understanding of monuments like the Parthenon. Just as the preservation of digital data is now a challenge so is the continued conservation of the casts.

188 Casting the Parthenon Sculptures from the Eighteenth Century to the Digital Age

What is absolutely clear is that the surfaces of the casts were meticulously produced and imbued with meaning, representing the casts both as historical objects and as archaeological records. 3D imaging can aid our interpretation of these surfaces but cannot fully encapsulate them, nor is 3D printing currently sensitive enough to render details as fine as those found in the casts. Through the twentieth century, rather than cleaning them properly, many surviving casts were coated with multiple layers of thick paint to freshen up their appearance, but which obscured their fine surface details (Payne 2019a, 31). The British Museum’s Parthenon casts escaped the worst of this twentieth century period of neglect, but many casts around the world were lost, damaged or destroyed. This undid much of the work of nineteenth-century archaeologists, many of whom had acquired casts specifically as a means of recording vulnerable finds and which were cared for following considered programmes of research and innovation, as led by Von Dechend et al. Conservators must now be aware of the dual status of the casts and, in particular, the fact that any intervention made to disturb the morphology of the cast’s surface may interfere with its capacity to retain accurate details of the object from which it was moulded. The filling of damaged areas is especially problematic. The addition of material to smooth abrasions and fill losses can more accurately resemble the visual appearance of the original when moulded; however, this is a fabrication rather than achieved directly through ‘indexical’ transmission. Since the damaged surface also no longer correctly reflects the object when moulded, whether or not such interventions are considered desirable or appropriate will depend on the history of the casts in question and the curatorial aims of the collection. A cautious approach should be favoured. For instance, during the recent conservation of casts of twelfth- to sixteenth-century sculptures from Polish castles and churches, where the originals have in some cases been lost, a considered decision was made not to restore serious losses. This was, in part, because there were uncertainties over precisely which losses related to the casts and which to the originals from which they were moulded. However, for aesthetic purposes, small losses along the joins of attached fragments were filled (Klosowska and Obarzanowski 2010, 111–14). This remains a trade-off; it is arguable that even such small losses should be left to reduce meddling with the historical surface; however, the treatment decision must also take into account the fact that filling certain losses can help to prevent further decline: already damaged edges are particularly vulnerable to further deterioration. In either case it would be valuable, if possible, to conduct detailed 3D imaging of the casts to ensure that a record of their current form is preserved in digital, if

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not, material form. If interventive work, such as filling, is conducted then it is essential that this is comprehensively documented. This documentation (textual and visual) should include pre-treatment condition, post-treatment condition, and the techniques and materials used during conservation (Moore 2001). The role of casts as documents is, of course, not limited to those from the Parthenon. For instance, around 500 moulds and models at Berlin’s Gipsformerei relate to objects now lost or damaged (Fabian Burg, pers. comm.). Therefore, by affording casts a careful programme of academic investigation, scientific analysis and conservation treatment, they will have the best chance of preserving and communicating their unique range of significances.

190

Appendix Model Breuckmann 3D Scanner smartSCAN-HE C4 – 4.0 Megapixel

System Camera sensor Camera resolution Projection unit Projection resolution Light source Luminous intensity Minimum measuring time Sensor weight Power supply Control unit Operating system

b/w, CCD, FireWire® IEEE 1394b 2 × 4,194,304 Pixel (2,048 × 2,048) Miniaturized Projection Technique 28,723,200 Pixel (6,144 × 4,675) 50 W High Power LED (white) 550 ANSI Lumen 1s 4 kg AC 110/230 Volt, 50–60 Hz 150 W, USB 2.0 Windows 7, 64 Bit

Fields of View Triangulation angle Base length Working distance Fields of view Field of view size Measuring depth X, Y resolution Resolution limit (Z) Feature accuracy

27 degrees 470 mm 1,000 mm 400 mm 285 × 285 mm 220 mm 140 μm 16 μm 25 μm

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Index 3D imaging advantages and disadvantages 76–7 deviation maps 85–6 Gaussian curvature 86–7, 100–2 mean curvature 87, 125–7 previous applications on Parthenon sculpture 77–8 structured light scanning 83–5 types 74–5 see also Parthenon (3D imaging of West Frieze; 3D imaging of Selene’s horse) 3D printing 75–7 Acropolis Museum 16, 78, 146 see also Parthenon Akademisches Kunstmuseum, Bonn 28, 44, 123, 125 Alma-Tadema, Lawrence 179–80 Altieri, Giovanni 21 Antiquities of Athens (Stuart and Revett) 21–4, 62, 121 n.7 Ashmole, Bernard 13, 52 Ashmolean Museum 2, 79, 148, 161 Aubert-Dubayet, Jean-Baptiste Annibal 25, 27 Balanos, Nicholaos 16, 66, 69 Barbedienne, Ferdinand 161–3, 168 n.15 Benjamin, Walter 157–8, 168 n.16, 182 Bonomi, Joseph 29 Boardman, John 2, 80–1, 148 Brandi, Cesare 141, 182 Brigham, William T. 5–6, 11, 152, 162–3, 165 British Museum conservation measures 136–44 display of Parthenon sculptures and casts 16, 49–52 Duveen Gallery 52–3, 138, 142, 144, 149 Egyptian casts 29–30, 72

further acquisition of casts 49, 51–3, 57 Gallery 18b 53, 129 purchase of Elgin Collection 3, 16, 45 see also Parthenon Brucciani (firm) 162, 168 n.15 Brucciani, Domenico 20 n.1, 57, 73 Brunn, Heinrich 168–9, 172 calotypes 164–5 Canova, Antonio 1 n.2, 44, 63, 134, 147, 174 Caproni 163, 168 n.15, 186 Carradori, Francesco 5, 7 Carrey, Jacques 120–4, 178 Carter, Howard 73, 75, 141 Cassas, Louis-François 21–2, 24 Castelvecchi 186–7 Cennini, Cennino 5, 19 Cheere, John 20 Cheverton, Benjamin 161 Choiseul-Gouffier (Comte de), MarieGabriel-Florent-Auguste death and sale of collection 28, 50 desire for casts 24–5, 36 left Constantinople 26 relationship with Fauvel 26 removal of original sculpture 47–8 return to France 27 travels for Voyage Pittoresque 23–4 see also Fauvel Collas, Achille 161–4, 168 n.15, 178 conservation 3, 13, 63, 66, 76, 131, 134, 146, 159, 187–9 agents of decay 17, 66–71, 127–8 history of 131–42 minimum intervention 133–4 preventive 17, 132–3, 138–9 remedial 132–3, 139 reversibility 133–4 see also British Museum; Marble; Parthenon; restoration Crystal Palace, Sydenham 178–9, 181 n.25

209

210 daguerreotypes 114, 163–6, 175, 178 Dalton, Richard 121–2, 124 Delamotte, Philip Henry 179–80 Desachy, Leonard Alexander 10 Desgodetz, Antoine 22 Diderot, Denis 5, 8 Discobolus 171–3, 175, 178–9 Dodwell, Edward 47, 61–2, 80 Edwards, Amelia 29–30, 72 Elgin (Seventh Earl of Elgin), Thomas Bruce arrest in Paris 41 early life 35–41 Embassy to Constantinople 16, 35 moulding and casting Parthenon sculptures 29, 36–44 publication 44–5 removal of sculptures 37–9, 41, 46–8 return to Britain, display and selling of Parthenon collection 42–5 sinking of the Mentor 39–41, 63 testimony explaining removal of sculptures 46–8 see also British Museum; Lusieri; formatori; Parthenon Faraday, Michael 137, 143, 147 Fauvel, Louis-François-Sébastien early life 23 excavating and removing sculptures 26–9, 47–8, 63 detention 27 making and shipping casts 24–9, 43–4, 51, 123 return to Athens 27–8, 41 work for Choiseul-Gouffier 23–6 see also Akademisches Kunstmuseum, Bonn; Choiseul-Gouffier; Royal Academy Fehlmann, Marc 124 n.13, 158, 166–7, 178 Fiorelli, Giuseppe 30 Flaxman, John 20, 45, 134 formatori of Elgin (Bernardino Ledus and Vincenzo Rosati) 36, 39, 43, 115 Fouquet, John Pierre 21, 175 Franchi, Giovanni Ferdinando 9 Furtwängler, Adolf 7, 9, 169–71

Index Gedye, Ione 140–1 Gipsformerei, Berlin 7, 185, 189 Giuntini, Lorenzo 30–1, 53 Gosse, Edmund 160 Grand Tour 15–16, 19–22, 43, 47, 121 Hamilton, William Richard 35–6, 39, 41–3, 49, 63–4, 115, 124, 135 Hawkins, John Isaac 161 Hay, Robert 29, 72 Haydon, Benjamin Robert 45–6, 54–5, 63, 148, 177 n.23 Henning, John 165, 175–8, 181 Hoskins, George Alexander 31 indexical technology 159–61, 163, 166–8, 175, 177, 181, 188 Ivanovitch, Theodor 36, 115, 121–5 Jenkins, Ian 1930s cleaning of Parthenon sculptures 143–8, 155 comparison of casts and originals 80–1, 114, 121 display of Parthenon collection at British Museum 49–52 distribution of casts from British Museum 54–5 Jones, Owen 178–9, 181 Laurent, Peter Edmund, 47 Lavoisier, Antoine 10 Le Roy, Julien David 23–4, 62 Lending, Mari 2, 158, 167–9, 173, 175, 186 Louvre 16, 27, 28, 44, 48, 50, 124 Atelier de Moulage 28, 54, 162, 173 n.18 Lucas, Alfred 141 Lusieri, Giovanni Battista 35 n.2, 36, 38–42, 63–4 Lysicrates Monument 26, 37, 41, 62, 80, 175 machine reduction 161–5 Malpieri, Alessandro 51 marble cleaning 137–8, 142–7 patina 68–9, 74, 143, 145–8

Index Pentelic 17, 27, 67, 103 pollution, effects of 67, 69–71, 137 see also conservation; Parthenon Martinelli, Napoleone 32, 57 Maudslay, Alfred 30–1, 33 Mazzoni, Matthew 55 moulding and casting clay additions 43, 114–22, 124–8 gelatine 7, 9–10, 73, 86 gutta-percha 7, 32 silicone rubber 9, 73–4 wax/resin 7, 32, 43 hydraulic/steam casting 12 plaster piece-moulding 5–9, 32–3, 44, 72, 86, 100, 114, 152, 154 risks 71–4 seam lines 6–7, 9, 44, 86, 100, 115, 119, 152, 167 squeezes 31–3, 72–3 see also Flinders Petrie (clay moulding) Nasciambene 29, 72 Newton, Charles 18, 50–2, 57, 73, 79, 81, 128, 138 Nisbet, Mary 37, 41–2 Papera 42, 86, 115 Pars, William 121 Parthenon 1930s cleaning 144–8, 154–6 3D imaging of West Frieze 87–120, 125–9 3D imaging of Selene’s horse 148–55 condition 57–62 conservation at British Museum 137–8, 142–4 drawings 120–5 history 13–16, 46, 48, 57–62, 64–5, 70, 120–2 photography 164–5, 169–70 pigment 77, 103, 147 restoration 15–16, 44–5, 59, 63, 65–6, 69, 70, 73 vandalism 47, 51, 89, 103, 113 see also Acropolis Museum; British Museum; Elgin; Fauvel Pausanias 14, 29, 133–4

211

Petrie, Flinders clay moulding 25, 43 cleaning 146 conservation methods 139 damage caused by moulding 73 opinion of restoration and use of casts 139–40 plaster casting 32 squeezes 31 Phidias 13, 24, 45, 63, 133, 167 Pittakis, Kyriakos 16, 65–6, 69 plaster material and chemical properties 10–13 protective treatments 159–60 see also moulding and casting Plenderleith, Harold 140–6, 154 Pliny 10, 133 Pole, Thomas 11–12 Primaticcio, Francesco 19, 54 n.13 Reissig 159 restoration 63, 66, 73, 77, 114–15, 124, 131–6, 139–42, 157, 166, 173–5, 177, 179, 182 see also conservation; Parthenon; Ruskin; Viollet-le-Duc Royal Academy 20, 123–4, 176 Ruskin, John 174–5 Sarti, Pietro Angelo 55, 73 Scott, Alexander 140 Skulpturhalle, Basel 16, 53, 77, 121, 124, 182 Smirke, Robert 43, 47, 49, 62, 64 Smith, Arthur Hamilton 17, 35 n.1, 113–14, 144 Smith, Cecil 52–3 Soane, John 21–2, 25 Soldani, Massimilio 19–20 South Kensington Museum 9, 20 n.1, 158, 159 Surbiton High School 186 Townley, Charles 21, 163 Vanina, Peter 20 Victoria & Albert Museum 2, 73, 159, 171. see also South Kensington Museum

212 Viollet-le-Duc, Eugène 174, 175, 178 Von Dechend 159–60, 188 Watt, James 161 Westmacott, Richard 55, 72, 177 n.23

Index Westmacott, Richard (Jnr) 73, 137–8 Wilkinson, John Gardner 31, 72 Winckelmann, Johann Joachim 166 n.13, 173