Conservation Treatment Methodology 1453682112, 9781453682111

Table of contents :
Acknowledgements
Introduction
The Methodology
Introduction to Section I - Characterizing the Object
Chapter One – The Characterization Grid
Chapter Two – Quadrant I - The Physical Examination
Chapter Three – Quadrant II - The Role Of Science In Object Characterization
Chapter Four – Quadrant III - Non-Material Aspects of the Object
Chapter Five – Quadrant IV - General Cultural Information
Introduction to Section II – Establishing the Goal of Treatment
Chapter Six – The Concept of the Ideal State
Chapter Seven – Values Analysis, the Timeline, and the Ideal State
Chapter Eight – Determining the Realistic Goal of Treatment
Chapter Nine – Preservation and the Goal of Treatment
Chapter Ten - Traditional Conservation Concepts and the Methodology
Introduction to Section III - Choosing a Treatment
Chapter Eleven – Choice of Treatment Materials
Chapter Twelve – Choice of Treatment Methods
Introduction to Section IV – Documentation and Treatment
Chapter Thirteen – The Purposes of Treatment Documentation
Chapter Fourteen – Creating Treatment Documentation
Chapter Fifteen – Doing Treatments
Selected Readings
Footnotes

Citation preview

Conservation Treatment Methodology Barbara Appelbaum

Barbara Appelbaum Books New York

ISBN 1453682112 ISBN-13: 978-1453682111 Copyright © 2010 Barbara Appelbaum

All rights reserved. Barbara Appelbaum Books 444 Central Park West—Suite 18C New York, New York 10025 212-666-4630

Table of Contents Acknowledgements Introduction The Methodology Introduction to Section I - Characterizing the Object Chapter One – The Characterization Grid Chapter Two – Quadrant I - The Physical Examination Chapter Three – Quadrant II - The Role Of Science In Object Characterization Chapter Four – Quadrant III - Non-Material Aspects of the Object Chapter Five – Quadrant IV - General Cultural Information Introduction to Section II – Establishing the Goal of Treatment Chapter Six – The Concept of the Ideal State Chapter Seven – Values Analysis, the Timeline, and the Ideal State Chapter Eight – Determining the Realistic Goal of Treatment Chapter Nine – Preservation and the Goal of Treatment Chapter Ten - Traditional Conservation Concepts and the Methodology Introduction to Section III - Choosing a Treatment Chapter Eleven – Choice of Treatment Materials Chapter Twelve – Choice of Treatment Methods Introduction to Section IV – Documentation and Treatment Chapter Thirteen – The Purposes of Treatment Documentation Chapter Fourteen – Creating Treatment Documentation Chapter Fifteen – Doing Treatments Selected Readings Footnotes

Acknowledgements The premise of this book is that it is possible to discuss conservation treatments in a general way, without reference to a specific object. That idea has been brewing in my mind since early in my career. I recall reading case studies of treatments of a variety of objects during my training and trying to figure out what they had in common. Those first steps started me on the long road that led to this book. The way was paved when I received a Samuel H. Kress/FAIC Fellowship for Advanced Conservation Publication in 1997. The Kress has shown extraordinary patience with us slow-writing conservator/authors, and kept supporting the program even at times when there were few actual books to show for the effort. We have a lot to thank them for. I also owe a debt to Sarah Rosenberg, who worked with me as Chair of the AIC Publications Committee in the early 1990’s to create the grant proposal that became what we now simply call “The Kress.” Conservators are a generous group of people, always passionate about their work, and always happy to talk about it. By and large, they are innovative thinkers, eager to embrace new ideas as well as new materials and techniques. The ideas in this book came out of dozens, if not hundreds, of invaluable conversations with colleagues. Inspiration came from their drive to do the best job possible and from their doubts and difficulties as well. Conservation publications and presentations at professional meetings provided needed doses of reality to the theoretical structure I was working in. So this book is a group effort. Special thanks are due to my long-time business partner, Paul Himmelstein. Paul is always willing to indulge my musings about conservation theory – and to put them into practice. His attention to ethics and his kindness to

clients and colleagues alike are a reminder of why we do this work in the first place. I am also exceedingly grateful to Dr. Robert Feller, who carefully read the technical chapters to comment on my use of scientific principles. He also prodded me, with great tact, toward greater clarity in writing. Dr. Feller’s work forms much of the scientific basis for the field of conservation, for which we are all in his debt. I hope the book meets his high standards. Thanks are also due to the many conservators who reviewed portions of the text. Patsy Orlovsky and Dan Kushel have been enthusiastic supporters whose energy and optimism encouraged me to keep going. Irene Brückle, Dr. Salvador Muñoz Viñas, Martin Burke, and Chris Caple read the first few chapters and provided invaluable suggestions. Writing, even in a specialized field, should be clear to any well-educated person. Ronald Slusky, a published author in his own right, but a patent attorney, not a conservator, moved me in the direction of precise organization and reader-friendly language. Critical readers willing to suggest improvements after pointing out what needs to be improved are rare, and he devoted countless hours to doing just that. Many thanks, of course, to my family, who have had to listen to my musings about how the methodology of conservation can be applied to real life. Working daily on the strange and wonderful things that come into my lab is a fabulous job. I am grateful to my clients for putting their trust in me. And I am also grateful to the scores of people I know in only one limited way – through the things that they made. Barbara Appelbaum January 2007

Introduction We conservators have a difficult job. We work on a wide variety of things for a wide variety of owners while following ethical restrictions they are largely unaware of. We devote our professional lives to preserving for all eternity objects that we think of as the world’s patrimony, even while the objects’ custodians use them, exhibit them, and sometimes love them to death. We treat world-famous art as well as family possessions that no one outside the family cares about. We treat ten-ton chunks of stone and microscopic threads of long-dead fungi. The objects we deal with have unique physical characteristics that are virtually impossible to discern, but few of us have access to scientific testing that would help us to understand them. We depend for our livelihoods on custodians who have no idea of what conservation is about and no way to distinguish good work from bad. We often feel pulled in several directions at once. We want to do what custodians ask – make old stains go away or make a fragile artifact safe for a world tour. But we shy away from any treatment that might affect the object adversely, even if on a microscopic scale, and even if changes would not be apparent for a century or more. On top of that, we agonize, afraid that we are making the wrong choices, and are sometimes frozen into inaction by the fear of being criticized no matter which choice we make. If we “fix” signs of age, we obliterate the object’s history, but if we do not, we are not respecting the creator’s intent. If we do a more invasive treatment, it may not be reversible, but if we do less, the object may remain vulnerable to damage. Our uncertainty about whether we are making the best choices is only getting stronger as our profession takes on the care of an increasingly diverse

variety of projects in an ever-widening range of settings. Further complicating the task is a post-modern intellectual climate that asks such questions as: What does “better” mean? What is art? Do the cultural prejudices of our Euro-centered post-Enlightenment mindset taint our decision-making? How do conservation ethics fit into a multi-cultural world? Conservation training is material-based, and yet our dilemmas are not primarily material ones. We can spot paint cleavage at twenty paces. We know how to fix rips and remove grime from fragile surfaces. But the most difficult questions are not about what we can do, but what we should do. Codes of ethics say that conservation treatments should be “appropriate.” Appropriate to what exactly? We have no training, no terminology even to address these “non-material” aspects. Much of the terminology and concepts used to discuss non-material aspects of objects in this text are informed by readings in the social sciences, a rich source for insight into human beings’ attachment to objects.[1] A few simple axioms lay the groundwork for the non-material side of conservation work the way that principles of the hard sciences underlie the material side: (1)Objects have different meanings to different people. The differences are derived from culture, individual personality, social class, and the personal connection of the owner to the object in question. (2)Institutions that own objects give them meanings based on their missions and programs. (3)The meanings that objects hold for their custodians, and for society at large, affect the desirable goal of treatment.

The Methodology There are no clear lines that define for all time and in all cases the boundaries between proper and improper conservation treatment. Each object and its context must be evaluated individually, and every decision involves value judgements. This book presents a way through the morass of conflicting demands and difficult decisions that face conservators every time they take on an object for treatment. It describes a systematic methodology for conservation treatments of all kinds that addresses all of the issues relevant to treatment decision-making. The methodology consists of eight steps. They are: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

Characterize the object; Reconstruct a history of the object; Determine the ideal state for the object; Decide on a realistic goal of treatment; Choose the treatment methods and materials; Prepare pre-treatment documentation; Carry out the treatment; Prepare final treatment documentation.

Much of the novel material in this book lies in the first four steps. Those steps involve gathering, analyzing, and organizing a wide range of material and non-material information. They lay out an explicit and mutually agreedupon foundation for the more technical decisions to follow. Steps 5 through 8 are the daily bread of practicing conservators, and are the subject of most of the conservation literature related to treatment. Step 1 is object characterization. This involves not only the standard physical examination but also an inquiry into the values the object holds for the custodian and other stakeholders, and an investigation of other culturebased information.

Reconstructing the full history of the object in Step 2 leads to the choice of the ideal state of the object in Step 3. The ideal state is the past state of the object with the most meaning for its current owners and serves as the foundation for the realistic goal of treatment established in Step 4. Once the first four steps are complete, we are prepared to plan, and then execute, a treatment. Without these steps, we risk arriving at a treatment that, although perhaps technically flawless, may not be appropriate for a particular object or its custodian. A particular strength of the methodology is its protocols for incorporating non-material issues in treatment decision-making. Conservators tend to be most comfortable in the realm of the practical, trading information about materials and techniques, tools and equipment. Aspects of treatment decision-making relating to the intangible aspects of objects are seldom made explicit. Typical treatment documentation focuses on what is “wrong” with an object, and how those “conditions” can be fixed. That focus slights questions of a different kind: What does the custodian want the object to look like? Should it be made to look as much as possible “like new;” or decidedly not “like new;” or (as many custodians express it) just “better”? What does “better” mean? Should various kinds of damage be repaired and hidden, or are they desirable signs of the object’s history? In general, what bearing does an object’s history have on its treatment? The methodology systematically addresses these sometimes unsettling questions by looking at the underlying nature of conservation treatment and its effect on objects. A treatment is an interpretation chosen to enhance the meanings for which the object is valued and to accommodate its intended future. That interpretation is based on one of its past states – its ideal state. Many of the issues that inform the decision-making process fall into the gap between the material world of conservators and the cultural world of the humanities, and therefore do not fit the common terminology of either group. The text introduces terminology to fill that gap, and to facilitate communication both among conservators and between conservators and “outsiders.”

A particular focus of the methodology is the multiple roles of custodians in treatment decision-making. Custodians are the source of important information about the object and its history. They also supply information on their future use of the object, their aesthetic preferences, and the resources available for the job and for post-treatment care. The conservator must, in turn, furnish custodians with information sufficient for them to make informed treatment choices. The methodology’s systematic approach to the needs of owners, custodians, and other decision-makers helps conservators refine their treatment goals and work with those unfamiliar with conservation. The eight steps of the methodology represent a new way of organizing much of what we conservators already do. Parts of the steps are carried out by many conservators some of the time. However, a single uniform decisionmaking process has never been suggested before, and the book’s terminology for many familiar concepts is, likewise, new. The methodology provides a way to assure that all relevant issues are addressed explicitly, and in every treatment. This benefits the object, the custodian, and the conservator. Universal applicability The methodology addresses the broad spectrum of issues that arise across all conservation practice, independent of specialty, setting, and object use. Although conservators working on different kinds of objects tend to focus on different issues, all those issues have potential application to all objects. The methodology combines those issues—and ways to resolve them—into one package. Of course, not every issue drives every treatment, but we cannot know which issues are relevant until we ask the same questions about every object. For example, some ethnographic conservators look closely at the religious beliefs of the culture of origin.[2] Archival conservators focus on preserving information contained in a document while preserving the object itself as well. Art conservators, particularly those who treat the works of famous artists, are interested in what the artist thought about the work, and in the identification of artists' materials. Industrial conservators take a special

interest in the incremental technological advances embodied in the objects they treat. None of these concerns is unique to a single conservation specialty. Many objects from a variety of cultures are religious in origin. All objects contain information as well as having intrinsic value as artifacts. Their creators thought about what they were doing, and chose materials and fabrication techniques from among those available to them, so every object embodies the technology of its time. All of these concerns could be relevant to any conservation treatment. Many issues, like those related to objects in use, cross specialty lines. For example, many Christian religious objects are exhibited in museums as art, but conservators treat some of the same kind of objects currently in use. Understanding how those treatments might differ, and whether those differences apply to objects from other religions would help conservators deal with many issues related to use. The methodology gives particular attention to current use as a driving force in treatment decision-making. Objects of all kinds are used for many different purposes, and the same object can have different uses based on its current setting. Display is a use, but it is a multi-faceted one, since objects can be exhibited for a variety of reasons. Objects in research or archival collections have a different range of uses, although some may be also be exhibited. Private owners have their own needs for usability. In every case, treatments need to accommodate the physical demands of future environments and uses as well as the object’s interpretation. More choices, more answers, better outcomes It was once suggested to the author that the application of a prescribed methodology might make it harder to “think outside the box.” The contrary is the case. Thinking through each conservation treatment from the beginning keeps us from becoming trapped in the box in the first place.[3] There is, in fact, no box.

A single methodology does not mean an imposed uniformity. Asking the same questions for all treatments means finding different answers. We should always ask, “What is the goal of this treatment?” but if the answers are different, then different treatment approaches are not only acceptable, but desirable. Not only does a prescribed conservation treatment methodology not impose uniformity, it actually supports different results appropriate to the many variables that treatments must address. The same object in different settings should receive different treatments based on its differing use and meaning. The conservator’s sensitive response to physical aspects of the objects’ current environment and use, and to the object’s meaning and context, are crucial to optimal treatments. That a particular object might receive different treatments in different settings is not a weakness but a strength. Starting at a neutral point and making decisions from scratch each time produces even more diverse approaches than are commonly seen at present. A student of the author’s once observed, with notable discomfort, that looking at a treatment from many different points of view might mean that there is no one right way to treat a particular object. She was right. But judgements of right and wrong are not appropriate measures of the quality of a conservation treatment. Morality is not the issue. Nor is ethics the issue. Conservators often refer to codes of ethics for guidance, and there is no doubt that ethical concerns define the profession of conservation and separate conservators from the many other people that fix things. However, ethical codes broadly bracket many possible alternatives. They mark boundaries beyond which one should not go, but within which lies a range of ethically acceptable choices. Those choices are not, however, equally appropriate. Ethical codes do not provide the guidance needed to choose from among the acceptable treatment alternatives. And using the language of ethics as a guide to practice has led to the regrettable habit of mind in which, if one choice is right, and therefore ethical, another one has to be wrong and unethical. The language of morality can inhibit reasoned discussion of conflicting points of view.

An open and reasoned discussion about the ways that an object will gain or lose certain meanings by the proposed intervention is more likely to lead to the best outcome. An optimal treatment will rely on explicit decisions shared with all stakeholders, not by the formulaic application of familiar preconceived patterns of treatment. A uniform methodology provides the structured space within which such discussions can take place. The goal of treatment The methodology involves the two major goals of conservation treatment, preservation and interpretation. Preservation is often described as the “primary goal” of the conservation profession[4] and seems to receive more attention. But preservation and interpretation should not – and cannot – be separated. A term that economists use – utility - combines the benefits of treatment in a single measure. Utility is the total of the benefits that people get from objects multiplied by the time span over which such benefits accrue.[5] Simply put, the purpose of conservation treatment is to maximize an object’s utility. The immediate improvement in an object’s state (interpretation) that results from treatment and the span of time over which such improvements will last (preservation) are equal factors in the utility of a treated object: degree of improvement multiplied by time equals utility. The concept of utility is probably as good a measure of treatment quality as we can find. Treatments that improve the aesthetics, usability, or lifespan of an object all increase its utility. Treatment of a book with broken boards makes it readable. Treatment of a fragile mosaic panel that lies flat on a storeroom shelf allows it to be exhibited vertically. Treatment improves the appearance of a stained etching. Slowing an object’s deterioration also increases utility. The overall goal of conservation treatment is to maximize usability and longevity. Use and preservation are not antagonists.[6] An object that cannot be used – for research, exhibition, or any other physical or intellectual use – provides no benefit. Simple arithmetic tells us that an unusable object, even if it lasts forever, has zero utility.

With this claim, the author admits walking on thin ice. Conservators are often criticized – only half in jest – as wanting to lock the world’s entire cultural heritage in a climate-controlled vault. The criticism has some validity. We do want to preserve things for the future. But how far into the future do we have to go before it would be okay for someone to use them? Isn’t now the future that we were talking about last year? The use of objects is not the antithesis of preservation. We can look at questions of preservation and use in a more global way: of all the things that human beings have found or made, some have been kept over many years while others were thrown out. Individuals and institutions want to keep many things, and do not want them to be destroyed any more than conservators do. These “users” are not our enemies. But no one is willing to expend time, effort, and money to preserve rooms-ful of things that are unusable, dirty, or broken. Custodians rely on conservators to make their stuff usable or nicer looking, and treatment is supposed to provide the physical strength to make those improvements last. The goal of treatment is to enhance the values, use, and meaning the object has to its custodians and other stakeholders. Questions of terminology This book uses the term “objects” to describe all the things that conservators treat, even though “object” is used by conservators for a category of three dimensional entities that are not paintings, not works on paper, not textiles, and not a few other things. The text uses the term for everything from paintings, textiles, and paper-based material to ceramics, taxidermy specimens, and skis. There seems to be no ideal solution to this vocabulary dilemma. The term “material culture” is sometimes used to describe the cultural artifacts that others call “cultural property,” “cultural patrimony,” or “cultural heritage.” The terms property and patrimony have been rejected in some quarters as imperialistic and sexist respectively, while “heritage” includes non-material things like songs and dances. “Material culture” includes food preparation,

alterations in the landscape, and changes in animals, people and plants brought about by human intervention. The American Institute for Conservation of Historic and Artistic Works (AIC) has adopted the term “cultural property” rather than “object,” partly as a response to architectural conservators who insist that, if anything, a building is not a single object but a collection of objects. Natural history specimens, both geological and biological, are sometimes considered to lie outside the category of culture. It could be said that the removal of such objects from the natural world and their inclusion in a collection for permanent preservation makes them cultural property. In any case, the phrase “cultural property” is awkward in writing, and the term “object” will be used in the absence of a better alternative. Another dilemma of writing is the use of the personal pronoun. The author routinely uses “she” for the conservator and “he” for the custodian. Looking forward The idea that the conservation profession lacks an overarching methodology and is the worse for not having one is not new. Lelekov, for example, observed decades ago that "[t]he absence of empirically applicable theory in the sphere of museum collections prevents any further progress in this field and leaves it overburdened with huge and quite unmanageable heaps of contradictory theoretical theses and postulates.”[7] Conservators may disagree about the exact nature of a conservation treatment methodology, what it can and should do, and even if such a thing makes sense at all. They should disagree; there is nothing like open disagreement to move things forward. The methodology described here divides treatment decision-making into discrete steps that other conservators can use as a basis for discussion. This should serve to make further the process a bit easier. The practice of conservation is much more than the application of clever material-specific techniques to reach long-ago agreed-upon goals. Our task is the preservation and interpretation of tangible objects that have value to

their owners or to society in general. Carrying out that task requires we that we understand the ways that treatment can affect the meaning of objects, and that we use that knowledge to enhance their meaning. Ultimately, then, the optimal practice of conservation rests not in our hands but in our heads.

Introduction to Section I Characterizing the Object The first step of the methodology is characterization of the object. A full characterization is more than just a physical description. It includes information about both material and non-material aspects of an object—its so-called dual nature. A compilation of this information produces an indepth view of the object in all its aspects. The material aspects of an object relate to its physical characteristics such as component materials, construction, and the appearance of its surfaces. This information comes primarily from the physical examination, a complex process that is a basic part of the conservator’s expertise. In many ways the object is our real client, and we study it in order to learn how to treat it. The non-material aspects of an object relate to its meaning, function or intended use, the owner’s interest in it, the values that society places on it, and various other cultural data that cannot be found in the object itself. Although aesthetics, monetary value, and many other non-material aspects of objects are based on, and refer to, the physical object, they are not derived directly from it, but from human judgements. For example, rarity is a matter of physical fact, but the idea that rarity affects the value of an object is a cultural judgement applied only to certain kinds of objects. Establishing a goal of treatment appropriate to the object and acceptable to all concerned parties invariably requires both physical and cultural data. Emblematic of the dual nature of objects is the caption of a photograph in a published paper about an ivory figurine plagued by efflorescence of soluble salts. The label reads: "Salty Egyptian Concubine."[8] Surely, it was the ivory rather than the concubine that was salty. The dual nature of art has been described by Susan Sontag. “Art,” she observes, “is not only about something; it is something. A work of art is a thing in the world, not just a text or commentary on the world.”[9] All

objects, in fact, are both “something” and “about something.” Their histories reveal changes in both their physical nature and their cultural meaning which interact with each other in complex ways. A useful object, for example, becomes art when moved into a museum, where it is transformed into something to be looked at. But the way museum-goers see the aesthetic qualities of a utilitarian object are partly related to its previous function. Viewers “read” a glass pitcher not only by appreciating its color, shape, and decoration, but also by reflecting on the way it would feel in their hands, the way it would transfer heat, and the way it would pour. An understanding of the interactions between the material and non-material aspects of an object is vital to its successful treatment. The mix of the tangible and intangible is a major part of what makes conservation fascinating. On the one side is scientific fact that can be verified by quantitative research. On the other side are the attitudes of owners and viewers that can only be studied through the qualitative methods of the liberal arts. Conservators need to give both sides their due, while at the same time respecting the boundaries that separate fact from feeling. Misunderstanding may arise if we undertake to treat only the physical object. For example, describing an object as “a bronze” may tempt the conservator to assume that only the bronze elements constitute “the object.” If such an object were presented for cleaning, a natural first step would be to investigate methods used to clean bronze. There is a tendency to jump into technical aspects of how such a process could be carried out rather than questioning the decision itself. What it is exactly that is to be removed, and what preserved? Are all meaningful parts of the object bronze? In the end, some kind of cleaning may prove to be appropriate. However, consideration of both the material and non-material aspects of an object will help to avoid the mistake of, for example, removing an accretion that adds value. Broadly speaking, the dual nature of objects parallels the two primary treatment goals of preservation and interpretation. We take for granted the conservator’s role in preserving the physical object, but the conservator’s role in interpretation is not so obvious. Yet interpretation of an object is unavoidably embedded in every conservation treatment, whether the conservator has a particular interpretation in mind or not. This is why

characterization of an object requires a thorough analysis of its non-material aspects. The way that treatment inevitably embodies interpretation was illustrated during the drafting of the Commentaries to the AIC “Code of Ethics and Guidelines for Practice.”[10] In writing the commentaries dealing with compensation for loss, the drafting committee found it difficult to define loss, because doing so requires defining the state from which loss detracts, something for which conservators do not have a single term. If an object is defined as art and was made by someone defined as an artist, the reference point can be the state at which the artist considered the work to be finished, the so-called “original state.” With other kinds of objects, however, the state from which loss detracts may be a later state, perhaps after users have added purposeful accretions, or after use of the object has altered it in some other way. To complicate the matter, compensation sometimes deals with defects other than loss, like stains or other types of disfigurement. There is no easy answer to what compensation is because there is no simple answer to what constitutes meaningful loss or disfigurement. This, in turn, is because there is no simple definition of the desired state of the object. Every treatment represents an attempt to bring an object to a specific previous state, but the choice of that state is not a foregone conclusion. Ergo, any treatment is an interpretation. What we used to think was straightforward — figure out what’s wrong, then fix it— represents instead the application of a complex set of culturally based interpretations. Past attempts to describe the elusive something that is the desirable state of an object show its difficulty. For example: "Conservation is the means by which the true nature of an object is preserved."[11] The 1963 version of the AIC Code of Ethics and Guidelines for Practice used the phrase "esthetic, historic and physical integrity"[12] while the current (1994) version sidesteps the issue by referring to “unique character and significance.”[13] What could an object’s "true nature" or "integrity" be, and how exactly would one recognize such a thing? This is confounding enough even if we

are only thinking about the object’s physical being, but its non-material aspects make the question even more problematic. Both the physical state of an object and its cultural meaning shift constantly. An object has no single ineffable unalterably true nature. The current state of an object is an arbitrary, random moment in its history, and its previous states are beyond our reach. Again: every treatment is an interpretation. The conservator ultimately bears responsibility for identifying the appropriate interpretation after suitable consultation with other parties, and for devising a treatment that embodies it. The involvement of the conservator with the interpretation of objects and with their non-material aspects is under-appreciated and seldom discussed. In addition, the interpretive aspect of treatment is not routinely addressed in conservation documentation. Acknowledging the dual nature of objects therefore creates certain complications in the training of conservators and their level of comfort with the dilemmas they confront. The material aspects of objects are the primary topic of conservation training and the conservation literature, while the non-material aspects are seldom systematically addressed. Although conservators can be expected to have a certain amount of cultural information from their liberal arts educations, the importance of such an education has not been acknowledged as central to conservation practice.[14] For this reason and others, the text discusses the non-material aspects of objects at greater length than material ones. Conservators have a unique role among the professions that deal with cultural property; they alter the object itself, not just people’s ideas about it. Conservators therefore have a special responsibility to consider both material and non-material information in their decision-making. This is what the characterization process helps us to do. Once a conservator has proceeded through the steps of the characterization, critical points in the object's life will gain clarity. A characterization process carried out at a level appropriate to the object will insure that the treatment proposed and carried out is optimal for the object and for all of the parties who are stakeholders in its future. This approach facilitates the gathering of

all the information necessary to see the object in a holistic way, in the variety of contexts and cultural roles it has held during its lifetime. In short, the goal of characterization is to see objects “intelligently and sympathetically in order to comprehend their entire significance, both intellectually and emotionally."[15]

Chapter One – The Characterization Grid Upon visiting her editor’s office for the first time, the author noticed a large picture hanging on the wall across the room. Due to a certain odd surface texture, the medium was not immediately apparent. Was it an oil painting, a photomechanical print on canvas, or something else? Walking over for a closer look, she asked “What is it?” “It’s the New York skyline,” he replied. If you think that’s funny, you must be a conservator. This story highlights not only the dual nature of objects but also the characteristic bias that we conservators have for one side of it—the material side. This bias must be balanced by attention to the other, non-material, side. Information to be gathered about an object during the characterization involves both its material and non-material aspects. And a complete characterization requires information in another dimension—information not specific to this particular object, but, rather, generic information from outside the object that can be used to enhance our understanding of it. Characterization information can therefore be set into a four-quadrant grid with material aspects on the left and non-material aspects on the right, information specific to the object on the top and generic information on the bottom. This grid is illustrated in Fig. 1. It shows, for each of its four quadrants, the nature of the information to be gathered, the source of that information, and the strategy for getting the information from the source. By gathering the information defined in all four quadrants, we assure that all appropriate information is at hand before decisions are made. The grid structure emphasizes the equal importance of all types of information. It makes explicit the contribution of the scientific literature to object study and reminds conservators that they may need information from outside of the conservation literature. Categorizing information by source helps to assess its reliability, particularly in the distinction between material

and non-material aspects of the object. The grid also underscores the crucial role of custodians in treatment decision-making. Fig. 1. Information to be included in a full characterization

Let us look closer at each quadrant. Quadrant I contains information that is specific to the object and materialbased. This information describes the object’s current physical state. It is generated primarily during the physical examination, sometimes aided by ultraviolet fluorescence examination, raking light, magnification, technical analysis, and imaging methods such as infrared and ultraviolet photography and radiography. Tests on the object itself for cleaning and solubility are other methods for obtaining object-specific material-based information in the characterization phase. Quadrant II contains information that is still material-based but not specific to the object. It involves the chemical properties and physical behavior of the component materials of the object, and often comes from materials science. Another category of information in Quadrant II is the history of technology of the object type and its expected methods of construction. Together, this information enhances the conservator’s understanding of findings from the

physical examination by explaining signs of the object’s creation and phenomena related to aging. The physical exam is a snapshot of the object at a particular moment in time, but data from materials science allow us to extrapolate from the object’s current state both backward and forward in time to produce a picture of the object’s material life. Quadrant III contains information specific to the object but non-materialbased. Particularly important in the methodology is the values the object has held throughout its history and those it has for its current custodian and other stakeholders. Other Quadrant III information concerns the custodian himself, his planned use of the object, and his preferences about its appearance. Yet other information relates to the object’s history. A professional custodian can usually provide most of the relevant information, its significance to the owning institution and references to publications on it. Private owners, on the other hand, differ greatly in the information they are able to supply, and the information that they do have is occasionally mistaken. Private owners may have little knowledge of the object before it came into their hands but know more about the object’s future unless, of course, the treatment is in preparation for sale. Acquiring needed information about privately owned objects can be a challenge, and may require consulting other sources. This takes us to Quadrant IV. Quadrant IV contains non-material information that is not specific to the object. Such information relates to the history of the general type of object under consideration. Also included is a wide range of cultural information: historic attitudes towards objects of the type, the values placed on them by their makers and users, fluctuations in their market value, expected signs of use, historic viewing conditions and lighting, and traditional modes of care. Although acquiring information in this quadrant sounds like a formidable task, much of it is already in conservators’ heads. Knowledgeable custodians can supply some of it. Art history and fields outside of the arts can provide much more. Whatever the source, this kind of information is more important to treatment decision-making than is often acknowledged. Chapters Two through Five discuss the characterization grid in more detail, one chapter for each quadrant. The balance of this chapter provides further insight into why it is useful to keep the grid’s four categories separate in our minds while gathering information about an object.

Material vs. non-material aspects of the object The vertical division of the grid reflects the distinction between the material and non-material aspects of the object - between the physical reality of an object and its aesthetic and other non-material attributes. Clear thinking requires considering each side separately because it is impossible to “see” both at the same time. Examination of the physical details of an object is carried out with a different eye than the eye that takes in an object’s aesthetics. In addition, standards for verifiability are different between physical data and the feelings people have when they look at it or think about it. The overall viewing of an object is often referred to as “reading” it, because the automatic nature of the process is similar to the way people see written text. Anyone who knows how to read finds it almost impossible to see writing as squiggles rather than words. Just as a reader cannot assess the style of a typeface while reading a novel, a conservator cannot appreciate the subject matter or style of an object while comparing the texture of paint applied with a palette knife to the texture of paint applied with a brush, categorizing its crackle pattern, or assessing its percentage of loss. A “reading” of an object cannot at the same instant take in its overall appearance and its detailed physical attributes. In order to examine the physical state of an object, the conservator must put aside the normal gaze and studiedly not read the object as a whole. Focusing on small sections of an object at a time is a way to assure that this shift takes place. Low power magnification enhances the process by revealing phenomena that often become visible with the unaided eye once they are dissociated from their context. Art teachers sometimes produce the same effect by asking students to draw things upside-down. This literal approach to looking is decidedly at odds with the “normal” gaze, but is a well-established phenomenon. The philosopher Arthur Danto asserts that looking at a work of art as a thing is incompatible with seeing it as art. Illusionism in art, he says, requires that the medium become invisible.[16] Anthropologist Jacques Maquet has compared the aesthetic appreciation of an object -- that is, seeing its meaning rather than its physical substance -- to the act of meditation. Both, he says, involve concentration of consciousness, elimination of analysis or cognition, and the absence of self-interest. The

object is seen as a whole, and the subject-object boundary softens. The observer is “only looking,” and is immersed in the experience.[17] Nothing could be further from the detail-oriented focus of a conservator examining an object. But both ways of understanding an object are vital. Curators and other non-conservators sometimes accuse conservators of being cold-blooded in their approach to objects. A physical examination must, however, look at the materiality of the object rather than its art-ness, style, quality, or subject matter. The right side of the grid is the place for those other aspects. The distinction between the material and non-material aspects of an object is paralleled by the distinction between preserving the materials an object is made of and preserving the object as a whole. Unless sufficient attention is paid to the object’s non-material aspects, we may end up preserving the material but not the object’s meaning. Removing an accretion that arose from use, repairing damage resulting from an historical event, or introducing a treatment material that prevents age testing—any of these could negate the purposes of an object’s preservation. Likewise, disassembling something and preserving its parts—something often done with building elements like the paneling of a room—can destroy meaning even if all the parts are preserved. All too often, documentation is not sufficiently detailed to answer all the questions that will arise during reconstruction. Sometimes, the documentation is lost. In either case, the preservation of the object’s value can be compromised even with all its physical elements intact. Object-specific vs. non-object-specific information Equally as significant as the division between the material and non-material aspects of the object is the division created by the grid’s horizontal line—the division between information that is specific to the object and information that is general or generic. The information in Quadrant II (material, non-object-specific) is a mainstay of conservators’ expertise. It includes general knowledge about the properties and behavior of materials, methods of construction, and the history of technology. The contribution of this information to conservators’ views of objects is so routine as to almost escape notice, but it would

probably best qualify as the body of information that conservators uniquely possess. The information defined by Quadrant IV (non-material, non-object-specific), on the other hand, includes general information from art history and other material culture fields as well as history, anthropology and sociology. The importance of this information in treatment decisions is not widely appreciated. Decisions about the treatment of a stone mortar, for example, should be no less informed by cultural information about mortars than by technical information about stone. Without the cultural information in Quadrant IV, the object on our laboratory table sits isolated from all of the objects that share its cultural history. A full characterization places the object in its broadest possible context; limiting the information gathered to what is known about the object at hand can leave us short of that goal. The categories to which the object belongs, identified during the objectspecific inquiries of Quadrants I and III, open the door to the investigations in non-object-specific Quadrants II and IV. In the stone mortar example, we would look on the material side for information on the behavior and properties of the stone and on manufacturing methods for mortars. For the non-material side, we would look for information on how mortars are used and valued in their culture of origin and during their collection history. The combination would lead to an assessment of use marks and meaningful accretions on the object and an ability to separate signs of use from subsequent damage and residue of original use from museum dirt. Defining information relevant to the treatment decision-making process The amount of information that could be gathered on any one object is virtually limitless. Physical descriptions including measurements, construction, and colors; material analyses and characterization; stylistic analyses and comparison to related objects; signs of use and environmental stresses; and the history of the individual object and its type. It is therefore vital to limit the gathered information to what will be useful in treatment decision-making. Non-essential information will make the process more confusing. It might seem that the more we know about an object the better, but common sense dictates that we define exactly what we need to know to carry out a treatment properly. Conservators are seldom paid to do research.

Not all information that can be derived from the examination of an object is directly relevant to treatment decisions; much supports non-conservation concerns, like authenticity and attribution studies or studies of the history of technology. And although much of the art history of an object is irrelevant to treatment concerns, the art history tidbits that sometimes appear in published treatment case studies make it seem that conservators are not always sure just what is and isn’t relevant. This is probably because the purposes that information serves have never been systematically described. Within the structure of the methodology, information gathered in preparation for treatment supports the dual treatment goals of preservation and interpretation. Certainly relevant to preservation is information bearing on an object’s aging. This includes its likely physical response to its environment—to temperature and relative humidity, handling, pollutant gases, physical stresses, etc. Such information helps us predict the behavior of the object during treatment and develop recommendations for its future care. It will tell us whether, for example, an article of clothing can be worn, or a piece of sculpture can be exhibited outdoors, or a painting can be safely packed and shipped. This information is derived from examination and from materials science and the history of technology - Quadrants I and II. Damage and deterioration observed during the physical examination and the results of solvent tests provide information on the object’s susceptibilities. In addition, the history of technology of objects of the same type provides information on the expected methods of construction, and this can be compared to the results of examination. Quadrant II knowledge of the behavior of the object’s materials helps predict the object’s behavior as a whole and augments the physical evidence of that behavior as seen during the examination. Yet another source of Quadrant II information is the conservator’s experience with similar objects, further contributing to the prediction of behavior. Much information relevant to object interpretation comes from the nonmaterial aspects of Quadrants III and IV. A major contribution of the nonmaterial side includes the values history (discussed in Chapter Four). The custodian brings whatever information he has access to, while information

from historical studies on objects of the same type (Quadrant IV) fills in the blanks. Ultimately, interpretation of the object comes from a combination of material and non-material information. Constructing a history of the object —its creation, use, context, and physical changes through time- combines all information available. (This is discussed in Chapter Seven.) Information relevant to both preservation and interpretation can, however, arise from any one of the four quadrants. For example, although the results of the physical examination primarily inform preservation concerns, examination also produces information that will be used in making aesthetic decisions. It should help to explain why the object looks as it does overall: how much of its appearance is intentional, how much due to later changes, and how the overall impression that a "normal" viewer would perceive is related to smaller-scale phenomena that can be identified technically. Conversely, non-material information can be relevant to preservation concerns. For example, knowing that a painting’s owners moved it back and forward between Florida and New York over a period of years would explain signs of environmental stresses observed during the physical exam. Under those circumstances, the painting would have been subjected to major changes in relative humidity as well as to vibration during shipping. Thus paint cleavage that is more extensive than would be expected for a painting of its type and age would not necessarily indicate an unusually sensitive structure but, rather, external conditions. This could be expected to influence treatment choices. Treatment of many objects illustrates the roles that material and non-material information play in interpreting an object. An Egyptian sarcophagus treated in the author’s laboratory appeared to have original (that is, pre-use) repairs on top of which were areas of the design redrawn in an extremely sloppy manner. It seemed unlikely that such sloppiness would have occurred in ancient times. The known history of the object went back only as far as 1920. However, a curator observed to the author that since the sarcophagus did not have the user’s name on it, it was undoubtedly used for a person of relatively low standing. This fact made sloppy repairs before use plausible, and, as a result, were treated as part of the original object.

Information from private owners can be equally valuable. The author was once asked to examine an autographed baseball covered by a yellowish greasy film that obscured the signatures. The owner’s remark that the object had been stored for decades in the bedroom of a chain smoker confirmed an initial suspicion that the film was from tobacco smoke and, given the familial relationship, there was a question of whether the owner wanted it removed. In another case, certain scratches on an old clothing trunk could be attributed to hard use rather than neglect, based on their location on the object and the owner’s report that the trunk had belonged to a grandparent who had carried it over the Rockies in the late nineteenth century. The combination of information from a variety of sources raises the conservator’s level of confidence in the conclusions that will be used as a basis for treatment decision-making. All the information collected and developed during the characterization phase contributes to conclusions about the object's current physical state and its physical and cultural history. Many of those conclusions are a routine result of compiling information. It is not appropriate at this point, however, to decide on a treatment. That decision belongs later in the decision-making process. “Later” may not mean a long time, but, however long it takes, stepby-step methodological decision-making makes the eventual conclusions more reliable.

Chapter Two – Quadrant I - The Physical Examination This chapter concerns Quadrant I of the characterization grid: information on the current state of the material object acquired during a physical examination. The chapter does not provide instructions on how to carry out a conservation examination. The overall purpose of the book—to present a methodology general enough to be applicable to all objects—makes such instruction impossible. The chapter, instead, describes and analyses the phenomena that comprise a conservation examination. One topic that will not be addressed in this chapter is condition. This may seem odd, since determining the condition of an object is typically considered to be a primary goal of examination. Condition, however, is neither a physical fact nor a direct observation. It is a conclusion that comes from a comparison of the object’s current state with some other, presumably more desirable, state. For some objects, the more desirable state is the “original” one. Any alterations since that time become, by definition, undesirable, and the more changes there are, the worse the object’s condition. However, the original state of an object is not necessarily its most desirable one. No one would say that the Liberty Bell is in poor condition because it has a crack. The determination of the most desirable state of an object – its “ideal state” requires serious thought, and is discussed in Chapter Six. There are many different kinds of examination. A registrar’s examination is different from a conservator’s and will yield a different set of observations. The view of an art historian or an exhibition designer will be different still. Conservators have their own ways of looking at an object, and examine objects for different reasons at different times. This chapter focuses on the initial examination carried out in preparation for treatment. At times, direct observation by the conservator will be augmented with the use of analytical equipment. The need for this, however, comes out of the examination itself. Data in themselves do not provide added value.

What exactly happens when a conservator examines an object? Certainly, conservators see things that non-conservators do not. The skill to make observations and to interpret them accurately requires both formal education and supervised experience, and improves with experience. Expert examination of an object involves a complex set of behaviors that quickly become automatic. The question of what actually goes on during a conservation examination is therefore an interesting one. First impressions The information that an object will ultimately yield does not become apparent the instant that a conservator first lays eyes on it. Yet many conservators, particularly inexperienced ones, feel that they should be able to make significant pronouncements instantaneously. The pressure to do so is particularly strong if the custodian is peering over the conservator’s shoulder during the early “just looking” stage; conservators tend to feel apologetic about appearing to do nothing. The temptation to make judgements prematurely must be resisted, however, at the risk of the conservator’s later regret. The lack of bright or controllable light or viewing aids increases the risk of making a mistake, but even under the best of circumstances, quick judgements are often mistaken. The experienced conservator keeps herself from being drawn into speaking prematurely with strategies like uttering a string of hmmm’s, muttering that it will be interesting to look at the object more closely, or promising a written report. The idea that an expert is expected to be able to say something profound at first contact with an object is based on a concept that was expressed, if not originated, by Max Friedländer. He believed that "[t]he first impression is deeper than all subsequent ones,” and that an initial glance at a painting without considering the full complexity of its artistic form produces "inner certainty."[18] Friedländer was referring to judgements on dating, attribution, and artistic quality rather than a material examination. But the idea that first impressions of all kinds are the most valid ones has taken strong root. This notion may be the basis for conservators’ feeling that that any hesitation in making a sweeping statement about an object signals a lack of experience or knowledge.

Whether or not Friedländer’s theory is valid—even in the limited context for which he expressed it—a conservation examination cannot feasibly follow this model. Unlike the assessment of an object’s aesthetic impact, a conservation examination must address its details. Details do not reveal themselves immediately, even to the most experienced practitioner. Once an observation is made, its meaning often seems obvious. But making observations and drawing conclusions involve several separate mental steps that require effort and the application of a great deal of knowledge. All this takes time. It is difficult to describe why this is true, but it is. On the other hand, the initial impression of an object is a crucial piece of data that will be useful during the treatment process. The conservator should therefore make an effort to fix it in memory. Photography will not necessarily capture it. The object may look bedraggled or ridiculously shiny, or the subject matter may be hard to read. The first impression may be the closest the conservator will come to seeing the object as a custodian or other non-conservator does. Since treatment is ultimately supposed to satisfy the eye of the non-conservator, it must address the problems that the object presents to the ordinary viewer at first view, before our professional vision takes over. Conservation training propels us to look for the physical details that prompt our initial response to an object, and to assign probable causes to those responses. From this comes a generalized idea about what the object might look like after treatment which, in turn, comes from a mental compendium of similar objects the conservator has seen or worked with. The conservator may have in mind, for example, the impression given by a large case clock with a suitably glossy surface, as compared to the impression given by a dull-looking clock presented for treatment. The first impression will also be used as a benchmark against which more detailed findings from later in the examination process will be tested. If the first impression of an object is that the surface looks lifeless or blotchy, or that the object gives off an air of neglect, the conservator must identify the physical details that contribute to that impression. The contrast between the first impression of an object—which is more or less the impression of the ordinary viewer—and the view that a conservator takes during an examination is a significant one. Custodians and other

interested parties see an object before treatment and after. Between those viewings, the conservator’s analytical and, one might say, picky, view takes over. As a treatment nears its end, however, the conservator needs to turn off her professional gaze and take on the custodian’s eye again, aided by her mental snapshot of the object before treatment. After sweating over the filling and inpainting of a loss in a flat black area, it is difficult for a conservator to stand back and view the whole object without staring at “that damned spot” even if a normal viewer might be unlikely to notice it. This shift in viewpoints is analogous to the purpose of a raking light -- a way of looking at surface irregularities that is a vital part of the examination of many objects. When a treatment is nearing completion, the conservator must both physically and mentally turn the raking light off. Raking light shows the conservator what must be seen in order to produce an object that looks good when it is not in raking light. The conservator’s first look at an object is an important step in fixing the object’s “normal” appearance in mind. This is a very different way of seeing an object than what is revealed by a physical examination. “Just looking:” the observant state of mind The first step in most examinations is an examination of an object by eye under a bright light, sometimes aided by magnification or other viewing aids like binoculars. This initial consideration of an object often appears to be aimless. It is anything but. There is definitely a period at the beginning of an examination during which the conservator “just looks.” But the conservator does have an agenda, conscious or not. Even while “just looking,” the conservator is corroborating materials identification, determining the physical state of the object, and observing signs of its history and behavior. She is looking for signs of the object's construction, such as brushstrokes, toolmarks, and seams; signs of aging, such as cracks, fading, and surface deterioration; signs of use, such as localized abrasion, scratches, and purposeful accretions; telltale signs of material that is not original, such as incongruities of texture, color, or layering that might signal a discontinuity; and signs of instability, such as flaking paint, broken threads, and undermined wood surfaces. Sight is not the only sense employed during examination. Tactile observations are often crucial, from the temperature-conducting qualities of

a material to the weight of the object. In some cases, the senses of smell and hearing yield useful information as well. Tapping the surface of a painted object can produce a range of sounds that helps to locate hidden voids. Many objects “ring” differently if they have significant discontinuities. Conservators have been known to use their sense of taste on occasion, but do not brag about it. Expectations created by whatever pre-examination information has been collected are cross-checked by a search for anything unexpected. It would seem logical to claim that the beginning of an examination is the conservator’s introduction to the object. There is often, however, an earlier stage that involves the conservator’s predictions about an object based solely on a description of it by the custodian. Either the assumptions or the description may turn out to be mistaken. The search for disconfirming evidence is therefore vital because the treatment itself serves as a reality check. If a conservator sees only what she expects to see, and cannot with wide-open eyes and an open mind see anything else, some stage of treatment may, disastrously, reveal it. The early stage of examination is similar to the stage in phenomenological analysis of data referred to as “immersion.” This is ”the stage of steeping oneself in all that is, of contacting the texture, tone, mood, range, and content of the experience” without a specific goal.[19] The observant state of mind required for this vital step is a capability achieved only after the acquisition of a great deal of knowledge and supervised experience. Observation at this early stage is not linked with the trains of logic required to figure things out to a reasonable certainty. Nor is it associated with the formulation of proposed treatment plans or even with the first-stage interpretation of findings. It is, nonetheless, a crucial aspect of becoming familiar with the object. Examination, especially at the “just looking” phase, cannot be formalized and should not be overly systematic. It has no consistent protocol. An observer who proceeds one category at a time, as if using a checklist, will be working at a disadvantage. An examination is a search for clues, and some of the clues lie buried in the conservator's responses. The examination process requires an expertise that even conservators are only minimally aware of. Emotions and instincts can point to something

hidden. A surface that is shinier than expected, something too sloppy or too regular, something odd or unsettling, may catch the attention. Several areas of careful inpainting together with several sloppy ones, for example, would require some explanation. What will be found during examination is entirely unpredictable, and requires intimate engagement with the object as well as careful preparation that has “mental, physical, intellectual, and psychological dimensions.”[20] Once conclusions are drawn, they seem obvious. They are not. The role of emotion in science is not unique to conservation, and is unavoidably intertwined with more cognitive approaches. Nelson Goodman observes that scientists in a wide range of fields legitimately employ emotion in their investigations, even when their aims are purely theoretical. The objectivity required in science, he notes, forbids wishful thinking, prejudicial reading of evidence, rejection of unwanted results and avoidance of ominous lines of inquiry. Yet the need for objectivity does not forbid the use of feeling in exploration and discovery, the impetus of inspiration and curiosity, or the cues given by excitement over intriguing problems and promising hypotheses.[21] For conservators, the emotional response to an object on first view represents important information. The shift into making specific observations At some point, the “just looking” stage shifts into one where certain perceived details separate themselves from the background noise. The conservator begins a sorting process, focusing in on phenomena relevant to the object’s physical being and ignoring phenomena related to style, subject matter, and other “irrelevancies.” It is important that judgements not be made prematurely. If a narrowing of focus occurs too early, the conservator can miss information vital to understanding the problems that the object presents. On the other hand, if phenomena unrelated to treatment issues are not eliminated from consideration, the result is confusion and increased difficulty in homing in on the real issues. The difficulty of pulling meaningful observations from complex phenomena, establishing a focus that is not too wide or too narrow, has been discussed

elsewhere. "One only sees what one is looking for,” observes Heinrich Wölfflin, “but one looks only for what one can see."[22] The process during which the conservator looks at an object and picks out relevant phenomena for further consideration is at the heart of our professional expertise and uses a major portion of what we know. Before conclusions are drawn, before observed phenomena are even described in words, the relevant phenomena must be identified. Observations gleaned from the examination of an object are central to treatment planning because they are a matter of physical fact and act as a foundation for everything that is to follow. Because of this status, examination-derived observations should be kept mentally separate from all other sources of information, particularly the non-material. The investigation of non-material aspects of the object must be carried out as carefully as the examination of the physical object, but culture-based and personal judgements should be kept separate from physical facts. An appropriate professional stance gives practitioners the skill of detachment, the ability to note their responses as though they were someone else’s. These responses must be taken seriously but must remain in our heads and not imputed to the object.[23] With all the discussions of meaning, aesthetics, use, and interpretation that enter into object analysis in the broad sense, the object is a physical thing first, and its physical existence is the conservator's first priority. Speculations about the artist's intent, for example, may be interesting, and may ultimately bear on treatment decisions down the road, but speculation should not be a part of how we see the physical object. Conservators must learn to separate their own, and anyone else's, ideas from physical reality. Observations from an examination are in a separate category from other types of information because other observers can confirm them. Conservators assessing the same object might disagree on a prediction of the object’s behavior during treatment, or the desirable post-treatment appearance. But observations made directly from the object should not be subject to differences of opinion unless someone is simply mistaken. In any setting where more than one person is involved in assessing the object, this is a clear articulation point in the decision-making process: "Does everyone agree on what we are seeing?" The decision-making process should not move ahead until agreement is reached.

Drawing conclusions Observations from an examination also have to be interpreted before the decision-making process can continue. Once the conservator starts to express observations in words, many of those words unavoidably represent conclusions. For this reason, the dividing line between observations and conclusions is surprisingly difficult to pinpoint. Yet conclusions are subject to reconsideration when new information becomes available, so the distinction is an important one. The correct identification and interpretation of observed phenomena require that conservators have an understanding of the chemical and physical processes linked to specific aspects of appearance. These are vital matters of both seeing and understanding. A few scattered articles help to explain the phenomena of gloss, color saturation, and blanching, and other matters contributing to the appearance of objects[24] and a few explain the phenomenon of “tide lines.”[25] But in general, conservators learn how to proceed from observations to conclusions through supervised experience. Many of the words that conservators use in describing observations are, in reality, conclusions. It is, in fact, surprisingly difficult to describe visible phenomena in neutral terms, without implying causality or significance. Jumping to conclusions in this situation is so ingrained that it is almost impossible to keep our brains from “going there.” The more experienced a conservator is, and the larger the body of similar phenomena she carries in her head, the more readily her observations segue into conclusions, using expert knowledge almost automatically. This is sometimes called a “ladder of inference.” It is a necessary tool of inquiry but can just as easily mislead. The ability to keep an open mind is as valuable as any other single analytical tool at the conservator’s disposal; sometimes even a perfectly reasonable conclusion turns out to be wrong. The difficulty, and awkwardness, of describing a phenomenon without drawing conclusions is illustrated in the following chart, which presents a selection of textural anomalies found on painted surfaces. The first column describes phenomena without (the author hopes) incorporating any conclusory or interpretive terminology. The second column gives the corresponding technical term in common use. The first set of descriptions is

completely different from the terms in the second column, which most conservators would use as if they were direct and irrefutable observations. Drawing conclusions is not automatic when the observed details are complex, but the process of using a variety of clues to arrive at a conclusion is something that conservators do routinely. Suppose an object has a painted surface with certain areas of a different texture than the rest. Usually, the subject matter or design will indicate whether the variation in texture serves a visual purpose that may have been intended by the artist. Examination under magnification or microscopic manipulation will help to determine if one layer overlaps another or if it lies in the same plane as its neighbors. Ultraviolet examination or solubility tests may help to determine if it is of a different medium or age. The presence or absence of cracks may establish which material is older and therefore, presumably, the "original." The paint covering the larger surface area might be assumed to be the earlier one, but this is not always the case. Because conclusions so quickly take on the aura of fact, alternative explanations must be identified and, if incorrect, rejected. At times, new information, further observation, or testing makes even the most solid conclusions look dubious. At that point, the list of rejected alternatives becomes useful again.

Like scientists, conservators should be trained to search for observations that contradict earlier tentative conclusions. Such training is necessary because humans naturally use newly acquired information to confirm existing beliefs rather than as a reason to question them.[26] Replacing this innate tendency with its opposite – critical thinking – must be implanted by training and experience so that it becomes habit. The search for disconfirming evidence is particularly important in an activity like conservation examination that cannot include any normal scientific controls such as blind testing or replication by others. Following a methodology in this situation should not only help to root out errors, but also bolsters conservators’ confidence in their final conclusions. Material identification is an example of observations sliding into conclusions, sometimes without explicit recognition of the shift. In most cases, material identification is so obvious that it seems like a direct observation. The automatic process of recognition of materials can be described as gestalt perception, a process acknowledged to produce correct

results in a remarkably efficient way in a large majority of cases and entirely mistaken ones in the remaining few. Some material identification, like distinguishing among bone, elephant ivory, and synthetic ivory, requires directed attention, but others seem to require none. The question is whether the conservator is open-mindedly observant enough to notice the signs that an initial judgement may have been mistaken. Experienced conservators are aware of specific opportunities for errors, such as mistaking an early plastic for ivory, cementitious material for certain types of stone, and photographs produced by certain processes for original prints or even paintings. It is best to make a habit of considering possible alternatives even though they can usually be eliminated easily. Sometimes observed deterioration is unexpected. For example, a polychrome ceramic that suffers from flaking of the surface that looks like the crackle pattern of a drying oil film may be suspected of having been heavily overpainted. A painting on canvas that has the crackle pattern characteristic of a panel painting may be suspected of having been transferred. A small chip in the rim of a colored ceramic that reveals a white interior may indicate a repair. An observation that may be inconsistent with a previous conclusion should be pursued, even if the conservator is not aware of any alternative explanations. Unfortunately, there is no standard list of possibilities to consult. Confronted with white crystals on the surface of an object, for example, a young conservator might conclude that they are soluble salts. There are, however, several other possibilities, including condensed paradichlorobenzene or other pesticide, crystallized forms of oils or waxes, incompletely removed resin, mold, or a miscellaneous accretion. The current conservation literature contains very few compilations of data of this kind. Words matter Unambiguous terminology and precision in the use of words are important aspects of examination practice. In order to communicate observations and conclusions to others and allow comparison with other objects, there must be agreement on what words mean. Conservators routinely identify observed phenomena with terms like “scratch,” “stain,” and “overpaint.” These words are not simple

observations. They incorporate conclusions based on judgements of randomness, intentionality, the timing of the occurrence in the life of the object, and the desirability of the phenomenon, as well as its precise physical nature. A “scratch,” for example, generally refers to a linear surface phenomenon which is a loss, disruption, or compression of material. It is fairly uniform in depth and width. It has a random – or at least a nonmeaningful -- location and is not intentional, or at least not in any manner related to the object’s creation or legitimate use. (That is, it could be the result of vandalism.) Surface features similar to scratches but intentional, non-random, and part of the object as created might be referred to as an engraved design. Based on the above definition, the term “scratch” could apply to an entirely different phenomenon - the patina of old silver tableware. This consists of an overall pattern of small randomly oriented scratches that scatter the light and produce what many people consider to be a softer and more appealing gloss than that of polished new silver. Even though an old piece of silver is indeed scratched in the literal sense, the implication of the term to describe used silverware would not be accurate, and its use would be misleading. Certain terminology implies the role that a phenomenon played in the history of the object. It may be part of the work as originally created or a consequence of original use. It may be damage or deterioration. “Damage” refers to the undesirable effects of one or more incidents, either intentional or unintentional, while “deterioration” refers to unintentional and undesirable changes in state which are part of an ongoing process. Words like these contribute to the overall picture of the object, its history and meaning, and will lead to judgements about whether the observed phenomena should be preserved or "corrected" during conservation treatment. Observations shift into conclusions in several steps. First, an observation is made, preferably with as little interpretation as possible, e.g., “There is a parallel series of linear discontinuities in a silk textile.” (This assumes, of course, that the conservator “knows” that the textile is silk and not a synthetic that looks like silk.) The conservator next identifies the phenomenon as the result of a form of deterioration typical of certain weighted silks. This conclusion is based on the conservator’s understanding that the discontinuities are the consequence of gradual embrittlement of the

silk threads, due to chemical changes in the fibers, the cells, and, ultimately, the molecules, that make up the textile. The conservator will probably be certain enough of this conclusion that the possibility of a discontinuity being a decorative motif, sign of use, or vandalism will be rejected out of hand. The next step is to give the discontinuities a name: slits, rips, cracks, breaks? The best would be whatever term conservators routinely use. Clarity requires that words representing conclusions be carefully chosen, with all their implications considered explicitly. An observed examination The following was observed by the author at a session of the AIC Annual Meeting. It was not a full or formal examination, but illustrates some of the ways that an examination proceeds. Conservation educator Jonathan Thornton[27] was handed a white plaque several inches in diameter, carved in low relief and backed with a goldcolored mounting. The object had been recently purchased by a conservation student who wanted to know “what it was.” In the half-dark, Professor Thornton held it between his fingers, looked at its edges, and then gave it back to the student, but not before handing it to someone who was wearing eyeglasses in order to learn if there was a maker’s mark on the metal mount. Curious about what had happened, I questioned Professor Thornton later. Describing what he had done first, he said he was "getting a feel for what I think it is.” He noted the object's weight as soon as he held it; he felt that it weighed more than elephant ivory would – a judgement made despite the presence of the metal mount. He then rubbed the white part between his fingers to see how it held the heat from his hands, and looked at the edges for the so-called engine-turnings of real ivory. There were indeed marks on the metal mount: "Italy" and a maker’s mark. With that additional information, Professor Thornton was ready to announce that the object was a "typical cameo setting" of a material not elephant ivory, exactly what he had suspected at the outset. The examination proved his initial impression correct. As a teacher, Professor Thornton has spent a great deal of time thinking about the examination process and shared several interesting observations. One was that if a student asks him questions while he is first looking at an

object, he is unable to respond right away. This confirms the idea that the early stage of examination, “just looking,” is a sub-verbal process. Another confirmation is that Professor Thornton initially described the way the object held the heat from his hands and his search for typical ivory grain markings. Only later in the discussion did he substitute the technical terminology—Rvalues and Schrager lines. Professor Thornton said that students sometimes have a hard time seeing details like Schrager lines, but that naming them seems to give the students the ability to see them more easily. When asked if naming involves drawing a conclusion, he admitted that it is a tentative conclusion, still subject to change based on additional information. Some celluloid ivory substitutes have grain lines; calling them Schrager lines and concluding that the material is real ivory would be a mistake. To what degree did Professor Thornton’s years of experience contribute to the examination process? He explained that he carries in his head detailed information on the geographical and historical distribution of object types and material use. Most of that information, he said, was acquired from looking at objects rather than from books. Japanese netsuke, for example, are made from all kinds of ivory-like materials. In other places, only elephant ivory was used for carving. In still other places, carved objects were made only from cheap imitations. The “Italy” marking on the metal mount served to confirm his early suspicions, based on the feel of the object as well as his knowledge of European practice, that it was not ivory. For experienced conservators like Jonathan Thornton, examination begins with a finite number of choices. When the conclusions from examination conform to the conservator's knowledge of material culture, as they did in this instance, the examiner can be confident of the conclusion reached. If they do not, the whole examination – observations as well as conclusions – must be reconsidered, and additional information may be needed. *** The examination process consists of a period of free-ranging observation, followed by a more focussed consideration of certain selected phenomena. Based on the knowledge and experience of the conservator, observations lead to tentative conclusions expressed in words. The conclusions are then tested by a search for disconfirming evidence and by testing of alternative

explanations supplied from the body of knowledge in the conservator’s head. As necessary, new hypotheses are proposed which are in turn subjected to testing by further observations. The overall time required for this process can be quite short. Yet if any steps are ignored or if the conclusions are mistaken, treatment decision-making can be compromised. Inaccurate conclusions drawn during an examination can irreparably taint the treatment process.

Chapter Three – Quadrant II - The Role Of Science In Object Characterization Quadrant II, the lower left quadrant of the characterization grid, contains information on material aspects of the object that originates from sources other than the object itself. These sources are primarily from the realm of science. Science contributes to conservation in three ways. It provides information, particularly about materials and their properties. It offers analytical and imaging techniques. More generally, science provides a method of inquiry that can be applied to all categories of information. This chapter discusses the use of science as a tool to maximize the information derived from an examination. A major focus of the chapter is a new tool for object analysis – a material aging graph that plots deterioration rates. The graph enables predictions of the object’s future material behavior that can guide treatment choice, and is derived from the work of Robert Feller on material aging. SCIENCE AND THE INTERPRETATION OF PHYSICAL FINDINGS Scientific information fuels the shift from observation to conclusion during the physical examination. It enriches our understanding of the significance of observations, provides the means to make predictions, and can establish some level of certainty about conclusions. Many scientific fields, including chemistry, physics, and materials science, provide information that conservators use to help in interpreting observations. The conservator’s understanding of an object and its behavior is enriched by information like the crystalline structure of metals and ceramics and the way those structures affect an object’s behavior; the rheological behavior of wood; and the responses of materials to light and humidity. Information from the natural sciences - botany, zoology, and geology - also plays a role, as does the history of technology.

Scientific tests and analyses also enhance the interpretation of findings from the physical examination. These include chemical microscopy, refractive index measurements, imaging techniques, and instrumental analysis. The findings of science and the history of technology are indispensable for explaining observed phenomena. Knowledge of the history of technology, for example, allows the conservator to identify certain marks on objects as artifacts of the process of creation. Knowledge of the way an object was manufactured and the way it was used also suggests possible sources of weakness, damage, or deterioration. Such knowledge helps conservators distinguish between signs of use and physical changes from other sources such as damage from handling. Knowledge of science and technology, with the aid of analytical data, is also indispensable in material identification, which is often the first question addressed in an examination. For wood, ceramics, and some metals, the first level of identification is virtually automatic. But occasionally the first impression turns out to be mistaken, and material identification can get surprisingly tricky. Even so, the process described in the previous chapter – staying aware of the trail from observation to conclusions and remaining open to the possibility of errors - should lead to the correct answer. The need for specificity in material identification varies widely. Pigment analysis, for example, is rarely a factor in treatment decisions. Assumptions about paint medium are generally confirmed by solubility tests. In any case, paint solubility may be more of a factor in treatment planning than medium identification. Wood genus may be a treatment factor if the wood is waterlogged, but usually not in other kinds of treatment, and species is seldom a factor at all. Metal identification, or identification of minor constituents in an alloy, may be vital for chemical treatment of an object, as in some methods of corrosion removal, but is usually not important for purely mechanical treatments. The observed phenomena that science helps us to interpret include dimensional changes, like cracking, cupping, warping, and various kinds of distortions. Visible changes and changes in physical properties can often be explained by micro-scale changes such as cross-linking, the release of bound water, and intergranular corrosion. Understanding these processes provides knowledge of the susceptibilities of different materials and their expected

modes of change. This, in turn, allows the conservator to attribute specific physical changes to causal environmental agents. Science also aids interpretation of examination findings related to the appearance of surfaces and colors. This information comes largely from optics. It includes questions of color saturation, gloss, fading and chalking, textural changes, critical pigment volume concentration, and the progression of these phenomena due to the passage of time and environmental exposure. Interpretation of physical findings based on scientific information also plays a role in authenticating the object. It assures us that the object is a bona fide member of the object groups it has been identified with based on its cultural origin and attribution, date, material identification, and expected mode of manufacture. Comparing an object to others in its class provides an extra measure of confidence that the object is what everyone believes it to be. This is not only a matter of detecting outright forgeries, but also of detecting old restorations or reconstructions that may not be accurate, an undocumented previous use, unanticipated materials or structures, and discrepant dates. Scientific fact, then, starts us out by explaining what we see when we examine an object. The addition of technological and cultural data expands our understanding. By building an explicit ladder of inference that others can follow, testing and fact-checking as we proceed, we assure reliable conclusions. For example, knowledge of the chemistry and history of natural resin varnishes can explain artists’ choices at different periods. In the late nineteenth century, for example, some painters expressed a preference that their paintings not be varnished. We know that brushed-on varnishes can obscure paint texture, and that natural resins grow dark and cloudy as they age. Since there was no other choice until well into the twentieth century, we could interpret those artists’ wishes as a desire to retain color and texture rather than rejection of varnish per se. This might affect modern treatment choices since we now have synthetic varnishes that do not yellow. We also know that oil paint layers lose their gloss over time, so a thin layer of nonyellowing varnish actually replicates the appearance of new oil paint more accurately than unvarnished old paint. This dialectic is, of course, only the bones of an argument that could lead to different conclusions in specific

cases. The fundamental concept is starting from scientific and historical fact and proceeding methodically to a reasoned conclusion. Explaining the origin of phenomena seen on an object using scientific knowledge, testing, and technological history, is second nature to conservators. This skill draws on types of information and ways of thinking that are on everyone's list of what conservators need to know. There is, therefore, no reason to describe that process further here. The balance of this chapter concerns the use of science to gain insight into an object's material past and to predict its material future. THE MATERIAL AGING GRAPH Conservation examination involves observations made at an arbitrary point in an object’s life, poised between past and future. In order to make sense of the problem the object presents to us, and to work toward treatment decisions, it is not enough to characterize the object's current material state. We need to understand its past physical life and perhaps, even more importantly, the future it faces. We can re-create an object’s history by comparing what we believe to be its original materials and structure to its current state, and adding into the mix its likely environmental history and the known susceptibilities of its materials. Given a plausible historical scenario, knowledge of the object’s intended future use enables prediction of changes that are apt to occur without treatment and those that will likely occur with treatment, the rate of those changes, and the conditions that promote or retard them. It is not enough to know that a tapestry has rips. We need to judge whether further ripping is likely, over what time frame, and what the potential consequences are for the object as a whole. Nor is it enough to know that some particular changes may occur at some point in the future. It is crucial for the conservator to judge the rate at which material changes in the object have occurred, are occurring, and will occur. This, in turn, means understanding the chemical and physical processes that set such changes in motion. An understanding of rate changes and the circumstances that surround them allows the conservator to predict changes as a precursor to their prevention through treatment. Knowing where the object is in its material life cycle enhances our ability to target treatments to

the objects that can benefit the most, and to do so at the most opportune time and in the most appropriate ways. Consideration of rates of change is not routine practice in conservation. Conservators tend toward a doomsday scenario in which any undesirable change in an object's physical state that might happen at any point in its future is regarded as inevitable, imminent, and disastrous: “This piece requires immediate treatment.” A responsible approach to managing collections distinguishes between the immediate and distant future. Such distinctions do matter. A physical change that is likely to occur within a year should be regarded differently from change that may occur in fifty or a hundred years. It is not enough to predict that a particular condition problem will lead to further damage or deterioration in the absence of treatment. That assessment must be accompanied by some prediction of the time frame involved. It is poor practice for conservators to equate something that is likely to happen soon with something in the indeterminate future because there are other issues at stake. Optimal allocation of resources requires prioritization based on facts. Overview of the material aging graph Rates of change at different periods in an object’s life and their general time frame can be illustrated with a material aging graph. This graph enhances the interpretation of findings from a conservation examination, resulting in a more comprehensive characterization of the object. It can help to predict an object’s future by showing its current state in the context of its full expected lifetime. This graph is a powerful tool in helping the conservator put aging processes into a time-based context. It can also help to explain conservation concepts to non-conservators. The material aging graph (Figure 3.1) is based on a graph published by Robert Feller in his book on accelerated aging.[28] Feller's original graph plots the rate of oxygen uptake for a single organic material taking into account four different chemical pathways. It illustrates a natural course of aging, that is, without intervention, for a single organic material. This book adapts Feller’s approach to depict the course of aging of whole objects by setting aside a strict chemical reading of the phases and simply plotting our

understanding of the rates of change during an object’s known or surmised history. In this common-sense way, we can draw a graph that illustrates the past states of the object, its rate changes, and its possible future, in a general and qualitative way, and without reference to chemical kinetics. This provides a basis for discussion of the agents responsible for the rates of change in different phases. In recognition of the extraordinary contribution Feller’s aging studies have made to conservation, this book sometimes refers to the qualitative material aging graph shown here as the “Feller graph” even though it uses Feller’s quantitative scientific concepts in a metaphorical and decidedly unscientific way.

The concepts embodied in the Feller graph can take us substantially further than simple explanations for the cracks and spots and colors we see on objects. The life script of the object represented in the graph forces the conservator to focus on what has happened to the object and what is in all likelihood going to happen with treatment and without, clarifying the relationship between the aging of an object and its treatment. This, in turn, supports certain strategies of intervention and care. The Feller graph can help to organize information necessary for a full characterization. What was the object's physical state at significant points in

its history? What is its current rate of deterioration and what variables are responsible for that rate? To what degree is the current rate of change due to the object's environment, to its chemistry, or to physical stresses? The graph both sharpens the conservator's understanding of the information at hand and explains the information to others. The material aging graph focuses our view of the object's history, providing articulation points that shape its past. Those points are defined by shifts in the rate of change signaled by observable changes, like the point at which a coating starts to peel, or by detectable but invisible changes like the loss of bound water. Changes in the aging rate can also be due to changes in the object's environment, which may be a consequence of events like discard or a change in ownership. A general graph developed for an object type draws a picture of its whole biography, birth to death. Information from the graph forces into sharp relief the distinction between changes that are likely to occur in the relatively near future and those that, although inevitable if steps are not taken to prevent them, will likely begin only decades or even centuries into the future. This distinction forces us to face the negative consequences of what will happen if we do not take preventive steps, but it also puts them within a realistic time frame. The vertical axis—material integrity The vertical axis of the material aging graph is labeled "material integrity." This parameter is general and qualitative. It is intended to represent in a common-sense and intuitive way the extent to which the material state of the object changes over time. The loss of an object's material integrity in one or more of its parts or aspects is what is meant by "aging." Such a downward trend could also be described as a gain in entropy. The term "material integrity" was purposefully chosen in preference to more familiar terms, like “condition,” “deterioration,” or “value,” in order to counter the tendency to confound the material and non-material aspects of objects. The usefulness of the graph as a depiction of the material life of an object is compromised if we have to decide before drawing a curve whether the physical change it represents is regarded as a good thing or a bad thing.

Although "condition" would appear to describe the physical state of an object, it is still unsuited to the Feller graph. Labeling the vertical axis as "condition" would imply that every downward movement in the graph represents a worsening of condition. But physical changes to an object after its creation, while ordinarily comprising loss of material integrity, are not necessarily undesirable. "Condition" is a subjective assessment that depends on the preferences of the person carrying out the assessment, and condition preferences do not always correlate with the extent of an object's change from its original state. The corrosion of a Chinese bronze during burial is a loss of material integrity but is not ordinarily considered a worsening of condition. The term “deterioration” is, likewise, unsuitable for material judgements. Not all aging is deterioration, and not all changes have negative implications. For drying oils, the initial aging phase consists of cross-linking which allows for a removable application of varnish and slows the incorporation of dust into the film. Other beneficial physical changes include a slight accumulation of air-borne dirt on a sculpted monochrome surface that emphasizes the relief and highlights the object's aesthetic qualities. Some metal corrosion is considered aesthetically pleasing, and some protects the object from more invasive types of corrosion. The term "value" is even less appropriate as a label for the vertical axis of the graph. Value is a complex social construct that shifts constantly with styles, market conditions, and owners, and often does not correlate with any changes in physical state. There is, in addition, no single measure of value, but many kinds of value that can exist separately or in combination. The usefulness of the Feller graph requires that all terminology stay neutral, without the intrusion of any value judgements. The horizontal axis—the phases of aging and their implications for intervention The horizontal axis of the material aging graph represents time only in a general sense. The time periods over which material changes occur vary widely depending on an object's component materials and environment. It may be possible, however, to indicate to one order of magnitude the number of months, years, decades, or centuries over which the various phases of an object’s life may extend for one object or object type, based on some average

mode of existence. We can often specify, for example, a certain number of centuries of burial, or a certain number of lux-hours of light exposure for specific segments of the graph. The demarcations in time most meaningful to a general discussion of the lifetime of objects, however, relate to three time spans, corresponding to the graph's three major phases of aging—the induction phase, the autocatalytic phase, and the autoretardant phase. The first two segments are, however, of primary interest, since the beginning of the autocatalytic phase represents a physical state so diminished that the object may have little remaining value. Very few objects in collections ever reach that point. Given the long-range future of the universe, however, the eventual deterioration of all objects could be said to be inevitable – if well beyond the exceedingly long time frames that even conservators are typically concerned with! To repeat: the material aging graph is not a quantitative device, but a conceptual one. Its slopes are drawn to indicate a general sense of what “fast” and “slow” mean in a particular context. The important elements of the graph are the articulation points between the phases. What events precipitate increases in the rates of change? What does the object look like at the points of change? What will it look like as it moves along the graph? Induction phase As seen in Figure 3.1, the first phase of material aging is the induction phase, during which the object lives with little apparent change. The induction phase is a period of relatively slow aging represented by an almost horizontal line. During the induction phase, the absence of easily observable events can make it seem as if nothing is happening. When physical changes become apparent toward the end of the induction phase, they seem to have come out of nowhere. That is not an accurate picture. The induction phase is characterized by a series of small, not easily noticeable, events that can predictably culminate in visible change. An example of subtle changes during the induction phase is the deterioration[29] of silk, where microscopically observable cracks at the crossover indentations of fibers are early warnings of the onset of brittleness

and therefore of fiber breakage.[30] Another example is the deterioration of nitrocellulose. The onset of deterioration of nitrate films or objects is commonly described as unpredictable. However, off-gassing, an indicator of chemical change, is detectable before changes in appearance or smell are apparent, making it possible to predict the onset of serious deterioration with some degree of accuracy, and therefore to manage collections of this material more effectively. [31] Other precursors of a dramatic increase in the aging rate include the build-up of peroxides in some cellulose ethers,[32] changes in the concentration of antioxidants and ultraviolet absorbers in certain plastics, and the degree of polymerization of linen and cotton. Understanding the processes that occur during induction and those that signal its end can help conservators predict when observable deterioration will begin and thus when an object would benefit from serious attention. The principle that small changes may signal a change in deterioration rate does not only apply to chemical kinetics, although many changes are traceable to embrittlement or weakening of a material, which, in turn, can be traced to chemistry. For example, embrittlement of a coating may lead to cracking, which nullifies its protective function for the substrate and leads to visible deterioration. Understanding the conditions that signal the end of the induction phase can help to prevent further deterioration. Specifying a single physical change that marks the transition between the induction and autocatalytic phases helps to simplify periodic inspection of objects so that the transition will be detected, and can be dealt with, before much damage occurs. For example, the opening of a few slits in a hanging tapestry may not be harmful in themselves, but may indicate the beginning of a rate change. The pulling away of a stretched canvas from around the tacks holding it onto a stretcher may, similarly, be a marker for acceleration of deterioration. Periodic examination of key physical changes such as these could forestall meaningful damage. Otherwise, the shift from the induction to autocatalytic phase could be missed until the condition of the object slips well down the graph. The shoulder of the graph is therefore a significant stage in an object’s life, when conservation intervention is appropriately used to retard, postpone, or prevent future change. An understanding of aging rates should cause the

custodians of collections – and their conservators – to ask whether a relatively small area of deterioration is the beginning of a new deteriorative process. If so, then aggressive intervention, or at least active monitoring, may be warranted. Action may involve treatment, non-treatment interventions, or both. In a real scientific sense, the period of induction corresponds to the normal service life of a material. The end of the induction phase is seen as demarcating "the point where all useful properties are lost.”[33] Fabrics lose the strength and flexibility that are necessary for clothes to be wearable. Exterior paint no longer protects against water infiltration. Rubber no longer bounces or stretches. Usability, however, has a different meaning in the world of museums and collectors than in the “normal” world of everyday objects. Objects that society sets aside for long-term preservation are not discarded and replaced when their use value disappears. For objects not originally intended as art, the end of the induction phase may be exactly the point where objects come into collections, and curators and conservators take charge. Autocatalytic phase The second, autocatalytic, phase in the material lifetime of an object is the period of most rapid aging. Autocatalysis is a cascade effect in which each step in the aging process promotes further aging. The term autocatalysis is not being used here in its strict scientific sense: a true catalyst affects change by its presence and is not used up by the process. In characterizing objects, however, the phase simply has a runaway quality: a rip puts more stress on an object, causing more rips; or the deterioration of a surface coating allows water to penetrate, thereby accelerating detachment of the coating. The slit tapestry referred to above has this quality. Gravity, interacting with gradually weakening fibers, causes minute changes during the induction phase, but once some slits start to open due to thread breakage, a turning point has occurred. The beginning of the process signals crucial weakening in the fibers of the object, and every break puts more stress on the remaining connections and promotes further breakage. Sometimes, however, there is little ongoing causality in the autocatalytic phase; the first noticeable deterioration simply signals the beginning of

more, for whatever reason. For example, flaking paint is not technically autocatalytic but often signals more losses to come. Some chemical or physical change in one material or part of an object may leave it with inadequate strength to hold the object together. Gradual weakening of a base material may cross a line past which attachments begin to fall off. An object in the autocatalytic phase has a great deal to lose if deterioration is allowed to continue to its natural end-point. A hanging textile may begin the phase with one horizontal rip and end with a pile of shreds on the floor. For a painted object the phase may begin with one loose flake and end when all paint is lost. In both cases, all of the object’s value would vanish long before the autocatalytic phase ends. The autocatalytic phase of an object’s life is a slippery slope in which fixing existing damage may not prevent further slippage. Physical changes in the autocatalytic phase are part of a continuing process, not isolated incidents, so once an object has turned the corner, further damage is inevitable. Proper treatment during the transition to the autocatalytic phase is therefore crucial in preventing permanent loss of value. As the object moves along (and down!) the graph, treatment would require both dealing with past changes and preventing future ones. Preventing deterioration is only one advantage of treating an object at the shoulder of the graph. Postponing intervention until that time avoids conflicts with custodians over the advisability of continued use. For objects that may become part of the body of objects deemed by society as “preservation-worthy,” conservation intervention when original use is over may allow maximally protective treatments that would not have been appropriate earlier. Autoretardant phase At some point, autocatalytic aging processes wear themselves out, and the object enters an autoretardant phase. Most of the changes that the object is prey to have already taken place and thus the rate of change is slower. A typical reaction of this type is the fading of colorants. The dull green and tan shades of many European tapestries represent a point where most of the fading of light-sensitive colors has already taken place. The most sensitive

components of pigments and dyes have already lost their original coloration, [34] so the fading rate slows down considerably. The meaning of autoretardation for structural materials is not as clear. Once the structural material of an object has passed through its most active phase of deterioration, the object itself may be unrecognizable. A stone object powdering from efflorescence of soluble salts or an organic object buried in damp soil will become ex-objects by the time active deterioration slows down. However, there is no way to generalize about what an object entering its autoretardant phase looks like or how much value it might retain, because such a judgement depends on which parts of the object we are referring to and which parts represent its value. Call something a “painting,” for example, implies that the paint layer is its most important part and that if all – or a substantial percentage – of the paint falls off, the remaining ground and support are virtually valueless. On the other hand, much medieval polychrome sculpture has lost all its paint, but is still highly valued. The question of how much value highly deteriorated objects retain is not a physical, but a cultural, judgement. Faded tapestries are so common that many viewers may be unaware that anything has changed. Visitors to Philadelphia reverently visit the site where Benjamin Franklin’s house used to be. The example of Benjamin Franklin’s house—of which all that remains is the ground on which it stood—makes clear that the material disintegration of an object does not necessarily signal the end of its life as an object. The values of an object can outlive even its physical obliteration. Even though we cannot generalize about the state or value of an object as it enters the autoretardant phase, it is still useful to think about the form that it might take at that time. It is the measure of how far the loss of material integrity of the object will ultimately go. In fact, it is the state that a conservation treatment is intended to prevent from every happening. Feller-graphing an object The material aging graph can be used to represent either the aging of the object as a whole or some particular aspect, such as color or cohesive strength. In most cases, a single graph that charts the events most significant

to the preservation of the object as a whole will be the most useful. Graphing the aging process of an object made from one piece of a single material will be relatively straightforward. Works on paper are examples of a slightly more complex aging, in which the paper and the medium follow different and largely independent paths. The future of the object as a whole depends on its weakest link – works of art on high quality paper have very different graphs from, for example, archival documents on highly acidic paper. The Feller graph focuses attention on the parts or aspects of an object that are the most critical for its continued existence and for its values. The behavior of some objects is a combination of the behavior of individual components, each interacting with the others. Paintings on stretched canvas present a particularly complex case. Each of a number of different materials, some highly reactive, manifests aging in its own way. Altered properties of each – embrittlement, weakening, cracking, expansion and contraction, changes in conformation – affect the aging of others, and also affect the structure and aesthetics of the whole. Constructing a narrative describing the sequence of individual events that the aging process entails for painting on canvas would be a valuable but difficult exercise. Drawing a specific graph The discussion so far has focused on natural aging. Once we try to produce graphs of real objects, however, we have to take into account other events. Graphs can be drawn to represent the physical consequences of any event that influences aging rates, such as changes in ownership or environment. The kinds of acute changes that occur to many objects can simply be represented by a down-tick in the curve. Because the vertical axis represents material integrity, there is no attached value judgement that would label such an event as damage. That judgement has to be made independently. Major change is both a loss of material integrity and an influence on an object’s projected future, weakening its structure and making further loss more likely. The graph can be drawn to reflect both processes. When damage is repaired, graphing gets more complicated, since a repaired object is in two different states simultaneously. When, for example, a rip is

repaired, the object appears to be undamaged, but some of its values may be affected by the fact that the rip is still there. Figure 3.2 depicts an episode of damage, with two post-damage curves – the object’s actual state (a) and its apparent state (b). In addition, since the damage is shown in the transition to the autocatalytic phase, it could be early warning of progressive weakness. Figure 3.2 therefore shows another possible course of post-damage aging (c) that would result from a major treatment providing structural support. This would start a new induction phase, defined by the aging of the new support.

Once the general shape of a graph is laid out and the object’s current location on the curve is established, the next step is to evaluate the forces that determine the current aging rate and consider their implications for the future of the object. The identification of the current location of an object on its graph provides a context for observations from the physical examination

by identifying the significance of observed phenomena in the object’s longterm history. Cracking, for example, is a phenomenon that can occur at different times in an object’s life and plays different roles in its aging. Ceramic glazes crack from the stress of cooling, a phenomenon that is self-limiting and is not generally considered to cause long-term instability. One kind of cracking of drying oil films is the early phase of a process that continues with cupping and paint loss. The cracking of wood from relative humidity changes is a third type, which can have a variety of effects depending on the construction of the object and the magnitude and timing of the process. The proper placement on a material aging graph of a cracked object’s current state entails judgements about the significance of the cracking that will inform treatment decision-making. Positioning objects on the material aging graph also helps to make the crucial diagnostic distinction between acute damage, particularly during the induction phase, and ongoing deterioration, as in the autocatalytic phase. The mounting of some Peruvian textiles shows a failure to make this distinction. Sewing techniques appropriate for the treatment of structurally sound textiles are used for textiles in the autocatalytic phase, with the largest number of stitches placed in the weakest areas. This causes already weakened threads to break, accelerating deterioration and loss. A material aging graph created for an object will be a rough approximation of any possible quantitative measure of its aging. The sections of the graph that describe the future of the object will, of necessity, involve additional guesswork. On the other hand, conservators know a great deal about the inevitable aging of common object types, at least about what will happen, if not exactly when. Quantitative material aging graphs exist for a few materials, primarily from Feller’s work. They can be used as models for the shape of curves but cannot, of course, help with demarcations on the horizontal axis. Conservators are seldom asked to think about the time frames involved, but can often make educated guesses. Even an informally scribbled version of the material aging graph can convey the course of an object’s history and an appreciation for its likely future much more effectively than words alone. It can clarify issues that conservators may understand, but seldom articulate or explain to custodians,

one of which is the effectiveness of conservation treatment in staving off deterioration.[35] Few custodians are aware that competent treatment is designed to slow the aging of an object well into the future rather than just make it look better this year. A Feller graph can yield insights even though the depicted rates of change are estimations. It gives conservators a way of analyzing the physical state of an object by specifying its current rate and mode of aging, and a means for describing the object’s prognosis with or without treatment. Charting an object’s material past and future is a significant aspect of its overall characterization. Knowing whether the object is in the induction or autocatalytic phase can clarify issues related to the timing of conservation treatment, its appropriate goals, and the effects of treatment on rates of change. This issue will be discussed further in Chapter Nine. *** Science provides not only information, but also tools that help in the interpretation of physical findings and that can be used to explain conservation to non-conservators. The Feller graph, in particular, gives us a framework in which knowledge about the aging of individual materials combine with physical observations of an object to enrich our understanding of its behavior. A systematic view of an object’s entire lifetime, including its projected future, gives rise to insights that observation of its current state alone will not. It forces us to focus not just on the object’s current material state, but on where it is headed.

Chapter Four – Quadrant III Non-Material Aspects of the Object Quadrant III of the characterization grid is concerned with information on the non-material aspects of objects, as is Quadrant IV. The difference is that Quadrant III deals with information on the particular object at hand, with the custodian as principal source. Quadrant IV information fills in the gaps by supplying information that relates to objects in general or to other objects similar to the one in question. The non-material aspects of objects are not intrinsic to the object itself, which means that they cannot come from examination. They include the object’s history as well as personal judgements and culture-based attitudes, typically described using terms like significance, meaning, or value. Discussions about value often founder on the meaning of the term and its some-time companion, quality. The whole idea, with its judgemental overtones, makes conservators uncomfortable, perhaps fearing that any acknowledgement that one object might be less valuable than another indicates insufficient respect for it. Underneath the awkwardness, however, is a simple truth that underlies the practice of conservation: objects are preserved because they have value. A single measure of value is not, however, very useful in decision-making. We have to give up on the idea of value as a single continuum, with every object in the world lined up in an order largely determined by the attached price tags. The methodology, rather, works with multiple values. Values involve people’s attitudes toward an object and their reasons for owning and preserving it. Determination of an object’s values is central to the methodology and provides benchmarks against which the appropriateness of proposed treatments can be judged. The values relevant to conservation treatment are art value, aesthetic value, historical value, use value, research value, educational value, age value, newness value, sentimental value, monetary value, associative value, commemorative value, and rarity.

Objects, of course, do not really “have” values – only people do. ( We will, however, use the phrase occasionally despite its inaccuracy.) In order to preserve the values imputed to objects, we have to figure out how custodians, other stakeholders, and ourselves both as individuals and professionals feel about them. We have to name those feelings, categorize them, and figure out how they relate to conservation treatment. This chapter presents a method of addressing the non-material aspects of objects consistently, systematically, and explicitly. The chapter is divided into three sections. The first describes the types of information in Quadrant III, the non-material information that belongs in a full characterization. The second section deals with the sources of that information, principally the custodian, and strategies for eliciting it. The third section discusses the above values in detail. INFORMATION TO BE GATHERED The non-material information in an object characterization falls into three categories—the history of the object, its current values, and its intended future. History of the object The history of an object is crucial for decisions on its optimal post-treatment state. The creation of a biography including the object’s past physical environments and locations, ownership, use, and viewing conditions is therefore an important step in characterization. Events associated with particular physical changes and the ways the object was valued by previous custodians are particularly relevant to treatment decisions. Information like typology, provenance, date of origin, existing documentation, monetary value, and treatment history will aid in re-creating an object’s history. Some custodians will also have references to the published literature, appraisals, and exhibition history. Few custodians will routinely supply such information, so conservators should ask for it. Few custodians, in any event, will have information sufficient to create a full historical record. To whatever extent the custodian's knowledge or documentation is less than complete, people other than the custodian may be able to augment it. Otherwise, Quadrant IV information, on objects of the same type, can often fill in the gaps.

The following are typical questions for learning the object’s history: What were the circumstances of the object’s creation? What was the succession of ownership? What were the predominant values when ownership changed? What historical events was the object part of? For decorative or artistic works, under what conditions of lighting or from what angle would the object have been seen? What kind(s) of physical use did the object have? What other objects was it associated with, either in original use or in a collection? The object’s current value(s) The second category of information to be gathered is the values the object holds for the current custodian and for society at large. A bronze with a beautiful green patina may be valued for its aesthetics. The type specimen of Tyrannosaurus Rex has scientific value. George Washington’s wooden teeth have historical value. Aunt Ethel’s ugly turkey platter may have sentimental value. Many objects have more than one value. Ancient Greek vases are likely to have both aesthetic and historical value, for example. Any information on ancient technology that can be derived from them gives them research value as well. Information on the way an object is valued is crucial to its characterization because values affect the choice of treatment goal. A successful treatment requires that the post-treatment state meet the custodian’s needs both immediately and well into the future. If we compromise the custodian’s primary reason for liking the object—for example, by removing the cigarette smoke that makes it match his sofa—we will have destroyed his reason for wanting it. He may care little that the cleaned object looks just the way the artist wanted it. On the other hand, not removing the smoke still gives the custodians of the future the opportunity to see the artist’s work directly when they have it cleaned. It is not uncommon for signs of age or use, or even damage, to be regarded as desirable.

An understanding of the values an object holds gives the conservator an advantage when trying to elicit information from its custodian. Custodians may not be very articulate, and they are seldom prepared to participate in decision-making, but their feelings about objects fall into recognizable categories found in the list of values discussed in this chapter. Having the possibilities in mind helps the conservator to recognize what the custodian says as relating to particular values even though the custodian may not identify them clearly. In addition, with a list of values in mind, the conservator can ask questions that focus on the major possibilities. Do custodians want their objects to stay looking old? What bothers them the most about the way their things look? Do they care about small scratches or wrinkles that are a result of use? Unlike objects in museums or other institutions, objects in private hands are likely to change ownership at relatively frequent intervals. This obliges the conservator to include possible future values in their characterization. Conservators can ordinarily identify values that future custodians and society at large might place on an object. Reconciling conflicting values when deciding what will be done to an object may present thorny problems. This is particularly so if the current custodian’s views tend toward the eccentric. A classic example is the owner who wants the conservator to salvage an undamaged part of an object and discard the rest. Decision-making may still not be easy, but a values discussion – as opposed to a discussion focussed solely on technical aspects of treatment - provides a way to assure that those involved fully understand the consequences of their decisions. For many objects, an analysis of the values an object holds for the current custodian, potential future custodians, or the larger society, will lead the conservator to the same conclusions she would have reached without having investigated the object’s values explicitly. But a values analysis will insure that all issues and points of view have been addressed. In addition, explicit values-based treatment decisions are easy to explain to custodians, since they illustrate the way the planned treatment will enhance the object’s meaning. This stands in contrast to technical treatment details that few custodians will understand.

An additional benefit for the custodian is gratification at being consulted and knowing that his feelings about the object have been honored. Typical questions that help us determine the values that the object holds for the custodian and others include the following: Why does the custodian own the object? How, when, where and for what reasons was the object acquired? Is the primary value of the object to the owner aesthetic, historical, scientific, sentimental, or utilitarian? Is the object part of a systematics collection? Does the object have scholarly significance? Is the object important only to its custodian, to a whole family, to its culture of origin, or to the whole world? Does or did the object have religious, patriotic, or other kinds of ritual or iconic significance to particular groups? What is the relationship of the object to others of its type? Is it, for example, a typical example or, on the other hand, unusually plain, particularly elaborate, or an unusual size? Is it a rare example of its type? How much has the appearance of the object changed since its creation, and are the changes considered to be desirable? Do duplicates of the object exist in the same collection or elsewhere? The object’s intended future The third category of non-material information to explore with the custodian is the object’s intended future. Because different uses of an object have different requirements, knowledge of intended use is vital at beginning of the decision-making process. Information in this category has clear implications for treatment decisions that involve the robustness of the treated object and its susceptibility to its environment. Among the questions to be asked about the object’s future are: Is the object to be put to some physical use, or displayed?

Is the object to be used for museum exhibition and, if so, why was it chosen? Is it expected that the object will be valued differently in the future, particularly if changes in ownership are anticipated? Is the treatment in preparation for sale? It is expected to stay in the same family? Is the object to be part of a travelling exhibition? What maintenance or care will be required and who will be available to do it? What kind of environment will the object be subjected to? How and where will the object be mounted or hung? Who will have access to the object? Will it be touched or moved frequently? How important is it that the object be as stable and resistant to environmental stresses as possible? Let us look at the contributions that custodians, the primary information source for this quadrant, make to object characterization. SOURCES FOR NON-MATERIAL INFORMATION The custodian interview Most conservation treatments are initiated by a custodian, either professional or private, and ordinarily some kind of personal meeting follows. This is a vital step in the methodology, since Quadrant III information comes mainly from the custodian. A telephone interview is better than no personal contact at all. However, a face-to-face meeting with the custodian in the presence of the object is preferable. It supplies information that may never be conveyed – in either direction – when an object is simply delivered to the conservator or “sent down” to the conservation department. Conservators often have only one face-to-face meeting with a custodian. This is the opportune time for sharing information in both directions. Getting information from a custodian is not always easy, since few are aware of what may prove useful to the conservator, and therefore are unprepared. Deciding

what information should be conveyed to the custodian is, likewise, difficult without a personal connection. In order to acquire the necessary information from someone who may not be aware they have it, conservators need to be clear in their own minds about the information they need. The first task is to gather factual information about the object. The second is to elicit information on the owner's needs, preferences, and resources. Custodians’ feelings toward the object and the use that they intend for it are crucial for treatment decision-making. Much of the information to be acquired from the custodian is not available elsewhere, so a pleasant get-acquainted chat may not be sufficient. A comprehensive interview will elicit all the information the custodian has on the relevant topics. This is the time to find out, for example, which nonoriginal aspects of the object he finds bothersome and which he considers part of the history of the object and therefore desirable. The lack of discussion about use can lead to a poor treatment outcome. For example, the curator of an historic house museum told the author that she had once sent a painted chair to a conservator for treatment. When the chair was returned, the curator was surprised to see that paint losses had not been inpainted. The chair was to be exhibited in a period room, making the treated chair unsuitable for use. The curator knew what she needed, and assumed that it was obvious, but neither the use of the chair nor the desired degree of compensation had been discussed. Interviewing custodians is a skill to be cultivated. Questioning that yields the desired answers without seeming like an interrogation requires practice and thought. The custodian must be encouraged to talk, and the conservator must then make sense of what is said. Often to be found “between the lines” are misunderstandings of the treatment process - fears, for example, that a cleaned object will “look too new” or that conservation treatment lowers market value. Also common are mistaken notions of the normal aging process of the materials of the object and ignorance of previous restorations. A successful interview results in substantial information exchange in both directions. At the end, the custodian should feel flattered at having been listened to, not insulted that he was put on the spot or made to feel stupid.

It might be thought that this calculated approach could be side-stepped by simply asking the custodian what he wants the object to look like after treatment. In the author’s experience, however, this approach invariably yields a blank stare and no useful information. (And it probably made the client think that the conservator has no idea what she was doing.) After a few of these incidents, it became clear that direct questions like “what do you want it to look like” will not be helpful. Rather, seemingly “chatty” inquiries about the object’s acquisition—how long it had been in the owner’s hands, where it came from, and what about it was appealing – often yield a story that answers questions about values and other questions as well. A mental check-list of questions can be addressed in a relaxed way as part of a normal conversation that is not perceived as an inquisition. Only if the custodian is at ease will he be comfortable enough to bring up potentially uncomfortable issues that should be addressed - concerns about the outcome of this treatment or possibly mistaken ideas about treatment in general. Characterizing the custodian No two custodian interviews are alike. How each one goes will depend on the nature of the object, the amount of information available, and on the custodian himself—who he is, what he knows about the object, and his prior involvement with the conservation process. An interaction with a experienced institutional custodian with years of dealing with conservators is going to be quite different from one with a private owner for whom the object’s value is principally sentimental, who has never had an object treated before, or who may have limited interest in the details. It is common to think of custodians as falling into one of two categories: private owners and institutional custodians,[36] but that can be misleading. Implicit in distinguishing custodians along those lines is an assumption that institutions have more information about their objects than private owners and are better able to partner in the conservation decision-making process. This is not necessarily true. Small institutions with an all-volunteer staff may own objects they know nothing about, while serious private collectors may know more about the objects they collect than many professionals. Professional curators, although highly trained in their own fields, may have little understanding of conservation, and may feel severely technology-challenged in the face of

conservation lingo. In addition, not all institutions are like museums, libraries, and historical societies, for which the stewardship of collections is a primary function. Religious and educational institutions also hold substantial collections. The conservator will begin to formulate an impression of the custodian from the first contact. In describing the object and the problem that prompted contact with the conservator, the custodian reveals how much he knows about the object and its physical state. When he is has little knowledge of the object and what it is made of, or when he cannot describe clearly what is “wrong with it,” the conservator involved can sometimes get frustrated. Few non-conservators, however, are equipped to identify the materials of objects or describe their current condition – that is one reason they come to us. A custodian’s experience with the conservation process and his ability to understand the conservator’s explanations generally become clear early on. This judgement tells the conservator how much the custodian will be able to contribute to a discussion of treatment options, and therefore the degree to which the conservator might have to act as his surrogate. Problems that might prevent the active participation of the custodian include inaccessibility, a lack of interest, and a preference to stay out of the whole messy business and deem the conservator the ultimate authority. Some private collectors, particularly those in unusual collection areas, have strong opinions about the desirable physical state of their objects and the relationship between physical state and monetary value. They may not, however, be aware of the implications in terms of authenticity, historical value, reversibility, information retention, and other fundamental conservation concerns. Different issues can arise when working with custodians who are material culture specialists, and therefore focus on entirely different aspects of the object than conservators do. Some art historians, for example, have little direct experience with works of art as physical manifestations and therefore find it unsettling to treat aesthetics as changeable. Historians may, on the other hand, find it hard to sympathize with the conservator’s attention to aesthetics when an object has primarily historical value. The methodology will help to reconcile differing points of view, but the conservator bears the ultimate responsibility for assuring that treatment fulfills the custodian’s

needs without violating the long-term welfare of the object and its multiple values. As discussions between conservator and custodian continue and the nature of the object and its problems come into focus, the conservator will also assess the custodian’s ability to examine the object periodically for signs of recurrent physical problems. Additional important information is the custodial resources available to control the object’s environment, handling, or physical use, and the owner’s authority or willingness to limit future use in ways that the conservator might recommend. Certain treatment decisions will rest on those assessments. An unseen, but often crucial, party in the decision-making process is the custodial institution. The history and policies of an institution, rather than just the preferences of its individual representative, must play a part in treatment decisions. Difficulties may arise if the preferences of the individual representing the institution are not congruent with institutional policies or longstanding practices. The individual custodian may, in addition, not be familiar with the way similar projects have been handled in the past, or the ways that the institution’s exhibitions or other use of the object serve its mission. Where objects are part of a collection, making sure that the treated objects will match others in the same collection is sometimes a matter of carrying out compensation in the same way, or to the same degree, as similar objects. But another way that collected objects should be treated in ways suitable to the owning entity is something we can call “intellectual use.” What is the purpose for which an object is collected or displayed? It is used for exhibition or study? Is it exhibited to illustrate ancient technology or for its aesthetics? Conservators have the responsibility to explore these questions until the ramifications of use are clear. As we will see below, these questions can be answered with reference to values. The mission statements of museums may provide some guidance in this area, but are seldom specific enough. The conservator may have to discuss the matter with a curator or administrator, or may have to look at similar objects already on display in order to assure that current treatment matches that of objects treated in the past, whether or not that would otherwise be the natural choice.

Third-party stakeholders Together, the custodian and the conservator ordinarily have the sole responsibility for treatment decision-making. However, the interests of other stakeholders such as scholars and the public are sometimes a factor as well. In some situations, a third party may have a legal right to participate. The two principal examples in the United States are artists (and sometimes artists’ estates) and cultures of origin, namely officially recognized American Indian tribes. The existence of laws in these areas encourages custodial institutions and conservators to bring the third party to the table, whether or not the specific situation makes it legally mandatory. Specifically, the American Visual Artists Rights Act[37] gives artists the right to seek monetary relief if they believe that treatment may have reduced an object’s value, but does not give them decision-making authority. For this reason, conservators have no obligation to get an artist’s approval as long as the treatment is ethical based on profession-wide standards. Conservators nevertheless often feel bound to limit treatments to those approved by artists. Many ask the artist for written authorization to proceed with treatment, just as they do from custodians. Likewise, the Native American Grave Protection and Repatriation Act[38] gives authorized tribes the right to reclaim certain kinds of objects. However, many conservators take this as an obligation to consult tribes of origin whenever possible, whether or not the tribe chooses repatriation, or whether or not the object is of a type covered under the Act. Dealing with artists’ heirs raises other issues. While artists may change their minds and take different approaches to different works, artists’ heirs, like followers of many kinds, are often more rigid. Curators sometimes maintain ties with artists’ heirs, and it is getting more common for conservators to do so as well. Prior relationships improve the chances of satisfactory decisionmaking processes, but some heirs have requirements that are not an easy match with conservation ethics. Heirs may have a particularly strong feeling of entitlement that is difficult to break through. The preferences of creators and originating cultures can carry substantial weight in the decisions made about conservation treatment. However, an obligation to take those opinions seriously does not imply an obligation to follow them. The native informant who represents his community is

someone with undisputedly vital information, but does not necessarily have the whole picture in hand. The artist is in many ways the equivalent of a native informant – not the ultimate authority on the meaning or value of her own work, but someone with valuable information. When professionals make decisions in a serious and deliberate manner, listen carefully to other opinions, and are clearly dedicated to doing the best job possible, most people will be satisfied with the outcome.[39] Another instance of third-party stakeholders occurs with public art or historic preservation projects when public officials or private citizens claim a right to participate in decision-making. Public input can be either critical or supportive of a planned treatment. The nightmare cases are those in which third parties criticize the actions of professionals without the benefit of the information that drove decisionmaking. Conservators in particular may never get the opportunity to be heard, and, in any case, responses to criticism can sound overly defensive and get discounted. Aside from these specific examples, third-party stakeholders have a legitimate interest in the treatment of every object with cultural, as opposed to only personal, values. If nothing else, future generations have a stake in the outcome of treatments. The conservator’s responsibility for representing the interests of the public and scholars both present and future is a major factor in decision-making and, in fact, drives much of conservation ethics. Delivering information to the custodian The interview process works in both directions. Conservators have to deliver information as well as receive it. One obvious starting point for discussion is the “problem” that moved the custodian to bring the object for treatment, but there are often other aspects of the object that a treatment might address and that should be discussed. Conservators should not assume any knowledge on the part of custodians, some of whom have strongly held but mistaken ideas about the object or about treatment. Perhaps only in a relaxed friendly chat will the conservator learn that the custodian thinks that a loss in white porcelain can be repaired into invisibility[40] or that a walking stick with a broken shaft can be returned to service. When the custodian’s desire to turn back the clock are not

realistic, a discussion is vital. It is the conservator’s job to clarify which undesirable aspects of an object can be corrected by treatment and which cannot, so that the custodian can decide if the treatment is still “worth doing.” Caveats on the practical limitations of a proposed treatment often escape a custodian’s attention when presented in written form because they are embedded in technical language that non-conservators tend to skip over. When language seems technical to custodians, even though it sounds simple to us,[41] they may sign a proposal without looking at, or thinking about, the details of what they are agreeing to. A signature on piece of paper does not always forestall complaints when the treated object is viewed, so a careful interview is vital in heading off that kind of misunderstanding. Even though it is premature to finalize treatment plans when the conservator first sees an object, explaining possible treatment options is appropriate. The interview may not be completely successful in countering misperceptions, but it will still yield insights into the capacity of the custodian to participate in decision-making. Few custodians know what treatment options exist or understand that different treatments have differing impacts on the appearance or behavior of the object. Most custodians simply assume that the conservator knows what should be done and will do it – or more specifically, sees what is wrong and will fix it. Some prefer to stay out of the decision-making process, but many custodians enjoy learning something and find explanations both interesting and comforting. The importance of long-term preservation in conservation treatment should also be explained in the custodian interview. Custodians seldom mention it as a top priority, but usually think well of the idea. Perhaps the most important benefit of a good interview for the custodian, however, is not knowledge, but added confidence in the conservator. Conservation treatments require a certain amount of forbearance on the part of custodians, who tend to be anxious when giving up control of their objects. A lack of knowledge about what will happen during the treatment adds to the fear.[42] Handing an object over to a conservator and walking way without it can entail a leap of faith akin to that of leaving an infant with a babysitter. The conservator’s understanding of this dynamic can help to make the process less painful.

Custodians who are nervous about the treatment process may need reassurance more than detailed information that they cannot digest or do not want to hear. A professional but friendly demeanor, a measure of selfconfidence, and an orderly work area all contribute to the aura of trustworthiness. The custodian also has the opportunity to become more confident in the conservator’s expertise during the interview by seeing how carefully the object is handled and how much information the conservator can offer up simply by looking at it. Custodian interviews do have their challenges, however. It is difficult to figure out what to say when custodians report something that the conservator knows, or suspects, is not true. Few owners recognize signs of previous damage and repair, and many have even forgotten about damage that occurred during their own period of ownership. Forgery, overly optimistic attributions, delusions about the monetary value or even the basic identity of an object, can be additional areas of custodian misinformation. Addressing any of these issues, particularly at this point in the information-gathering process, can make the process uncomfortable and difficult to navigate. Whether the conservator should disabuse the owner of misinformation not directly relevant to treatment decisions is a judgement call, particularly when the conservator cannot prove her suspicions. Under ideal circumstances, the conservator/custodian interaction is personally gratifying on both sides and yields all the information needed to move decision-making ahead. Much of the time, custodians return to their home or office with some interesting information to share with friends or family, to the benefit of all concerned. But interactions can also fall short of the ideal. When a family starts to argue about the family history of an object, it may be time to draw the interview to a close and usher the group out, no matter how little information has been acquired. Dealing with the information received The information-gathering step discussed in this chapter lays the groundwork for an open decision-making process at the end of which the custodian decides whether or not to approve the treatment. Knowing the preferences of the custodian and other stakeholders before the conservator drafts a treatment proposal will help to move the process in a productive

direction. Conservators’ interest in what the various parties have to say, their obvious respect for the objects in question, and their expertise promote cooperation at points when differing opinions may arise. Establishing good faith among all of the parties early on may help to avoid disagreements down the line. These are noble sentiments, but the reader may well ask what exactly is to be done with all this “information?” Once conservators have listened to custodians and considered the interests of other stakeholders, they are in possession of a host of vague, if fervent, opinions, few of which are directly linked to any particular treatment outcome. How do we recognize authoritative voices, how do we assess the accuracy of information, and how do we balance competing interests of preservation and use, for example? The interview is an information-gathering process, not the transfer of instructions. Treatments have to accommodate requirements beyond the custodian’s needs. The welfare of the object well past the lifespan of the current custodian presents its own demands. We cannot just do what the custodian wants. Treatments serve a variety of interests. Treatment decision-making is informed by our scientific knowledge but also requires the skills of social science. We make judgements based on our observations of the world we live in rather than solely on what we can see through a microscope. In short, we understand many things that nonconservators do not. Ultimately, we get to make the decisions. We just have to get the custodian to agree with them. When a custodian says that the “only” problem with a piece of furniture is that a strip of veneer fell off, the conservator should take from that statement not that the loss is, in fact, the only problem, but that the custodian believes that to be the case. To use a medical analogy, the custodian’s statement needs to be viewed as simply the presenting complaint. One loss of veneer could be the visible symptom of desiccated and weakened glue over the whole surface of an object that conservators would describe as “needing” major treatment. This discussion has, overall, created a conundrum. How can conservators talk about creating treatments that will fulfill the custodian’s needs while, at the same time declining to carry out certain treatments that custodians say they want? Real-life cases seldom reach an extreme in either direction, but

require strategies that serve the custodians’ needs while satisfying the conservator’s ethical concerns about such matters as long-term preservation and information retention. The interweaving of the conservator’s obligation to the custodian and to the object is a fundamental aspect of treatment decision-making. Luckily, things are seldom so messy. There are a limited number of actual treatment options. A hole is filled or not, a paint loss is inpainted or not. An old surface coating either stays or goes. A missing part is either reconstructed or not. Likewise, there are a limited number of choices in regard to people’s preferences. Most of the time, when something looks broken, the owner wants it fixed so that it doesn’t look broken any more. Sometimes he wants an object to look new, sometimes not. By reading between the lines of what custodians say about their objects, we can make sense of their feelings by determining the values that underlie them. The values analysis feeds into a systematic process that, with clear and unambiguous signposts, points us down a particular decision path. VALUES AND THEIR RELEVANCE TO TREATMENT Objects are preserved because they have values. The fundamental truth of this statement underlies the whole practice of conservation. Most objects in the world have some degree of monetary value and, of course, many objects that conservators treat have a lot of it. However, other values that an object possesses, such as historical value or sentimental value, are usually of much greater relevance to treatment decisions. Unfortunately, conservators seem to stumble on questions of value, sometimes finding themselves afraid to undertake a particular treatment procedure—even though they are confident of a successful technical outcome—because of a fear that the treatment will diminish the object in some hard-to-characterize way. Perhaps they feel that the matter is none of their business, outside their area of expertise, or just too messy to get involved in. Treatment avoidance because of a vague fear that value could be diminished might keep us from doing something foolish, but can also forestall treatments that are demonstrably beneficial. We need to be clear and explicit about the values that an object possesses and evaluate proposed treatments

with those values in mind. A comprehensive understanding of the values that objects hold for their owners and users assures that a chosen treatment will not compromise some meaningful aspect of the object. A comprehensive review of an object's values enables us to decide with confidence exactly what will be preserved and in what state, and will therefore improve treatment outcomes and enhance the meaning of the object to its custodian. There are many different kinds of value,[43] and a custodian may value an object in more than one way. An object may have different values to different groups or individuals. The ways in which an object is valued can also change over time. To make the picture even more complicated, changes in value over time can occur in conjunction with, or completely divorced from, changes in an object’s physical state. Certain changes, such as the accumulation of signs of age, can result in either an increase or a decrease in overall value, or an increase in some values and a decrease in others. Consider, for example, a 1920 "limited edition" Stutz Bearcat in close to pristine condition. Such a car has historical value to antique car historians and aficionados. It has significant monetary value and, to many, aesthetic value as well. The car may have the added value of rarity if it is one of a few, or the only, remaining "limited edition" S-B's manufactured that year. If the car is in private hands, however, the owner could be indifferent to those values if it is his means of transportation. For such an owner, the car has only use value - it is a functional object being used in its intended original way. By keeping it in working condition and preserving its use value, the owner may actually be reducing the car's historical value by replacing worn-out parts with modern ones. The car may additionally have sentimental value to him because his grandfather took him out driving in it when he was a child. If the owner donates the car to a museum, its use value will probably be extinguished. After he dies, its sentimental value will evaporate as well, and its new values will depend on the new owner. This example of the variety of values that a single object can hold illustrates the fleeting and arbitrary nature of values. People endow an object with values; the circumstances that create value are external to the object. The more people or groups that assert an interest in an object, each with its own view or agenda, the wider the range of values it may represent.

A systematic consideration of the aspects or parts of an object that represent its values provides clues to the aspects or parts of an object that should be preserved. For example, consideration of the values represented by the reverse of a panel painting or the interior of a ceramic vessel may be crucial to treatment decision-making. A values analysis helps us to decide which aspects of an object need not be preserved, because they do not contribute to any of the object’s values. Some conservators are reluctant to remove repairs because they are part of an object's history, but this makes sense only if the repairs have historical value. Historical significance would be rare for an ordinary conservation repair. Following is a discussion of the values that can affect the interpretation of an object and therefore influence treatment goals. They are: art value, aesthetic value, historical value, use value, research value, educational value, age value, newness value, sentimental value, monetary value, associative value, commemorative value, educational value, and rarity. Because the assignment of specific values to objects is a new idea for most conservators, their potential effects on treatment will be discussed as well. The values can be divided into two categories, personal and cultural. Personal values are those held by owners and perhaps their families. Cultural values are those held by a broad group of people or society at large. Most objects that conservators treat have both kinds of value, so the distinction has no affect on their treatment. The treatment of objects with only personal value, however, creates dilemmas for conservators, because conservation ethics are based on the idea that the objects we treat have value to people other than the legal owner. An example of treatment decisions appropriate to objects with only personal value will be discussed in Chapter Seven. In order to assure that all possibilities have been considered during treatment decision-making, it is recommended that the values described here be used as a checklist to be reviewed for each object. The values that would be affected by possible treatments are then gathered in the value analysis and the values are balanced. This process is illustrated in the case studies of Chapter Seven. Art value Art value is a cultural value, and any object considered to be art has art value.

Defining art is an impossibility, but not for lack of trying. Some very smart people have made the discussion of “What is art?” virtually their life’s work. But despite the lack of clarity, the label has many important repercussions for the ways we see objects, value them, and want to treat them, and therefore is a matter that conservators need to address. The basis for much of the conservation profession – after all, we are still commonly called “art conservators” - springs from the conservation of art, and art is still a large portion of what conservators treat. We need to be clear about the ideas that people commonly link with the idea of art and the implications they have for conservation. There are several characteristics that give objects an easy claim to being “art,” including medium and current use. Most people would agree that any painting, sculpture, print or drawing displayed in a museum is art. Objects with no intended physical function occupy a central position in the category of things we call “art,” but this is only true for objects that also have other attributes of art, such as aesthetic value or the creator’s intent that the work be art. (Some authors refer to this an “art by intention” as opposed to “art by appropriation.”[44]) Beauty would seem to have something to do with this matter, but exactly what is not at all clear. Art-ness often resides in the ideas applied to the viewing of objects rather than in the objects themselves. Art museums collect chairs, for example, when they are particularly beautiful or fancy examples of their type. These are exhibited in galleries next to explanatory labels, and lit as if they were paintings. That they are displayed in art museums says as much about the institution as it does about the chairs. Much of what we now categorize as art was not “Art” in the modern sense when it was made. Since the art museum is a relatively modern phenomenon, many objects now in museums were created without the expectation that they would be on exhibition in a building established for that purpose. They were created for other purposes: religion, politics, music, status enhancement, propaganda, information transfer, decoration, weaponry, food storage, and many others. Functional objects that end up in an art museum, of course, have substantial aesthetic value as well. In a sense, society creates art by appropriation. Humans of the twenty-first century look back in time and all around the world and consider everything

with visual interest as some kind of art. We appreciate aesthetics and communicative power, which creators may have considered secondary values, and by doing so we downplay certain specific cultural meanings. Making something into art makes it the common property of people other than those from its culture of origin. When people look at art, they also become interested in its historical background and its physical nature - the evidence it bears of the material and non-material aspects of its creation - its materials and construction and the manifestations of the cultural trends of the time period. By necessity, then, art has values other than the aesthetic, but aesthetics remains a central feature. As modern people apply our concept of art to objects not created as art, we also apply modern ideas about “artists,” even when they are not historically accurate. Our belief in the centrality of personality and individual creativity in the making of objects leads to a belief that the object in its as-created state, with all signs of the artist’s hand and as little as possible of its later history visible, is the only state of the object that matters. In this scenario, it follows that the conservator’s task is to present the object in a state as close as possible to that “original” state. The simple logic of this train of thought is misleading, however. Without disavowing the idea explicitly, many conservators and consumers of conservation services would, and do, shudder in horror at the notion that a conservation treatment should, even theoretically, return an object to the dreaded “looking like new.” This conundrum is discussed in later chapters. The primacy of the artist and the artist’s personality in modern ideas about art has other effects on how we see it. One is that a very early or mediocre work by a famous artist is more highly valued than a comparable work that is the finest production of someone else, and may have more research value and historical value as well. The idea that art is a loosely constructed category defined as much by the observer as by characteristics of the object itself may seem to strip the term of all content. On the contrary: the irresistible draw of the concept remains, and the admitted difficulty of defining art does not deter us from our certainty that we know it when we see it. Whatever is included in the category, “objects of art do not merely interest and absorb us,” observes philosopher Stanley Cavell, “but move us as well.” Not only are we involved with art objects, he says, but we are concerned with them, and care about

them; we treat them in special ways, invest them with a value which normal people otherwise reserve only for other people…. They mean something to us, not just the way statements do, but the way people do.”[45] Andre Malraux makes the point that our ability to see a potential for beauty or human meaning in many kinds of objects from all periods and places is a profound and possibly unique achievement of the human race.[46] To come full circle, the term reveals more about those who use it than about the objects it encompasses. This does not make it any less important. No matter what we think art is, it is definitely something that everyone has an opinion about, including what it should look like. This has been called "appreciationism," the I-know-what-I-like school of connoisseurship. By definition, appreciationism can point a conservation treatment in any number of ways. The ongoing history of public controversies over the cleaning of famous paintings tells us that the desired “look” of art is still a matter of disagreement that points to conflicts among different values, including age and newness value, historical value, and associative value. The latter is particularly strong when the artist is famous. When monetary value is high, passions run high as well, and it becomes increasingly difficult to be confident of doing the right thing. Dilemmas in decision-making for fine arts will be discussed further in later chapters. Aesthetic value If it can be said that all works of art have aesthetic value, it is not true that all things with aesthetic value are art. People like the look of many things that are not art, including the shells and chunks of driftwood they put on their mantels. So aesthetic value by itself is not enough to make something art. In addition, people can disagree widely about the aesthetic value of things they do consider as art. So, while art value is clearly a shared, and therefore a cultural, value, aesthetic value by itself is a personal one. An object has aesthetic value when it is prized for how it looks, but to use the term to cover all aspects of appearance is to cast too wide a net. Aesthetics refers to beauty in the broad sense of visual appeal. Aesthetic value can arise from high levels of craftsmanship, ingenuity, a creative and

skilled use of materials, appealing color or design, and even signs of age or deterioration. Subject matter itself can create aesthetic value. Most objects with aesthetic value have other values that give them meaning for a broad range of people. There are, however, several kinds of objects with no value other than the aesthetic. By recognizing the unique status of objects prized only for their aesthetics, we resolve some otherwise confounding issues, like the value of forgeries or “perfect” copies of beautiful works of art. People ask questions like: Are they beautiful? Are they art? Do they have value at all? When someone believes a forgery to be authentic, they may see it as beautiful; once the facts are known, the appearance of the object does not change, but the viewer’s response may. A forgery, therefore, can have aesthetic value, but does not usually have historical or art value. Some forgeries, however, have acquired historical value based on their notoriety. Certain other objects whose primary value is aesthetic are referred to as having “decorative value.” The category includes modern Chinese mineral carvings and screens in traditional forms, multiples made in huge numbers, and other household decorations that have considerable damage and loss but have been restored to an aesthetically satisfactory state. Such objects look pleasing in certain surroundings, but have little or no independent status or historical importance, and are not destined for museums. Typically, their aesthetic value is limited, their art value and historical value are low, but they have use value because of their aesthetics. If the term aesthetics is used to refer to appearance in general, it is clearly a fundamental criterion of treatment. Many non-conservators would unhesitatingly describe an improvement in the aesthetics of an object as the overriding purpose of its treatment. But aesthetics, like sacredness or market value, is a non-material aspect, and therefore arbitrary. Agreement on what it is that makes an object look “better” or “more beautiful” cannot be taken for granted. One way in which opinions vary is the aesthetics of age. People often like what they are used to, so signs of age or even outright damage in certain objects may be appealing. The custodian’s aesthetic preference is something that the conservator must take into account, but not follow blindly.

Other values – age, newness, historical, use, educational, or commemorative – may override aesthetics as a factor in treatment choices. If, for example, everyone agrees that an object should be seen as is was at one specific point in its history, then the conservator’s job would be to re-create its appearance at that point in time. The aesthetic preferences of the conservator and custodian and the guiding principle of making the object “look better” would have no legitimate place in decision-making. The appropriate goal of treatment would be accuracy, and the aesthetics that guide the treatment would be the maker’s, or the original owner’s, preferences, not our own. In the final stages of treatment, however, many choices are made that are superficial in terms of their degree of intervention, like the level of compensation. Some fall well below the level of detail to be found in the historical record, like the exact degree of gloss or color saturation of a surface. These interventions are not of a magnitude that would give them historical implications, and the conservator has the freedom to do what seems best. Historical value Historical value recognizes objects as bearers of information about history. (We omit from this category objects that valued for their technical information, which is included in research value.) Historical value rests on something more specific than that an object is, or looks to be, old. Objects with historical value have an authentic link with a particular historical event or time period. This is the kind of object that brings a viewer to say, “Just think. This thing was really there when…” The historical value of an object depends on the existence of information outside of the object. The event or time period that gives rise to this value is likely to be the time in its history about which we have the most information. Any historical incident in which the object was involved, an image of it in an old photograph or painting, or ownership by a historical figure, may add enough interest to an object to give it historical value. Because of the shared public nature of history, historical value is a cultural value. Objects with primarily historical value can be emblematic or illustrative of a whole constellation of objects of a certain style or period and are most valued when they are in their state from the time in question. Some ethnographic, archaeological, and religious objects may fall into the category

of objects with primarily historical value if current custodians see the objects’ role in history as central to its current use, and archival objects ordinarily have historical value as well. Deterioration diminishes historical value, since decay destroys or alters historical material. For some iconic objects, however, restoration to compensate for deterioration or loss may be considered undesirable if it covers even a trace of the original. As an alternative, reconstruction using a replica or written or graphic description may be encouraged.[47] In most cases of objects with primarily historical value, however, restoration to a known historic state is the expected treatment. Accurate restoration to a known previous state has both advantages and disadvantages, reflected in variant understandings of the term “authenticity.“ For conservators, authentic material is the actual original material of the object, while to many viewers, authenticity refers to the way the object actually looked at its historic moment. Visitors to a restored period room, for example, will commonly ask if the room is authentic, meaning that the restoration is based on fact rather than supposition about its former appearance. A chair with its original hardware and first upholstery, even if faded and shredded, is authentic for the conservator and possesses historical value even though it may not be exhibitable. The same chair “restored” and looking as it did when new, with replacement fabric copied from the original weave and colors, and upholstered according to the known design of that particular piece of furniture, represents the other kind of authenticity – and another kind of historical value. Use value Use value refers to things that are valued for their usability, but the words to describe it, “use” vs. “function,” for example, can be ambiguous. On the one hand, all objects have uses. Works of art are “used” in art museums to illustrate points of art history or as examples of the artist’s work. That meaning of “use,” however, makes the idea too broad to be helpful, and we will confine the term to mean only physical function. Use value is therefore irrelevant for objects in most collections, even if the objects were originally functional. Use value, like sentimental value, is usually limited to the lifetime of the owner or the owner’s family, although institutional owners, like religious

groups, own ritual objects that may have substantial aesthetic and historical value. The duration of use value may be further limited to the period during which the object can withstand the rigors of use. Because normal things in use are not brought to conservators, objects in use that conservators see have other values as well. For private owners, those values are primarily sentimental. Objects in active original use (that is, the use the object was made for) can present treatment problems that do not exist when they have been taken out of use and put into a collection. Conservation codes of ethics seldom address the problems peculiar to objects with primarily use value, and many common conservation treatments are not appropriate for objects in use. Few if any conservation-grade adhesives will allow a repaired vase to hold water or a platter to support a turkey. It is difficult to imagine a treatment that would prevent damage to a fragile hundred-year-old beaded silk purse carried to a party. However, objects in this category are often subject to relatively gentle, careful, or infrequent use, making their treatment according to conservation “rules” feasible. Conservators might treat soup tureens but probably not cereal bowls, wedding dresses but not bathing suits, fine antique chairs but not recliners. If conservators treat household goods, they are often objects that are used once a year on holidays rather than every day. So if a conservator can specify hand- rather than machine-washing of the soup tureen, a specially trained dry cleaner and archival storage for the wedding dress, and only light use for the chairs, custodians are apt to comply. Custodians of ceremonial objects are also likely to comply with suggestions from a conservator, since they may already be following rules about handling. The key to devising a realistic treatment strategy that will add to the object’s life while not diminishing the owner’s enjoyment of it is information. This includes the exact nature of the object’s physical use, the cultural or family traditions surrounding it, and the custodian’s willingness to change his handling of the object post-treatment. The conservator’s interview of the custodian has to be thorough, particularly if the conservator is not familiar with the cultural or technical context within which the object functions.

Cultural traditions surrounding objects can be an elusive topic of inquiry, however. Cultural traditions are interpreted differently by different individuals, whether Jews, Native Americans, or Tibetan monks.[48] Family members may not agree on the use or meaning of objects, or on their histories. This is a matter of human nature, not a culture-specific trait. So in addition to being thorough and diplomatic, conservators have to be very concrete in their inquiries about objects in original use. Patriotic, religious, and other ritual objects in use by a group typically have associated maintenance and repair routines. These are not necessarily carried out with long-term preservation in mind but may well have the same effect. Special handling may be prescribed, and there may be specific rules about when objects must be retired from active use. These rules or preferences are an important topic for the custodian interview. Custodians should also be prompted to describe any polishing, repainting, or other kinds of maintenance—both episodic and ongoing—that the custodian may be aware of. When information gathering is over, conflicts between preservation or damage prevention and continued use may become apparent. These are due, in part, to conservators’ view that their obligation to the object has priority over any obligation to its custodian. And their ideas about their obligation to objects involve interpreting any post-treatment change as damage. As a result, they are unhappy when things they treat go back into a type of physical use that could imperil them. Given this bias, it is doubly important for a conservator to ascertain how the custodian feels about the desirability of preventing additional physical changes due to use. Unlike in a museum, the conservator’s job may not be to freeze the object in time from the point of treatment onward. Not all objects are best dealt with by being mummified or mothballed. In the case of use value, conservators have to accommodate the idea that the prevention of future physical change, no matter what we call it, may not be of primary importance—particularly when the object has no significant cultural value that might be compromised by such change. The combination of sentimental and use value can present a powerful argument for courses of action outside of conservators’ usual practice. (See, for instance, the turkey napkins example of Chapter Seven).

The AIC Code of Ethics, interestingly enough, obliges conservators to perform treatments that “do not adversely affect cultural property or its future examination, scientific investigation, treatment, or function.”[49] It is the author’s observation that conservators take the obligations other than “function” seriously, but tend to have the attitude that continued physical use is antagonistic to the welfare of objects. Conservation expertise has a great deal to offer for objects in use, no matter how uncomfortable it may be for conservators to suppress their automatic reactions at such times. Objects in use can often be protected by treatment, but may require a greater degree of intrusion than for objects on display. Protective storage for times when the object is not in actual use may also help. The replacement of original working parts with new ones may be a reasonable course of action when the historical or research value of the original parts is high. The conservator’s appropriate role in some of these cases is to supply accurate information to custodians on the risks of use, which may include the loss of other values. We can only hope that owners of objects valued enough to be brought to a conservator want to prevent the kind of damage that may shorten their useful lives and are willing to do something about it. Whatever conservators’ good intentions, however, it is a mistake for conservators to predict disaster as an inevitable consequence of use when no such future is certain. The use of functional objects that have been out of their original use for some time has different implications for preservation and conservation treatment than when objects are in original use. A collector or collecting institution may want to bring an object out of retirement for purposes of research, education, or public relations. By the time a functional object has reached an advanced stage of life, however, it may no longer be strong enough to support its original use. It may have become weakened or embrittled as a result of normal aging, catastrophic failure of some part, or a lack of maintenance. The major danger of use may not be only added signs of wear but catastrophic failure of a structural member or working part, which might in turn cause substantial damage to the whole or may be dangerous for users or bystanders.

On the other hand, this is a worst-case scenario. If conservators can keep their minds off the slippery slope and concentrate on reality, such a project may not only be doable, but also worth doing. The likely failure mode might be identifiable, leading to a plan to strengthen the object to the point that secondary use would not pose an inordinate risk. Perhaps weakened parts can temporarily be replaced with new. Maybe a similar object of lesser monetary value or rarity would be an acceptable substitute. Maybe computer graphics can substitute. Conservators are often asked to participate in decision-making about this kind of secondary use. Other professionals who are not in favor of it expect conservators to support their point of view, while people who support the use want conservators to tell them how to minimize risk. How can the values of use to an owner be balanced against the risk of loss of value? A values-based risk analysis will clarify the arguments on both sides. The benefits of use for research value and educational value can be predicted. Public relations (and its hoped-for financial benefits) should also be weighed against realistic assessment of the risk to the object. And in the interests of credibility, the conservator should consider starting the discussion by admitting how uncomfortable it is to contemplate such a thing, while promising to do so with an open mind. Research value The classic case of objects with primarily research value is biological and geological specimens. Scientific reference collections are based on taxonomy and have specific research purposes that change over time. For example, some collections of rocks and minerals, and some biological collections, are currently used to derive information about things other than the objects themselves. These other realms include evolution, biochemistry, genetics, and astronomy. Research value can, of course, also be found in historical and functional objects and works of art. Many of these objects, like most scientific specimens, are used primarily for study and spend most or all of their lives in storerooms. Archival collections are fundamentally research collections, important for the information they contain, even though many archival objects also have substantial historical value. Many collections of decorative arts exist more for research and reference than for exhibition. Virtually every

object contains information about its history and technology, and can be useful for comparison with similar objects. Cultural objects can also be the source of information about something other than the object itself. Corrosion layers of buried metal objects, for example, may hold information on past environments, as can pseudomorphs of textiles. The dirt on archaeological ceramics may contain clues to provenance, and remains on their interior surfaces may provide clues to use. Amber beads may contain insects. Many objects, like machinery, musical instruments, and buildings, hold clues to their use that can be destroyed during treatment if the conservator is not aware of their significance. Conservators should keep current about such information retrieval possibilities, particularly when dealing with rare or pristine objects, and information of this type should be sought during the characterization phase. Requirements for research on scientific collections may be more stringent than those for cultural objects, and absolutely vital to preserving any value at all. The addition of any modern material may be irredeemably confounding for certain dating methods or other technical analyses. The possibility that an object may contain information to be retrieved does not necessarily preclude treatment. Conservators can carry out substantial restorative treatments without compromising an object’s research value if they understand the requirements for the kinds of analysis that are used for the object type. Current ethical standards, including appropriate documentation and, at times, the archiving of samples apart from the object, protect the object’s research value. Consolidation of amber is an example. As long as analysis, or at least sampling, is performed before foreign material is introduced, the treatment can be carried out without chemically interfering with analytical work. Educational value Although information can be derived from every object, some museums exhibit objects or use them for demonstration in order to convey specific information such as their mode of operation or construction. Usually, the information relates not only to the object in question but to a whole category of objects – spinning wheels, astrolabes, or apple peelers.

When historical objects, rather than replicas, are used for this purpose, the object is apt to be a routine example of a common type and therefore replaceable. The object’s educational value outweighs its historical value. Some museums have a separate accessions category for these objects that stipulates their status. Commonly, such a collection is under the control of the education department is handled by the public. Age value An object has age value when it is old, it looks old, and we like that it looks old. Age is a value when the viewer feels that it enhances the appeal of the object rather than detracting from it. Most people think that old things should look old and new things, new. We owe much of our understanding of age value to Austrian art historian Alois Riegl and his book, The Modern Cult of Monuments: its Character and its Origin. The look of old things, Riegl says, is revealed in "imperfection, a lack of completeness, a tendency to dissolve shape and color, characteristics that are in complete contrast with those of modern, i. e., newly created, works."[50] The look of age is revealed quickly to an observer, but it may be only conservators who recognize the individual phenomena that, together, create the look of age. Examples are fly specks, streaks of abrasion, a color area that was originally a single flat color and is now intersected by spots of discoloration from beneath, and the accumulation of debris in the texture of brushstrokes. The defining question for treatment is whether signs of age on an object are desirable or not. Preferences in this matter are not for only the professional or sophisticated eye. Deciding whether an object looks old or new is one of the immediate judgements that people make when viewing it. The accompanying judgement on whether the look of age is a good thing or not is also immediate. A professional’s visceral judgements about the appearance of age precede the educated one, in which we use our knowledge to decide how much the object has changed over time and how much of the change can be reversed. The preservation of age value may conflict – or appear to conflict - with conservation treatment, since a goal of many treatments is the repair or

concealment of damage or signs of age. Resolving that conflict is one of the major forks in the road of treatment decisions. Since objects bear many signs of age that conservation treatment will not alter, decisions related to the object’s signs of age need to be made carefully after a discussion with the custodian about which ones can and cannot be eliminated. Not every possible sign of age needs to be left in place in order for a viewer to feel comfortable that an “old” object looks its age and is, therefore, authentic. A painting that has a network of raised cracks does not require a yellowed varnish to look old. Likewise, a marble statue without a uniform polished surface or an archaeological bronze with a dark green corrosion layer bear enough signs of age that a broken nose can be repaired or a distorted form reshaped without compromising the objects’ age value. Dirt may be a sign of age in a sense, but it is also a sign of neglect and can almost always be removed without negating an old object’s appearance of age. For example, a decorative object may have so much accumulated dirt and corrosion that brass, silver, ivory, and wood are the same color. Cleaning will not remove all signs of age, but will restore the contrasts of color and gloss intended by the maker and appreciated by the original user. Knowledge of the aging of materials should enable conservators to judge which signs of age are undesirable in aesthetic terms and unnecessary to preserve age value. On the other hand, Medieval manuscript illuminations and ancient Greek vases may be relatively unchanged by age, but are nevertheless convincingly old because no one makes anything that looks like that any more. So viewers’, or custodians’, comfort about seeing some signs of age in objects with age value may be satisfied by phenomena that are not pertinent to conservation treatment or related to the object’s physical state. Sometimes an object is old, but does not look it. If this is due to a previous treatment that covers signs of age, then a new treatment can restore the age value of the object. If an old object has survived without such signs, then conservation ethics prevent us from adding any. Certainly, if someone wants an object that is not old and does not look old to look old, then we have a problem. Conversely, something that looks old but is not old does not have age value and therefore removing the signs of age can be appropriate. Even if an object is valued for its look of age, that age value does not create cultural value if the object is not valued in some other way. To treasure

something primarily because it is old is a personal preference unrelated to expert or public opinion, and is not sufficient to give something cultural value. Age value is therefore a personal value. Old things with cultural value have artistic quality, rarity, or another value in addition to having survived to old age. Rarity may give very old things cultural value. There are probably no dinosaur fossils with only personal value. However, there are innumerable fossilized shark teeth that serve as souvenirs of museum visits, and are not deemed a loss to the cultural heritage of mankind when they disappear into the depths of children’s junk drawers. Sentiments favoring the look of age are a factor in many cleaning controversies, where people fear that treatment will turn back the hands of time. They worry that an object’s mellow colors or air of dignity will be replaced by something raw or slick or too brightly colored. Old objects, one might say, should wear their age proudly and carry the burdens of history. For example, this from an English professor: I am fascinated by the signs of alteration, tampering, and even deliberate damage that many museums try simply to efface: first and most obviously, the act of displacement that is essential for the collection of virtually all older artifacts and most modern ones - pulled out of chapels, peeled off church walls, removed from decayed houses, given as gifts, seized as spoils of war, stolen, or "purchased" more or less fairly by the economically ascendant from the economically naive (the poor, the hard-pressed heirs of fallen dynasties, and impoverished religious orders). Then, too, there are the marks on the artifacts themselves: attempts to scratch out or deface the image of the devil in numerous late-medieval and Renaissance paintings, the concealing of the genitals in sculptured and painted figures, the iconoclastic smashing of human or divine representations, the evidence of cutting or reshaping to fit a new frame or purpose, and the cracks, scorch marks, or broken-off noses that indifferently record the grand disasters of history and the random accidents of trivial incompetence.[51] Age value, particularly when mixed, as here, with historical value, presents obvious dilemmas in some conservation treatments, but a values analysis generally resolves them. Newness value

An object has newness value when it looks new and we like that it looks new. The object does not actually have to be new for newness value to apply. Vintage clothing is a good example of newness value. Its desirability depends on its being in virtually pristine condition. Other functional objects, such as vintage automobiles, are regarded similarly. We like objects whose style is described as “modern” or “contemporary” to look new no matter what their actual age. The appeal of Danish Modern furniture and International Style buildings, for example, seems to be dependent on the absence of signs of age. Unlike more ornate styles, the “modern look,” with its sleek and unadorned surfaces, is easily disturbed by small flaws. This is both an aesthetic and a psychological issue. The baby boomer generation has set the style for collecting this material, and remember it as looking new. It is irrelevant that modernism is more than a century old! For other objects that are no longer new, the look of newness is undesirable. For example, outdoor nineteenth century monuments that are newly regilded often meet with public disapproval, even when the new state is historically accurate. An unpleasant air of false newness is often caused by overly shiny surfaces, perhaps because of an incongruity between an object’s signs of age and the newness that the shine implies. Reactions to this combination are difficult to predict. Sentimental value Sentimental value springs from individuals’ direct personal experience with objects, particularly those that were part of their childhoods. The range of objects in this category is diverse, and may not follow the owner’s taste in other things. Sentimental value usually does not outlive one owner of an object, but can survive if the object is passed down through the generations. The issues surrounding the choice of treatment for objects with primarily sentimental value can be as complicated as they are for objects with great cultural significance. Owners’ preferences for the treatment of objects with this kind of personal value can be both idiosyncratic and unpredictable. Some owners insist that all minor damage be made invisible, while others may be so used to the presence of damage that they might not be aware it is damage, or may be fond of it. The owners of objects with sentimental value should be questioned carefully.

An object may have sentimental value for more than one reason, and each reason can give rise to a different treatment choice. Suppose a young boy goes to a baseball game with his uncle, and receives a ball signed by the team. The uncle keeps it on a high shelf to keep it out of harm’s way but the ball gets coated with smoke because the uncle is a heavy smoker. The nephew comes into possession of the ball upon the uncle’s death. Should the smoke be cleaned off? The “obvious” answer is that it should, so as to return it to its state as of its original acquisition. But this intervention might compromise the ball’s sentimental value rather than enhance it if the nephew’s memories of his uncle’s ever-present cigars outweigh his memories of the game. Because the meaning of objects with sentimental value comes from the owner’s experience with them—and not much else about them—objects with sentimental value can have a whole range of other values that are of little interest to the custodian. The owner may ask for a treatment that enhances his own enjoyment of the object while reducing its monetary value by allowing deterioration to continue. He may want to remove worn original parts and replace them with new ones, reducing the object’s historical value. At a minimum, the conservator’s obligation is to assure that the owner takes the potential consequences seriously when making such a decision. This is particularly important because of the time–limited nature of sentimental value. If an object has other values, those will become the ruling ones in due time. The owner of an object with sentimental value may believe certain things about it that the conservator suspects are not true, often its authorship or market value. But since those are not the primary basis for his fondness of it, this may not be the time to raise questions. If a particularly costly treatment is involved, the conservator may feel that the right thing to do is to hint that the object may warrant “further investigation” —a step that the custodian is free to pursue or not. Sentimental value can also attach to a museum object that has become part of visitors’ personal memories, even though it is the object’s cultural value that put it into the museum. Mummies are a common example of objects that become a focus for family visits over generations. People remember seeing them on their own school trips and when they are grown want to show them to their children and grandchildren. Museums relegate such things to storage

at their peril, and treatments that change their appearance can also be a source of visitor dissatisfaction. Monetary value Monetary value is often used as a convenient indicator of overall cultural value. As such, it is a very inexact, and sometimes deceptive, measure. Market value depends not only on an object’s intrinsic qualities but on many extrinsic factors as well. New information on authorship or subject matter, the medium of the object, changes in styles of interior decoration, auction prices of similar items, and major museum exhibitions all affect market value. The relative monetary value of objects of particular styles and types, and of works by particular artists, shifts over time to a greater extent than most people realize. It is important, therefore, not to use monetary value as a stand-in for other types of value. On the other hand, monetary value can be a determinant of certain treatment choices. Monetary value is the classic cultural value and, as a result, conservators have an obligation to pay some attention to the way that monetary value might be affected by treatment. High monetary values can bring scrutiny to treatment details that no one would notice otherwise, and can increase historical and research value immensely. And given our litigious era, obtaining informed consent for treatment is particularly important when monetary values rise into the stratosphere. When a work is treated in anticipation of sale, the possible effects of treatment on monetary value may be a primary issue in decision-making. The seller may be extremely sensitive to every detail that he fears might influence the selling price or may feel bound to give in to common prejudices about how treatment affects value. Prejudices about the detrimental effects of any conservation treatment are on the decline but are still strong in some quarters. A substantial number of people feel that signs of treatment lower an object’s value, even when virtually all conservators would agree that a treatment was well-advised, well carried out, and beneficial for the future of the object. Treatment of a “high-end” item before a sale may force both the conservator and custodian to be particularly conservative about treatment in order to satisfy the sometimes irrational, sometimes uninformed, prejudices of the marketplace.

In most cases, however, market value does not prove to be a major factor in treatment decision-making. That being said, private owners may feel pressured by the public emphasis on prices to consider monetary value as a decisive factor in whether an object “deserves” treatment. A values discussion and an explanation of the constant changes in monetary value for many kinds of objects may help owners to concentrate on what they value the object for, and on the importance of preserving it, rather than on its market value. Associative value Objects with associative value have connections to a person with a considerable amount of fame, either as the object’s owner, user, or creator. For example, the costume jewelry that belonged to Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis fetched a much higher price at auction than it would have without the association. Such objects may have no other strong values, however, and their elevated monetary value may be short-lived. While the passage of time is necessary for historical value, associative value can arise when objects are new, and can disappear just as quickly as the fame of the connected person melts away. The judgements of history may eventually turn associative value into historical value when, for example, a politician turns into an historical figure. Commemorative value Commemorative value derives from the intent of the commissioning group or institution at the time the object was created and applies, primarily, to monuments. These objects, says Riegl, "make a claim for immortality, an eternal present." Some monuments stay "alive" with the addition of information from current events added to the historical events that the monument was built to commemorate. The goal of commemoration is to keep past events in our memories for as long as possible and therefore, as Riegl states, "the fundamental requirement of deliberate monuments is restoration."[52] They should be kept continuously and permanently in an asnew state. The focus of interest for objects with primarily commemorative value is what the monument commemorates rather than the its creation. Value rests in the appearance of newness rather than period authenticity, so, for example, if

a plaque is damaged, replacing it with a new one does not destroy value but enhances it. Rarity Rarity is a good example of a non-material aspect of objects that involves physical fact, since it is based on the number of similar objects in existence. But rarity is non-material because it is based on human judgement, not on numbers. Only objects with substantial cultural value qualify, and unusual or unique things may have no value at all. Every hand-made object, from a child’s drawing to a hobbyist’s birdhouse, is unique, but few are called rare. Rarity can be relative to locale; some types of objects are rare in the United States, for example, but plentiful in the Far East or Europe. Some can be rare in private hands but common in museums. So clarity in the meaning of rarity is vital when considering it as a factor in treatment decision-making. Rarity intensifies other values. If an object has any research value, for example, rarity will increase the importance of any information that can be extracted from it. Likewise, any aesthetic value will be magnified if an object is a unique example of the aesthetics of a whole group of objects most of which are now lost. The effect of rarity on the values of objects varies widely. Is one of a set of dining chairs more valuable or less valuable when its companions are intact? For an antique collector who wants to furnish his dining room, only chairs in sets of six, eight or twelve may have value. In a museum setting, a single extant member of a set may become more valuable because of its rarity, or one of a set may gain value because its partners are held in well-known collections. A lack of rarity affects values when objects are so common as to be replaceable. These things – personal or household possessions like books, china, and jewelry – normally reach the hands of conservators only when they have sentimental value. Conservators of ceramics, for example, occasionally report that a client wants a broken plate fixed even though an identical one can be purchased at the corner antique store. Outside of sentimental value, however, a lack of rarity reduces the possibility that an individual object will acquire cultural value.

Rarity of an original object at the time of its creation is seldom a difficult issue to factor into treatment decisions because normal conservation practice is designed to apply to precious and unique objects. Some objects referred to as rare may, however, be truly odd things whose uniqueness makes it difficult to decide what they are supposed to look like. Rarity may simply intensify pressure on conservators to do the “right thing,” whatever that may be. Rarity, then, is yet another value that does not have a consistent or automatic influence on treatment decisions. The relationship between value and the physical state of an object The value of an object is a complex social construct that shifts constantly with styles, market conditions, and owners, and does not correlate in a reliable or predictable way with changes in physical state. However, the “overall value” of an object—whatever that may mean—is ordinarily not a useful concept for conservators. It is the types of value that an object has that affect treatment decisions. A single physical change in an object can have either a negative or positive effect on any one value depending on its owner and use. A domestic sofa with worn upholstery gains in use value and aesthetic value to its owner and visitors if it is reupholstered. If the sofa is an antique, the loss of original upholstery would reduce its historical value and make it less desirable as a future museum accession. A change in physical state, even severe loss, does not always imply a major loss in value. The level of completeness of an object is generally lumped together with other factors when assessing an object. Yet the level of completeness is an independent factor whose effect on the value of the object can range widely. A partial object, like a fossil or other biological specimen, can be just as valuable for research purposes as a complete one if the object is symmetrical and one whole side is extant. The aesthetic value of the same object, however, would be considered so compromised as to be unusable for exhibition, unless it were exceedingly rare. For the same reason, the research or historical value of a ceramic pot from an archaeological dig, if it does not have strong aesthetic value, may not be commensurate with how much of it is missing. Nineteenth century Romanticism prized incompleteness and damage, while other aesthetic traditions go in the opposite direction. In certain areas of

collecting, like antique toys, unused objects are valued more highly than those that show their age, while a history of use is so important for ethnography that unused objects may be considered inauthentic. The wide variation in modern preferences underscores conservators’ obligation to make an explicit investigation for each case before treatment decisions are made. For some categories of objects, the loss of one whole component is so common that it is taken for granted and is not regarded as lessening the object’s value. For example, much (originally) polychrome sculpture currently prized by museums has lost virtually all its paint, to the extent that few viewers realize anything is missing. Few wooden African masks still possess their fiber surrounds, and many so-called fetish figures have been stripped of everything but the underlying wood. Many early Italian panel paintings show figures with green faces, missing their surface pinkish paint layer. Archaeological metal objects can hold their surface conformations intact despite the transformation of every bit of elemental metal into mineral form. In these cases, age and rarity of the object are more important to its values than the fact that major original parts are missing. The aesthetics of the object’s current state may have little in common with the aesthetics of the object as created, but connoisseurship has developed in line with the objects as collected. Values almost inevitably shift with changes in use or ownership because the meaning of certain qualities of the object depend on context. One common example relates to the physical flexibility of objects. Aging of many organic materials involves cross-linking and accompanying embrittlement. Certain changes in inorganic objects, such as intergranular corrosion of metals, also lead to embrittlement. Flexibility of paper, textiles, leather, rubber, plastics, and even metals and glass, is an indispensable attribute of many objects in their original use. Loss of flexibility may diminish, or completely destroy, an object’s use value. A brittle newspaper, stiffened boots, and a rigid rubber bulb from a perfume bottle can no longer be used as intended. Such changes may, in fact, doom the thing to the trash. Yet if any one of those things is transferred to a museum (thereby becoming an “object”), its function changes and so does the importance of the value attached to its physical flexibility. A utilitarian object's value to a museum rests in the accuracy of its representation of the state at the time of creation

or period of use, not its ability to fulfill its original physical use. The change may actually be an asset in the museum context. The loss of a physical characteristic required for use in one setting may have no correlation to the object’s usability in another. In a somewhat different way, transfer of a religious object out of a setting where it is used and into an art museum where it is displayed changes the balance of values. Even though it does not change physically, the value placed on its aesthetics increases. It is hard to define the effect on values of some of the most common physical changes in objects. For example, how does the cracking of a paint film affect a painting’s value? Some American nineteenth-century paintings stretched on so-called American panel stretchers have survived without the craquelure typical of virtually every canvas painting past a certain age. (Such stretchers have a center panel that isolates the canvas from the external environment.) To a conservator, this proves the importance of environmental control. A curator or art historian may value such a work because it shows what a nowold painting looked like when it was created. A normal viewer, on the other hand, might think that the painting does not look authentically old. Because a crackle pattern in an old painting is a sign of age and therefore of authenticity, the art market might consider cracks an asset. In a new painting, on the other hand, a crack may automatically be considered damage. Cracks in ceramic glazes, in mirrors, or in wooden sculpture, have completely different effects on values. *** The values list in this chapter directs the characterization of the non-material aspects of objects and helps conservators interpret the custodian’s expressed opinions. In later chapters, we will see that knowing an object’s values assures that none of them are inadvertently lost or diminished by treatment. Chapter Five will discuss information not particular to this object that may be required to answer the questions of this chapter when the custodian cannot supply them. In the case of information on the non-material aspects of objects, the information comes from the social sciences, particularly anthropology, sociology, archaeology, and history.

Chapter Five – Quadrant IV General Cultural Information This chapter covers Quadrant IV of the characterization grid: non-material information not specific to the object at hand. The categories of information are the same as those of Quadrant III, covered in the previous chapter: the history of the object, its current value(s), and its future. Few people other than the custodian are likely to have information about this particular object, so in order to find out more about it, we look for information on similar objects. The main sources are history, anthropology, sociology, and related fields. Conservators themselves, of course, possess a wealth of information on the history of objects. Conservators commonly take on responsibility for judging research value, for example, based on their own knowledge of similar objects, their common methods of analysis and scholarly uses. Conservators know the ways that research value can be affected by treatment, something that few custodians take into account. Conservators’ experience also helps in interpreting the custodian’s predictions for the future of an object. For example, we understand, even if a private owner does not, that his children may not cherish an object the way he does. Conservators usually have a sense of how likely it is that an object now in private hands will end up in a museum. We also may have independent knowledge of the current marketplace. All this information feeds into treatment decisions. There are a number of analogies between the science information of Quadrant II and the cultural information of Quadrant IV. In both cases, the information can be relatively simple. In the realm of material science, for example, we might say: this object is glass; glass is easily breakable; therefore, this object is easily breakable. And in the realm of cultural information, we might say in a similarly straightforward way: this object is a book; books exist to be read; therefore, a bookbinding has to be flexible for the book to be opened. We do not have to know the chemical reasons why glass is breakable or understand the language of a book’s text to understand the implications of those facts.

In other cases, however, relevant information is technical and complex, and applying the information to the treatment of one particular object can be anything but simple. Difficult cases may require guidance not only from conservation scientists, but, analogously, from material culture specialists.[53] For example, factual information on an object’s life acquired during the characterization is often part of the art historical record belonging to other objects of its type. Once we can name the type of object we are working with, we can easily learn the function of a Chinese bronze or Greek vase of a particular profile or look at photographs of a full dance costume of which an object may have been a component. Art historians can often place a work of art in the context of the artist’s life and stylistic development. Substantial independent research is rarely required. Common sense and general knowledge in world history, museology, sociology, religion, and anthropology often tell us what we need to know to supply Quadrant IV information, the same way general knowledge of chemistry and physics does for Quadrant II. Conservation is as much a child of the liberal arts as it is of the hard sciences. General cultural knowledge enriches conservators’ understanding of objects and therefore the subtlety with which treatments are adapted to the specifics of an object’s values. Conservators’ intimate connection with objects also contributes to the body of knowledge in Quadrant IV, enriching custodians' understanding of objects and the information available to cultural historians. Another analogue with Quadrant II is a division of the object’s history into life stages, - in this case using cultural categories rather than the Feller graph’s material ones. There are five main cultural life stages: creation, original use, discard, collection, and institutional acquisition, all of which will be discussed later in this chapter. Every object in our care is in one of these life stages, and most objects that conservators handle have already, or will eventually, travel through all of them, so the stages encompass every object’s past, present, and future. A staged description of objects’ lives is therefore another way to look at the three categories of information subsumed under the non-material aspects of objects - history, value(s), and intended future. Investigation of an object’s cultural life and the values associated with each of the life stages serves several purposes. Objects in original use that

conservators treat, like ritual objects with political or religious meaning or privately owned furniture, embody certain typical values. Many museum objects are displayed as if they were in their period of original use, so treatment requires that we know what that state looked like. And understanding the custodian’s likely point of view at each life stage helps us interpret the object and the values of all historic stakeholders. Yet a third analogy between Quadrants II and IV is that both science and cultural studies not only give us information, but also a method of inquiry. The liberal arts’ method of inquiry is referred to as “qualitative reasoning,” paralleling the “quantitative reasoning” of the scientific method.[54] The values section in the previous chapter is an application of qualitative reasoning. Cultural studies are vital to the non-material aspects of characterization in several ways. Knowledge of the common biases and misconceptions in our own culture helps us to see past them and also helps us to understand custodians. Conservators can learn a great deal from colleagues in the liberal arts outside of art history, like historians, anthropologists, sociologists, and those who study religion, literature, and arts other than the visual ones. Much literature in these fields is directly relevant to conservation concerns. (See Selected readings at the end of the book.) A conservation treatment promotes a particular view of the object’s past and affects its journey into the future. That is why an understanding of the full biography of an object is vital to conservation work. The moment at which we meet an object is an arbitrary point in its (usually) long life. Most of the objects we treat have been in many places and witnessed much human (or natural) history, and will undoubtedly see a great deal more of the future than we will. Their treatment should be a comfortable, and beneficial, episode in their lives. STAGES IN AN OBJECT’S LIFE—AN INTRODUCTION This section will examine the five stages in the cultural lives of objects -creation, original use, discard, collection, and institutional acquisition—and discuss some of the cultural values typically linked to each stage. Each new stage in the life of an object typically involves a change of location, change of ownership, and change in use, with accompanying

changes in attitudes toward many of its aspects. Transition into the last two stages – collection and institutional acquisition - also commonly means a less harsh environment and gentler handling. Some objects undergo format change as well, for example, framing of works on paper formerly part of a book, or stand-alone display of sculpture formerly attached to a building. All these changes in the lives of objects are accompanied by changes in values. In some cases, the facts of cross-cultural shifts and gross physical changes will be known, or at least evident from an examination of the object. However, changes in attitude toward the object between owners must be inferred, usually from historical evidence. Geographical and temporal distance between owners can result in widely divergent aesthetic preferences even for the same objects. Europeans of the 18th and 19th centuries, for example, were taken with the pure white of Classical sculpture, an aesthetic that did not exist in ancient times. Radical changes can occur over shorter periods of time, particularly in the earliest stages: from first owner to neglect, and then into the hands of a collector. The values that an object represents to a collector may be unrelated to the object’s previous life, its maker’s intent, or its original use. A vast majority of the things conservators treat have moved out of original use and into the hands of individual collectors and museums. The history of collecting and the changes in meanings of collected objects over time are particularly relevant to conservation, because many historical attitudes have persisted to some extent, even as new ideas arise. The values associated with each stage have many cross-cultural similarities. For example, most humans have heightened feelings toward objects handed down from their ancestors.[55] The sentimental value attached to such objects may be so strong that it overwhelms any other value, making aesthetic quality, monetary value, and condition irrelevant. The universality of attitudes toward objects is especially pronounced in the later life stages of collection and institutional acquisition. Widespread collecting by individuals is a relatively recent phenomenon and occurs within a limited geographic and cultural sphere. Public museums, libraries, and archives are likewise limited in both time and place, so institutional ownership implies a particular set of values.

Let us look at the stages in overview before proceeding with more detailed discussions. The first stage of an object’s life is its creation. The varieties of motivation for people who make things range from necessity to monetary profit to artistic expression, and the variety of circumstances affects the object’s future in many ways. The details of object creation are therefore a part of the object’s history. However, once created, an object has a life of its own. The originator(s) lose control over the object as it moves away from its original context in both time and space, a process called “distanciation."[56] Creation is followed by a transfer of ownership into “original use.” The circumstances surrounding the transfer from creator to user say a great deal about why the object was made the way it was and what the first user valued about it. Discard is a common next step. Functional objects are commonly discarded when they can no longer be used, but the same thing is common for fine art and decorative objects as well. Art styles and genres typically fit into contemporary design schemes and life styles, so their “use” may likewise be time-limited. Portraiture linked to politics may also have a limited period of usefulness. Much now-famous art survived through a period of disfavor, even though the high cultural values now attached to it has come to seem immutable. The reason that the original user of an object parts with it can tell us what he valued about it. Indications often come from observable physical changes to the object. In many cases, of course, the original user’s surrender of an object was not voluntary, but, rather, the result of an historical scenario for which the values of the next owners may be key. Once museums became common, some objects were able to skip the discard phase, going directly from an artist’s studio or original use into an exhibition gallery. But this pattern is still common only for contemporary art. The recent growth of collecting across a wide swath of American society has in some cases almost eliminated the garbage phase as a routine step between original use and collection, but even Barbie dolls offered on E-bay have normally had a few years’ sojourn in a baby boomer’s attic.

The fourth life stage—collection—begins when a collector is attracted to a disused object or pulls an object out of active use for display or study. The collector may be an anthropologist, tourist, hunter, art dealer, archaeologist, retail consumer, thief, or conqueror. In each case, the values attributed to the object reflect the motivations of the new owner, and are usually quite different from the values that the object held for the owner who came before. The fifth, and final, stage, if it occurs, moves the object from individual collector to an institution. The object joins a new set of companions with which, as the art historians say, it is compared and contrasted. It gains new meanings consistent with the mission of the institution, and, perhaps regrettably, loses others. The values of an object’s past, however, enrich its current interpretation. It is important to try to keep them alive even within the confines of museum use. Boats, which represent historically significant periods of commercial and recreational use, are a good example. Boat enthusiasts generally expect collected examples to be restored to seaworthy condition. Yet the classic conservation stance - not to remove original material even if it is deteriorated beyond use, and to add new material only when structurally or aesthetically necessary - makes operation, or even the appearance of operability, impossible. A New York State museum had taken a different tack, so to speak, and replicated the use of a well-known wooden sailboat by floating it in water inside a large plastic bubble set outside. Museum visitors, many of whom are sailors, loved the exhibit. They like to look at boats not primarily for historical reasons but in terms of their own experience in sailing them, so the exhibit reflected their point of view. What they know about boats is central to what boats are, yet it is a category of knowledge that is difficult to incorporate into classic museum methods of documenting, preserving, and exhibiting objects. The bubble was a favorite exhibit for many years, but results from a preservation point of view were, predictably, not good, and the exhibition environment had to be changed. Conservators cannot accede to use that involves major damage to important objects. But adequate substitutes can often be devised, such as audio-visual

exhibit aids. Turning boats into gracefully shaped, but static, exhibition objects denies their whole purpose. Some methods of incorporating different views of an object outside the object will be discussed in Chapter Eight, which discusses the realistic goal of treatment. Conservation treatment, preservation strategies, and exhibition should, ideally, incorporate all historic points of view toward an object and acknowledge their potential contribution to enriching its meaning. The broadest possible knowledge of an object inevitably enhances our understanding of all its facets, and therefore sharpens the appropriateness of its treatment. This is, of course, the purpose of a thorough characterization. STAGES IN AN OBJECT’S LIFE—A DETAILED LOOK Let us take a closer look at the five life stages—creation, original use, discard, collection, and institutional acquisition. Creation and its myths Our ideas about artistic creation influence conservation treatment because they influence our interpretation of what artists and other creators do. Information about politics, economics, interior decoration, and other nonartistic matters, as well as art history and anthropology, help us to understand why people make things. The act of creation involves the whole range of human motivations. Creation is sometimes a simple matter of commerce, while at other times it carries deep mythic or religious meaning. Artists can be the pillars of a society or its outcasts. The modern myth of the artist is typified by stories about underfed and unappreciated geniuses whose creativity is fueled by drugs, alcohol, or manic depression, an idea that conceals a host of historical inaccuracies. The importance of the hand of the individual artist is part of the Romanticera cliché. Yet historically, many objects were created by what we might call a production team.[57] Artists’ studios from the Middle Ages through at least the 18th century were typically group enterprises, not solo practices.[58] The Western Romantic idea of the brooding artist makes art the result of personal inspiration, but in fact, many things now categorized as art were

created for other reasons. Paintings, drawings, and sculpture had practical as well as artistic functions. For example, many landscapes that we now regard as purely decorative were created with political and patriotic motivations.[59] Before photography, the ability to draw was vital for scientists, inventors, and many other professionals, and drawings by architects, engineers, and botanists now framed for display were originally working documents or research tools. Realistic landscapes were created for military strategists. Strong interest in the lives of artists as celebrities is, with some exceptions, a peculiarity of our own time, and is related to the importance we give to authorship. Many custodians, assuming that the current importance of attribution in assigning value is universal, expect signatures on old paintings and are disappointed if none can be found. Ideas about artistic creation were further affected by the industrial revolution, which resulted in large numbers of mass-produced, relatively inexpensive products. Machine-made goods were valued differently from handcrafts which, were, in turn, contrasted with high art. The popularization of anthropology in the nineteenth century started debates about the relative value of whole cultures – what we now call cultural relativism. One side of the controversy – the multi-culturalist view repudiated the European-based model of art-history[60] and advocated for what we now call multi-culturalism. All these “-isms” and controversies are still with us, and bias our interpretations of art and artists. The relative merits of originating cultures, differences in value between handmade and machine-made objects, and the proper place of artists in society remain hot-button topics. They affect the attitudes of both custodians and conservators. Recognizing the difference between attitudes and facts can encourage new lines of inquiry that have more to do with the practicalities of making and using things than with artistic inspiration. For example, the shiny surfaces of art and household furnishings may have more to do with dim lighting than artistic choice. Many design features, like the protective placement of gilded ornamentation on French furniture, are responses to the practical demands of object use. Such information is vital for interpretation of objects.

Makers’ intent: longevity of the created object The question of the intended longevity of objects is significant for conservators because it influences attitudes toward signs of age and toward repair and restoration. Examination of an object often yields information that indicates the makers’ attention to problems of aging. There are numerous examples of objects whose creators both cared about the longevity of their product and knew enough to do something about it. Wooden panel doors, dimensional changes in warping. Stone buildings iron where metals were stone.

for example, are designed to accommodate wood that would otherwise cause cracking or in ancient Greece and Rome used lead rather than necessary because rusting iron is destructive of

To interpret creators’ intent toward longevity using evidence from objects, we have to know what material choices they faced and what knowledge was currently available about long-term aging. Many easel painters were certainly aware that natural resin varnishes yellowed, and certainly wall painters must have been aware of the darkening of indoor murals from soot. It is possible that they painted in brighter and/or lighter tones to accommodate those changes. They may, on the other hand, have ignored the issue, assuming that their paintings were of short-term value only, or preferring to optimize the immediate appearance of their work. Some creators, certainly, were – and are --motivated by the need for speed or economy, or for other reasons are indifferent to the consequences of their choice of material and technique. Only in the early nineteenth century did the industrial revolution make material things abundant enough in some parts of the world that not caring about the longevity of objects became a reasonable stance. But even today people have very different comfort levels about fixing and preserving things versus throwing them out and buying new. When the deterioration of an object reflects a lack of concern about longevity, conservators may face a difficult technical battle, particularly with objects of organic materials like rubber and plastic that were not meant for long-term use.

On the other hand, when contemporary artists create works that virtually self-destruct, conservators face an ethical dilemma: whether preservative treatments can be appropriate if they run counter to the artist’s declared preference for decay. "Creation" of a natural history specimen Interesting philosophical questions with practical consequences arise when we think about the creation of a scientific specimen.[61] Is the creation of a specimen its natural beginning, its moment of collection, or its accession? Is the beginning of the "life" of a biological specimen the time of death of the organism or after preparation methods have altered its chemical and physical make-up. Both are important events for technical reasons; the cause of death can be an important piece of data for researchers, and preparation methods will limit the object’s use. If post-mortem preparation of a specimen is the creation of the object to be preserved, then technicians who carry out the preparation are the equivalent of artists. Their choices are based on protocols that have evolved in their area of specialization. These protocols that are not necessarily informed by conservation principles but are set by such factors as the need for consistency in material choice dictated, in turn, by the size of collections and the complexity of managing them. Insect specimens, for example, may be mounted using shellac as an adhesive even though there are synthetic adhesives with “better” aging properties. The creation of a geological sample is similarly ambiguous. The original formation of a rock is one kind of creation. But a specimen is created at the time of its collection from the field or upon its accession. Logically, then, the loss of a piece of a rock that may be unremarkable if it happens when the rock is being knocked out of a cliff face would be considered damage if it happened to an accessioned specimen. The meaning of original state, damage, and loss need to be clarified in order to fit the conservation of natural history specimens into the normal discourse on the conservation of objects. Original use and discard Original use and discard are discussed together because of the significance of the transition between them. The changes that lead to discard often define

the parameters of use. Information about original use can be as important to the understanding of an object as knowledge of its fabrication techniques and materials. Evidence of repaired breaks, for example, or of repeated types of damage, add to our knowledge of how an object was used. Such information adds value and interest to the object, and can influence treatment. For example, Kenneth Ames has examined social and domestic constructs in the Victorian period by looking at chairs, the postures they define, and their gender implications. Men, as often seen in genre paintings of the period, customarily tilted back in straight chairs, often against a wall.[62] Evidence of the practice can be seen in the wear of the back rail of some chairs. In these cases, compensation for loss in that area may be ill-advised. Treatments honor the creators’ and users’ intent by re-creating the state that they valued, and by exhibitions that explain objects’ use. Another aspect of original use involves objects’ surroundings. The archetypical Victorian dining room, for example, featured a decor unified not only in style but also in subject: carved furniture, paintings, wall and window coverings all centered on the theme of food—harvested and unharvested, alive, dead and dying. Food still-lives, horns-of-plenty, hunting pictures, majestic dying stags, and other somewhat gory themes were all part of the iconography.[63] Rarely do modern exhibits re-create this aspect of use, but wider use of an ethnographic approach to objects would provide interesting insights. Literature on the original use of objects is becoming more common in many fields. The creation of furnishing plans for historic houses, for example, involves substantial research into many facets of life. The resulting reinstallations and reinterpretations are rich sources of information for both the public and professionals. An enviable level of information on a particular category of objects is illustrated by the catalogue accompanying an exhibition of Egyptian textiles. The chapters [of the catalogue] deal with the fabrication of fabrics including spinning, weaving, and dying methods as well as with sewing, with care and storage of fabrics and clothes and with the different uses in the economy, households, medicine, and religion. All different types of clothes worn by the ancient Egyptians are described and a special chapter shows the clothes

of Tutankhamun. Additional chapters deal with cosmetics and personal hygiene, with jewelry and amulets, with wigs and hair jewelry, and with shoes. The original objects shown on photographs are compared to contemporaneous illustrations on Egyptian wall paintings in tombs and on sculpture. Clothes patterns and the ways to wear them are also reconstructed. [64]

Another example of a use pattern that informs conservation practice is the private ownership of Asian paintings, both secular and religious. Religion, philosophy, and traditions of connoisseurship, woven together with aesthetics and viewing conditions, combine to give meaning to both the art and physical construction of hand scrolls and hanging scrolls. This information is central to both the interpretive and preservation-related aspects of treatments. The period of original use of an object sometimes involves physical changes that actually add to the meaning of an object rather than detracting from it. Information about those changes and their causes can come from conservation examination, from the history of technology, or from our knowledge of similar items’ current use. Interpreting these changes allows the conservator to distinguish between damage with no historical significance and meaningful signs of use. Attempts to acquire information on the original use of an object additionally informs us as to what knowledge is available. Since the loss of informational content is considered an adverse treatment outcome, an object of a wellknown type can often be treated more freely that one that may hold clues to unknown cultural practices. For example, there is no reason related to the informational content of an icon to leave drips of wax on the surface or to preserve or analyze samples of it. Likewise, the removal of burial salts from archaeological material is different from the removal of unidentified soluble residues from ethnographic objects. Decisions on whether certain accretions should be removed, left on an object, or preserved separately, will be based on many different criteria, but certainly prior identification is one of them. Attitudes toward longevity among original users Original users of objects tend to have the same attitudes toward longevity as the creators of those objects, but the specifics of changes in the object’s physical state or in the owner’s lives define the end of usability. Expectations

for the length of original use often explain both the nature of repairs found during examination and the likely circumstances of discard. In Europe and the United States, many works of art were discarded when the interiors they were designed to match went out of style, so the typical period of use for both art and furnishings was approximately one generation. A cliché in the world of antiques is that people dislike their parents’ taste, but favor their grandparents’. This would imply a cycle of about fifty years from creation through discard to rediscovery. The life pattern of original use, discard, and collecting is common across a wide variety of objects, but most objects do not make it all the way. Out of all the things people have made and used - wallpaper, buildings, socks, bicycles, road maps, church altarpieces – what we have is the few survivors. Despite the emphasis on disasters as a cause for the loss of cultural property, much of the discard and destruction was purposeful.[65] Questions about discard are common. American libraries are in a continual quandary on the subject, and private individuals struggle with it every time they clean out their closets. The final choices are made based on questions of values, including, for libraries, research and age value, and for individuals, newness value. Monetary and, of course, use value, are issues for both. The life pattern of use/discard/collection is not universal, as attitudes toward longevity exhibit the broadest possible range of choices. Some groups dispose of unusable objects with great respect, sometimes in the same way they treat human bodies. The Dan, on the other hand, say of their termitedamaged objects, “Nowadays they are sometimes sold to whites, and what we find in European collections are mainly such masks which are ‘no good’ any more,”[66] clearing the way for such things to embark on an entirely new life. Traditional care Information about traditional care and maintenance tells us a great deal about what owners knew about the physical susceptibilities of their possessions. Such information also helps us to interpret certain physical phenomena. Evidence of high standards of care indicate expectations of longevity and imply high regard for the objects concerned.

For example, American housekeeping practices described in a number of late 18th and early 19th century manuals illustrate sophistication about the physical properties of household possessions and concern for the longevity of susceptible objects like textiles. Study of these methods is additionally useful for conservators because some practices in textile conservation are based on them. Traditional construction and care for Japanese kimono show a similar pattern.[67] Certain common cross-cultural practices are based primarily on the behavior of a material and its appearance. For example, metals that darken upon exposure to air are commonly kept bright and shiny if the owners have the resources to manage it. Such is the case with Native American silver as well as medieval armor and American pewter. The trouble that the owners of such objects took to maintain their appearance tells us a lot about the objects’ importance within the cultures of original use. Analysis related to use Technical analysis is a common source of information on original use. American Indian baskets, ancient ceramic jars, crucibles, and pre-Columbian grinding stones are some of the objects for which analysis of residues has been carried out.[68] For some of these objects, the analysis of contents may be the primary value of the artifact. However, not every such object is a candidate for analysis. An object may be one of hundreds or thousands of a type whose use is already well known. Documentation of an object’s origin sufficient to make analysis meaningful may be unavailable. Or an object may have been cleaned in a way that would destroy evidence. Not every object needs to, or is suitable for, being a data source. Original use of the fine arts Many objects now exhibited as fine art were originally functional objects. In fact, relatively few objects now in art museums were created with aesthetics as a sole value. For example, European equestrian statues were used as displays of wealth and political power, the technical difficulty of casting only adding to the tribute. Aesthetics rather than use or original meaning is the focus of attention for many museumgoers and art historians, but many appearance-related

questions get little attention. How different did displayed objects look when they were first seen? What were their surroundings and lighting? How were they mounted or framed? From what angle were they seen? Attention to original context might yield interesting insights that could influence current display or the aesthetics of treatment. Original use of buildings Buildings remain in use throughout their lifetimes, so, in a sense, original use of buildings encompasses their whole history, often including repeated alterations. However, most buildings that receive the attention of conservators have gone through a period of neglect analogous to discard for other kinds of objects, and change of ownership to a not-for-profit is analogous to collecting. These buildings have primarily historical value, and their earliest period of use is apt to be the focus of interest. Investigation of original use involves both material and non-material data, which contribute to the accuracy of historic house museums and to public interest in historic buildings. Research on American domestic architecture, for example, has investigated room use, furnishing schemes, class and gender implications of room layouts, the shifting emphasis on domestic privacy, and the growing separation between work and home. Studies of periods of revival of earlier styles, like the Colonial Revival, have helped in understanding the historically inaccurate furnishing and decorating schemes of many historical buildings restored for visitation. Questions about the original appearance of buildings are often interrelated with questions of traditional maintenance and use, since many building elements, like exterior coatings and hardware, are both decorative and functional. Original methods of providing comfort for inhabitants are important both for their intrinsic interest and because they can sometimes be revived for use. This has the double benefit of interpreting a structure for visitors and avoiding the need for intrusive and expensive mechanical systems. Since buildings are experienced with all our senses and not just viewed from a distance, 21st-century air-conditioning with its accompanying sounds may be inappropriate in the interpretation of a historic house. Whether visitors will accept historic discomfort as an educational experience is another question entirely!

Original use of buildings includes their lighting schemes. Period-appropriate lighting is important both as an interpretive tool and in the effects it has on the appearance of furnishings. In some buildings light has other meanings which make it even more important.[69] In houses of worship, for example, light has both practical value and symbolic meanings. Stained glass windows integrate aesthetics, religious symbolism, and function. Conservation measures to reduce light-induced damage can undermine all those values. Acoustics is also important in buildings, particularly in places of public meeting, and could be altered by conservation treatment. The surface treatment of stone, for example, increases strength by lowering porosity.[70] The distribution of textiles or furniture can also alter acoustics. Original use of technological objects The category of technological objects includes a wide variety of vehicles, scientific equipment, machinery and tools used in factories and homes. Conservators are trained to look at the materials of these objects, their methods of construction, and the original appearance of surfaces. However, general objects conservators may not be used to asking other questions about objects’ original use, like the horsepower and speed of engines, power sources, vehicle riding comfort, human labor of operation, and a whole host of other matters that only operation or contemporary documentation might answer. Collections of functional objects are less likely to be supervised by professionals than some other object types. Old cars, farm machinery, and jukeboxes are among the things that are typically collected by aficionados without reference to conservation standards. A long history of stewardship by amateur enthusiasts as well as an understandable desire to restore functional objects to functionality may mean that only a small number of functional objects remain unaltered.[71] For this reason, establishing the rarity of a previously unaltered object to be treated may become particularly important in order to preserve evidence of original use. Original use of costumes and costume accessories The original use of costumes is not particularly well depicted by normal museum displays, where mounts produce a static appearance different from that of real life. Soft flesh fills out clothing differently than a mannequin.

Moreover, the real-life experience of clothing includes movement and sound, accessories, hairstyles, the play of light, social settings, and the appearance and personality of the wearer. The experience of wearing clothes also supplies sensual input including the physical restrictions implicit in certain styles and cuts. Subtle issues related to class, wealth, status, and changing styles are not easily grasped by modern museumgoers partly because of the relative ease with which we acquire and care for clothing today as compared to the pre-industrial period. It is also quite difficult to communicate the reality of clothing’s past, given its current state. The reasons are both technical and cultural. In the novel Time and Again, the main character is attempting time travel. This requires that he learn to envision the reality of the past: I stood turning a woman’s shoe in my hands, studying the brittle gray-black leather crisscrossed with cracks. The toe and a band around the top were oddly discolored, the mother-of-pearl buttons chipped; it was no longer a shoe but a curiosity. Then Martin handed me its counterpart in new leather, and it was supple in my hands, the buttons of newly cut mother-of-pearl, the toes and a wide strip around the top brilliantly scarlet. . . . It wasn’t hard to see a young girl sitting on the edge of her bed pulling this on, buttoning it, then admiring it as she revolved her foot on her ankle to make the new leather catch the light.[72] As the character observed, imagination may be insufficient to bring a deteriorated piece of clothing back to its as-used condition. But an awareness of the nature of the problem may spur some new treatment methods or novel methods of interpretation to enhance display. A complication of this point of view is that faded textiles have age value, due to what people see as their soft mellow colors. People like those colors so much that many reproduction fabrics copy aged rather than authentic color schemes. People sometimes think of bright colors as not tasteful, and ignore or are unaware of the fact that many old things were brightly colored. Displays that aim to address this misconception using renderings of the probable original appearance of objects on display might prove interesting. Original use of musical instruments

Restoration of old instruments to make them playable has resulted in much loss of information about original materials and construction techniques. As in many other conservation specialties, preservation of original material is being given increasing importance and, when possible, copies are being constructed for playing.[73] The original state of an instrument requires not only that it be playable, but playable in certain subtle ways. Players demand certain kinds of physical responses from an instrument, and players and listeners alike have certain preferences about the tone produced. Issues of reconstruction to playable state versus preservation of even traces of original materials are ongoing concerns for conservators who work with this category of object. When historical instruments are in institutional collections, their use to produce sound is often a research matter rather than an artistic one, and preservation can be the central focus. Playability can be relegated to second-chair status. In some cases, however, collection instruments are played in public concerts, in which case the balance is reversed. Conflicts between preservation and use are inevitable with instruments in routine use. Church bells, for example, are not static installations but dynamic machines. Preservation measures for these objects—which in many cases are centuries old—must take into account that bell ringers are “anxious to ring on bells which 'go' easily and sound musical.”[74] As with other situations where conservators deal with objects in original use, optimal conservation practice that respects both the present and future of the objects requires a great deal of knowledge, sensitivity, and ingenuity. Original use of books and archival materials Books in original use are, in essence, functional objects. Their function is, of course, to provide information or to entertain, and entails certain physical requirements. Few books in active original use are considered preservation– worthy cultural property. Best-sellers in a circulating library do not have historical or age value. Like other functional objects, books are discarded when they no longer serve their intended function - when interest in the subject matter wanes, when the information becomes out-dated, or when a book falls apart. Similarly, few

books in original use get a conservator’s attention. Books in circulating libraries might be repaired using conservation-grade materials, but the repairs are carried out by library staff rather than conservators. This is appropriate for objects with no cultural value and little realistic probability of acquiring any. Certain books, however, take on cultural value early in their lives. Autographed books have associative value, first editions have newness value, and some hand-made books have art value. Some books find their original use in research libraries. Older books can have historical value because of their content or ownership, and many books are valued for their rarity. Because of their values, these books are considered preservationworthy and are therefore in the province of conservators, but most of them still must accommodate physical use. Archives, formally speaking, are collections of documents legally required for retention by a business, institution, or governmental body. This is the original use of archival material. Records management policies and legal obligations will prescribe the period of time that records need to be kept. Aside from by-laws, meeting minutes, and other legal documents, many archives also contain documents related to the owner’s history. When such documents are no longer needed by the originating institution, historically interesting ones may be put into a manuscript collection. Manuscript collections (the institutions that people usually call archives) house documents with a range of other original uses. Collecting: the role of the collector for society The collection of an object out of its original context or from a state of neglect is an important turning point in its history. The values that motivate a collector to acquire an object from a user or pick it from its “rubbish” stage are clearly different from the values of the original user. Both individuals’ values may be relevant to treatment decisions. Of course, most things never experience the change of roles that collecting entails. Empty cereal boxes, broken toys, magazines, out-of-style clothes, and broken clay pipes usually end up as trash. Rocks on which we all walk stay where they are or are moved around at random; animals and plants live, die, rot, and are naturally recycled.

All kinds of objects, including art, may need a collector to assure that discard does not lead to destruction. Individual collectors have brought many objects to the attention of the public and museum professionals, assuring their long-term preservation. From Lord Elgin to nostalgic baby boomers, collectors have moved whole classes of objects into the world of cultural value. These include American folk art and American Indian artifacts as well as recent children’s toys and other collectibles as yet seldom seen in museums. Definitions of collectors and collecting Conservators commonly refer to their individual clients as "private collectors," but many are more accurately described as “owners.” This is more than a semantic issue. Collectors typically have different attitudes toward their possessions than other owners.[75] The classic description of collecting is the acquisition of objects that are not to be used, and that elicit emotions that would be inappropriate toward things that are used. A family who furnishes and decorates a house is not collecting. Collecting implies selectivity. Someone who accumulates piles of newspaper because he can’t bear to throw them out is not collecting. Hoarding, for whatever reason, is not collecting. A large number of identical plates does not qualify as a collection, although collected objects typically have some unifying theme. Collecting also implies continuing acquisition or active management. Someone who keeps an inherited collection intact without adding to it may own a collection but is not a collector. Collectors typically create their own criteria for what is to be included in their collections, and the urge to fill in the blanks in some kind of organizational scheme drives further acquisition. This means that each individual object gets some of its identity and importance from the collection it is part of. The compatibility of a treated object with untreated ones, or with objects treated in different ways, may be crucial to meeting the needs of a collector. Collectors and conservators

Many kinds of objects are collected by groups of aficionados who may or may not be in communication with conservators or other professionals involved in the interpretation and preservation of cultural property. Civil War battle re-enactors using original weapons, train buffs, Wedgwood collectors, and innumerable other groups, may not conform to conservation standards. However, many of these collectors are experts in their fields, with knowledge that museum professionals do not have, and they can teach conservators a great deal. (Learning about the history of playing cards or the construction of galvanometers or Civil War drums is one of the unsung delights of being a conservator.) The ways that collectors value their objects is relevant to characterization, not only of the objects they own, but also of others of the same type, even though their opinions cannot dictate treatment choice. An optimal treatment will satisfy the needs of many different stakeholders at the same time, without, perhaps, doing exactly what any one of them would wish. The motivations of collectors may sometimes present ethical dilemmas. Paternalism, racism, imperialism, opportunism, and simple greed propel much collecting. Scores of animal pelts in collections are the booty of hunters, not conservationists. Anthropologists, archaeologists, missionaries, and museum professionals are hardly blameless, and current attention to ethical lapses in collecting (particularly smuggling!) is starting to affect conservators. Collecting institutions Museums, libraries, and other collecting institutions interpret collections in specific ways that influence the values that society assigns to those objects. As a result, the study of museums – museology - is a fundamental resource not only for conservators who work in and for museums, but for others as well. The history of museum ideologies is particularly important. Many large museums are old enough that the values that they ascribed to their collections in the past are different from what those same collections mean to us today. This complicates conservation treatments because the changes in values are seldom articulated explicitly.

In addition, many of the founders of the modern profession of conservation worked in major art museums. As a result, the ethos of the modern conservation profession is infused with the ideology of the fine arts museum. This link is a source of status and credibility for the field and for individual practitioners. The art museum sees each individual object as precious for its aesthetic attributes and rarity, and therefore deserving of extraordinary levels of care and attention. As a result, when conservation specialties outside the fine arts develop guiding philosophies and treatment strategies different from this model, they appear to be turning their backs on “proper” conservation standards rather than simply acting appropriately in the context in which they work. The pervasive influence of this view can be seen in the common use of the term "museum-quality" to describe ethical conservation practice by a well-trained professional. Many conservators seem to agree that treatments carried out for a major art museum are of higher quality than those commonly done for less grand institutions, and that work done for private owners may be a step below that. The distinction is mentioned by way of apology. But since treatments are supposed to be appropriate to the object and its user, it does not follow that art museum treatments are better, only that they are different. Context is vital. A polychromed Virgin and Child in a museum is a work of art, while during residence in a church, it is a focus of worship. In the museum, the sculpture is honored for its aesthetics and its representation of a particular style. In the church, the Virgin is honored for her divine motherhood. No one is confused by the shift of values, even if they might have difficulty defining it.[76] Imagine how odd it would be to walk into a museum gallery and find people on their knees praying to a sculpture! Conservators’ occasional lack of understanding of the importance of context is illustrated in an article that criticized worshippers in a Brittany church for being dissatisfied with the outcome of a museum-style treatment of two polychrome sculptures in active use. The conservators did not replace missing parts, notably the crosses held by the two figures, which were important attributes. The overall improved appearance of the sculptures probably accentuated the losses even more.[77] In this case, a museum-style treatment was clearly unsuitable. The ideologies of the museum

That museums have intrinsic ideologies is a formal way of saying that objects in museums are interpreted in ways specific to museums as institutions and to the owning or exhibiting museum in particular. The ideas that a museum holds are as vital to its identity as its collections and impose certain meanings on each object in it. One type of meaning comes from the organizing structure that categorizes objects. These schemes came out of eighteenth to nineteenth century disciplines and were based on Enlightenment ideas of rationalism. Different systems govern different collections and underlie different types of exhibitions. A combination of the Linnaean system of classification and Darwinian evolution organizes biological collections. Art museums arrange works by period and school, and as far as possible do not display nonauthentic objects. For early archaeological collections, the three-age system of classifying prehistory started in the early nineteenth century in Denmark the ages of stone, bronze, and iron –is still common. Stratigraphy in geology provides ways to date and classify rock. All these systems combine to create a single time line used as a basis for all the liberal arts and sciences. Exhibitions that group different kinds of objects from one historic period together in order to illustrate ways of life were started in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. This deviates from the art historical approach, and creates fundamental differences between art and history museums. Although there is overlap, the differences in approach persist, and may point to different treatment goals. For example, art museums "help set standards of aesthetics and market value for art and artifacts."[78] At minimum, the museum imposes a set of judgements just by being a museum and choosing certain objects over others to be exhibited publicly. "We do know that the museum environment is an experience in its own right, that the museum exhibition itself transforms humble objects into valued treasures, and that artifacts are aestheticized just by being in a gallery."[79] This is commonly called the "museum effect," which happens when objects receive titles and labels and are displayed, usually in small numbers, in exhibition cases and with special lighting. In the art museum context, the conservator's job is to produce objects that look their aesthetic best and appear undamaged. Compared to other kinds of repositories, fine arts museums have relatively small numbers of objects

with a relatively high value per object, so the resources available for treatment of individual objects are relatively high. This can compound the apologetic tone commonly taken in other venues. “This isn’t the Metropolitan Museum, you know,” said with a sigh, is a sentence often heard in small institutions. What goes on inside a museum is, of course, a reflection of the role of museums in the broader society. The American art museum is often described as a secular shrine, reflected in the common architecture of art museums as Classical temples. For some, the museum is like a house of worship, providing for ritual communion and an opportunity to spend time with family and friends in an environment guaranteed to be reasonably pleasant and morally uplifting. Museum-going is a badge of good taste. In order to promote these goals, the modern aesthetic style of installation gives visitors plenty of open space for contemplation, often in rooms that look like the homes of the wealthy. In this context, visitors can become uncomfortable when expected standards of decorum and good taste are violated. Contemporary works that seem vulgar are often rejected angrily, not because the viewer does not see far worse every day in the media or in the street, but because museums are supposed to be “tasteful.” The possibility that contemporary artists might be “putting them on” can also make museumgoers angry. Museums are supposed to be serious places, and comedy is unwelcome. Museum exhibition is not a neutral act. Along with the display of objects come hidden lessons. When we agree with those lessons, they are invisible because they seem so self-evidently true. What could be wrong with implied messages about the value of multi-culturalism, the democratizing and uplifting effect of great art, and the need to protect our endangered environment? The point is that these are lessons of today, and such things shift with time. The early twentieth century, for example, saw a culture war that is still with us. Franz Boas, an anthropologist at the American Museum of Natural History, was an advocate of cultural relativism, insisting that no one culture is better than another. His nemesis was the museum’s then director, Henry Fairfield Osborn, who presided over the installation of a permanent exhibition that illustrated “the advance of mankind from the most primitive

form to the most complex forms of life," a scheme that put people of color somewhere below the ultimate step. This Hall of the Age of Man was not dismantled until 1966, long after it had been copied by other museums.[80] In other words, what seems the height of political incorrectness now was common currency until quite recently. Although most museum professionals disavow belief in the racial and cultural superiority of northern Europeans, implications of class bias, elitism, and the promotion of WASP culture still sneak into the public's view of museums. Museums take on – and promote - social movements of the broader society. Decorative Arts collections, for example, were established partly to improve the taste and skills of artisans and raise the quality of manufactured goods. The immigrant working classes were urged to conform to the new taste, giving up Victoriana in favor of bare wood floors and Arts and Crafts or Colonial Revival furniture. The campaign was supposed to promote cleanliness, undoubtedly of both the physical and moral kind, but was not a success.[81] Yet without acknowledging the political implications of the choice, decorative arts collections still promote a spare modern aesthetic over working class taste. Scientific collecting has guiding ideologies as well. Natural history collections serve research purposes as well as supporting exhibitions with aesthetic and educational goals. Differing demands of the two functions necessitate explicit policies on such matters as sampling, labeling of samples, storage formats, exhibition, loans for research, and, of course, conservation treatment. Archaeological collections, that is, groups of objects that come from excavation, likewise support a variety of uses that represent a particular value system. The most beautiful objects may go to art museums, while the lowliest are stored en masse as specimens and engender little interest once data have been collected. These cast-offs may gain values in the future, but the present climate can make it difficult for conscientious conservators to allocate substantial resources for their preservation, particularly where the volume of excavated material is huge. The choices that collecting institutions make about what to collect, what to display, and how to interpret the displays reflect their reigning ideologies,

which change over time. These ideologies can be influence conservation treatments. Physical signs from museum life Museum life leaves its own mark on collections. Older museums have a long tradition of care that may be more like household maintenance than conservation. Only a fraction of those procedures, including repair, housekeeping, pest control, and mounting, are documented. Household-type cleaning products and polishes for metal and wood may have been used on objects that might otherwise not show signs of repair or restoration. Francis Howie lists thirty-five treatment materials used from 1800 to the present.[82] Lisa Goldberg has listed twenty-four pesticidal materials applied to, or used near, objects.[83] Old books that give recipes for repair of a variety of objects have been used by conservators for help in learning about materials that have disappeared from practice. Many of these materials or procedure have to potential to alter the responses of the objects to the environment or to treatment, to affect appearance, and to create problems of toxicity. Well into the mid-twentieth century, collection objects other than the fine arts were commonly subject to “treatment” by curatorial personnel or departmental technicians at times when conservators were treating paintings and, sometimes, works on paper. This work was commonly undocumented. [84] It is important for conservators to document these practices as they learn of them and to inquire about them as a routine part of pre-treatment information gathering. The areas under conservation supervision are still increasing including, in more recent times, exhibit props like dioramas and building models. CRITICAL THINKING IN THE CHARACTERIZATION OF OBJECTS Object characterization has been described in this text as primarily a matter of information-gathering. But the gathering of information, particularly when it is non-material or cultural in origin, is not a neutral or bias-free activity. We are all products of our time, place, temperament, and belief systems, and, as such, have our own attitudes, including attitudes toward other people’s attitudes. Few conservators are trained in the methods of the social sciences that aid in the evaluation of non-material data. So let us look more closely at some sources of difficulty that can interfere with our ability to understand objects and their meanings in a dispassionate way.

Looking at the past People in every period of history, ours included, hold stereotyped attitudes about previous historical periods, so accuracy about the past can be difficult. Determining the historical "truth” requires knowledge of the prejudices of all intervening periods (including our own) so that added layers of interpretation can be examined for their own sake as historical data and also peeled away to reveal what lies beneath. Conservators must learn to recognize the preconceptions of both the past and the present. A conservator needs to be familiar not only with issues related to objects’ early lives— artists' intent, original manner of use, etc.—but also interim meanings given by collectors and viewers. Periods of enthusiasm for foreign or past art styles like the American Colonial Revival, "Japonisme," various Chinese revivals of earlier bronzes and paintings, not only entail stylistic preferences about objects from the past but also particular attitudes toward condition and restoration. Attitudes from the past may seem quaint, silly, or weird, but do not disappear as thoroughly as we would like to think. Old ways of valuing objects seldom disappear completely. Some modern-day owners of gold and jewels use them as negotiable money the way medieval nobility did. Renaissance princes collected things they found appealing because of their supernatural overtones; “new agers” do the same today. The craze for exotica like Egyptian mummies was particularly strong in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, but thousands of today’s museum-goers swarm into galleries of Egyptian art to continue the tradition. Attitudes, whether we agree with them or not, are simply beliefs and habits of mind, not facts. The belief that, for example, harm will come to a female if she looks at or handles a particular object is no more logical or illogical than today’s nostalgia for the "good old days” or the idea that more knowledge is always better than less. Current attitudes toward the importance of ascertaining the authorship of works of art and toward period authenticity, for example, seem self-evident and universal, but are far from consistent through history. It is difficult to separate our own assumptions or preferences about the past from whatever facts we have, and from our interpretation of those facts. As noted by archaeologist Peter Fowler,

All the past received by the present is filtered to some extent; pastness does not come in a pure essence. The rest of us [the public] receive what someone else has decided should be our fare. But beyond this core of consciously managed past, only a small nucleus of what is available, a huge grey area of pastnesses also come through to us as the result of unconscious biases, a myriad of single decisions, a sense in society of what sorts of past it wants on its menu today. These are both reflected in, and to some extent created by, the uses made of the past at any one time.[85] Many objects that conservators treat have undergone ownership changes resulting from shifts in power between and among cultures. The great migration of objects away from their makers and owners has been into the hands of collectors in Europe, North America, and other places that have adopted the European style of collecting. As a result, the institutions and ideas that influence our ideas about cultural property and about collecting are decidedly Western institutions and Western ideas. Inevitably, the life changes that objects undergo are seen from a Eurocentric perspective. This is a prejudice that we should seek to recognize as we plan our treatments because, as discussed earlier, conservation treatment inescapably represents our interpretation of objects. “Dead” objects The travels of an object through life involve both physical and cultural changes. Every time an object is given a new meaning as the result of a treatment or otherwise, some old meaning may be lost. The idea that collected objects are killed in order to save them is a common criticism of museums. An outdoor polychrome sculpture in a European small town may be part of the ritual life of the town, repainted and re-dressed periodically, and perhaps carried in holiday processions. The minute a governmental authority sees the object as "cultural property" and a conservator is engaged, the town may no longer be allowed to repaint it or risk damage during handling. The conservator may even want to remove recent paint layers to get back to the "original" and may urge that the object be taken indoors or into a museum. Even if the statue is left in its original place, it is nevertheless removed from those who are part of its life. Conservation treatments are designed for objects that have been taken out of original use. It can be very difficult to stay within conservation guidelines

for treatment materials and techniques when repairing platters that will still be used for Thanksgiving turkey, vases that will be filled with water, or robes still worn during religious rituals. It is important to see this issue in a realistic way. The historical basis of the field is the preservation of museum collections, particularly works of art. Because of the legal and philosophical structure of museums, and because of the continuing value (financial and cultural) of art objects, conservators’ responsibility in this context is to preserve objects for the indefinite future and prevent future physical change. This mission unavoidably requires that museum objects are cut off from the people who made and used them. Religious objects get secularized, functional objects are immobilized, and art is tucked away in single-use buildings away from the mainstream of people's lives. So the criticism of museums as collectors of dead objects is true in some ways. Objects in collections are “decontextualized,” and for some originating cultures, that means dead. The transition of objects into museum life is signaled by their placement in a new kind of space under a new set of rules. Both what the object has lost and what it has gained are key to understanding it fully. VALUES AND THE CATEGORIZATION OF OBJECTS The methodology makes the conservator responsible for a values analysis that includes the values of stakeholders other than the custodian. Ordinarily, there is no such information about the object at hand. So the information needed comes from knowledge about the history, use, and values, of similar objects. The categories people use to describe objects are an additional source of clues. Terminology reveals a lot about how objects are perceived at different life stages and by different viewers, and how ideas about them have changed through history. The same object can be ethnography or primitive art; antiquity or ancient art. Some objects are artifacts. Others are sculptures, statues, statuary, statuettes, figurines, or carvings. Some objects are souvenirs, memorabilia, or bric-abrac. Older terms include fetishes, curiosities, and trophies. These terms have historical and psychological significance, and often affect the ways objects are displayed. A stuffed standing bear with teeth bared tells

us more about societal attitudes of the time the bear was killed than about natural history, and clearly establishes the object as a trophy proclaiming: “Man Triumphs Over Vicious Beast.” For most objects, however, attitudes are not evident in the object, but in the ways that people refer to them, and different life stages typically involve different terms for the same objects. An original user owns tools and furniture, while a collector calls those same objects collectibles and antiques. In a museum they are historical objects or art. The terms fine arts, decorative arts, and applied arts are used in different kinds of museums, while for private owners objects may be objects d’art or part of their décor or interior decoration, or just household possessions. Perfunctory categorization of objects can lead to erroneous interpretations. Much material referred to as ethnographic, like some California baskets and American Southwest ceramics, was made for exhibition and sale, not for indigenous use. African objects are often referred to broadly as ethnographic even though a collection of African objects may include European types of musical instruments, sacred objects, tools, trade signs, and the productions of self-identified artists trained in art schools. Corresponding collections of European objects are typically divided among several different categories, as illustrated in museum collections. The implied attitudes of categorization may well affect treatment. An Indonesian gamelan – a matched set of musical instruments – in a department of musical instruments would likely have different values and a different ideal state than one in an Asian art department. So looking at terminology and categorization of objects can reveal certain values and provide another set of clues for treatment decision-making. Decorative arts, applied arts, and design The term “decorative arts” implies a type of connoisseurship that sees artistic value comparable to that of the fine arts in objects that were not previously valued in that way. The category of “applied arts” is connected with historical movements that arose to enhance the status and quality of hand craftsmanship, implying that the creation of a functional object is an art in itself.

Museum design departments, in contrast to decorative arts departments, commonly focus on twentieth (and twenty-first) century objects, many of which were designed by individuals identified as designers rather than artists, and mass-produced rather than made by hand. These objects are typically studied in ways outside the fine arts model, with a view to the relationship between design and function, and the relationship between the individual object and its decorative context. Departments of design are often a type of archive, with holdings that are expected to represent a substantially complete set of typical objects of all represented stylistic periods. Primitive art/ethnography The terminology for this material is irretrievably connected with racial and political stereotypes, since there is no logic in lumping together the output of the indigenous inhabitants of sub-Saharan Africa, North and South America, and Oceania except for what they are not. "Non-literate," "pre-literate," and "tribal art" are other terms with their own baggage. Conservators tend to use the term “ethnography” for the sake of convenience and for its less racist overtones, but in other countries ethnography refers to what Americans call folk art. In addition, if ethnographic objects are defined as those used in the study of a culture, then museums would have departments of American ethnography. The fundamental senselessness of the category rules out any sensible solution. Despite the confusion, collections with the word “art” in the title are, not surprisingly, apt to consist of highly decorated examples of object types collected for their perceived aesthetic quality. By contrast, ethnography collections are more likely to consist of typical examples of objects whose cultural context is the focus of exhibition and study. Institutional terminology is sometimes left over from past history, however, and current exhibitions in both art and natural history museums tend to mix aesthetic and ethnographic points of view, so the treatment of these objects involves elements of both. Folk art The category of folklore was a nineteenth-century invention of the German Romantics to refer to the products of local traditional cultures. Folk Art in the American context had a separate birth in the twentieth century, and came to encompass functional objects like weather vanes and figureheads as well

as primarily decorative objects. Their appeal for early collectors came partly from their look of age, which included, in some cases, substantial deterioration. The as-found state, whatever it was, was regarded as important. This explains the mindset of collectors who, to the dismay of conservators, cherish layers of peeling paint and accumulated dirt. The category of folk art later expanded to include objects made by selfidentified “outsider” artists. Such objects are prized for their art value, and are recent enough to have newness value. In contrast to earlier folk art, signs of age in outsider art are usually undesirable. Folk art objects therefore have potentially different ideal states: the original one, the as-used one, and an as-found one that is apt to be even more deteriorated than the “as-abandoned” one. These objects, however, are often exhibited together. The choice of treatment goal has to accommodate both the individual history of the object and the philosophy of the collector or institution. Sacred objects The category of sacred objects was first explicitly addressed in the conservation literature in connection with Native American objects. The Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act of 1990 gave grave goods special status, but in practice encompasses virtually all types of objects. The law relates only to issues of ownership, giving tribes a claim to objects that can be traced to them.[86] But the required contact with representatives of the cultures of origin has encouraged some owners to change their practices with collections that they retain. The expressed wishes of tribes about continued ritual use, limitations on handling, and positioning in storage are being followed in some museums. The “rules,” as vague and optional as they are with Native American collections, are even more confounding with works of other religions. Religions normally have prescribed routines of care and maintenance, rules about touching objects, prescribed and proscribed behavior in their presence, expectations about their longevity, and customs about replacement. However, the interpretation of those practices, and the degree to which a custodian “should” follow them are subject to wide variation, even among private owners who are adherents of the religion in question. Some objects become secular, even in their own cultures, when their religious use is over,

while others are expected to live out their lives in dignified seclusion. In museums, at least, Christian objects are not handled differently from secular art, and museum visitors do not seem to object. Heritage The term “heritage” is sometimes used to refer to iconic objects with historical importance. The term implies a particularly reverential and noncritical attitude toward history. “Heritage, for better or worse, has little to do with history. It is about feeling good in the present, while history is the laborious struggle to come to terms with a past which was serious then and is serious now.”[87] Heritage exhibitions attempt to elicit feelings of patriotism or national pride rather than appeal to viewers’ intellectual curiosity. Whether for a majority or minority group, feelings can run high among the viewers of such exhibits and among politicians, because museum staffs often believe that their professional responsibility is to present history in all its ambiguity. Ambiguity, particularly in regard to events that occurred during the viewers’ lifetimes, may be unwelcome. Conservators need to be especially sensitive when planning the treatment of objects to be displayed in this context. Deterioration and damage, unless they are in themselves historic, may need some kind of compensation. On the other hand, age value may be paramount. Heirlooms and souvenirs Heirlooms are collected family property that affirms the family’s genealogy or otherwise reflects the family’s past. Although the term is most commonly connected with wealthy families, many families own ancestor portraits and other material that fit the term. The primary value of these objects to their owners is very different from their value to the outside world. To the family, for example, a portrait is described by the familial relationship of the sitter, as in “It’s your great-grandmother’s brother.” Once a portrait leaves the family, however, the painting is identified by artist unless the sitter is famous. Families often want pictorial heirlooms like paintings and photographs to be in as “good” condition as possible, but may prefer other kinds of objects to show their age or signs of use as long as they are not falling apart. Souvenirs are tangible links to a specific event for a single individual, family, or group, and are of interest mainly to the participants in the event.

The term typically encompasses objects of more recent vintage than what are regarded as heirlooms. In the current baby-boomer love for nostalgia, souvenirs have also become of value to those who did not participate in the events that spawned them, but may wish they did, and some types of souvenirs have acquired a measure of market value. Preferences about condition vary widely depending partly on the individual owner’s history with the object. Systematics collections and specimens Systematics collections began in the late seventeenth century with the development of the natural sciences - botany, zoology, and geology. They promote, and are based on, the systems of organization – taxonomy – that came from revolutions in scientific knowledge. Because systematics collections are employed in research and reference, conservators need to be especially careful to find out about any potential for analysis that may be impacted by conservation methods or materials. If custodians cannot supply the necessary information, conservators have to take responsibility for obtaining it. Complications can arise in the case of older systematics collections since they may serve a different purpose today than when they were assembled. Collected scientific specimens eventually become cultural objects, and the passage of time has made some old exhibitions appealing for their styles of labeling, containerization, and sheer numbers of objects. Some specimens that were common when collected are now rare because of the loss of wild populations. At the same time, many systematics collections, particularly those in academic departments, are themselves endangered because the intellectual activities for which they were assembled are out of fashion. These changes mark shifts in values, and can therefore affect conservation treatment. *** Issues discussed in this chapter highlight the complex world in which objects exist and the variety of ideas that are connected to them. The non-material side of the characterization process clarifies the range of values that people see in objects during the full course of objects’ lives, from creation to museum exhibition. Study of the historical values applied to

objects helps conservators to interpret the current attitudes of custodians, and helps us to recognize our own bias. The next section of the book involves using the information of the characterization to establish a goal of treatment appropriate to the physical state of the object and its context, its past, present, and future.

Introduction to Section II – Establishing the Goal of Treatment This second section of the book describes the way characterization of the object leads to establishing the goal of treatment. Two steps in the methodology contribute to this process: choosing the ideal state and establishing a realistic treatment goal. These steps involve significant decision-making rather than just information-gathering Chapter Six discusses the meaning of “ideal state” and its role in the methodology. The chosen ideal state represents a fundamental interpretation of the object, and is a distillation of all the non-material information gathered in the characterization. The object’s current physical state is not a major factor in the choice of ideal state, but comes back into the decisionmaking process with consideration of the realistic treatment goal. Chapter Seven presents examples of the process used to choose the ideal state. Its primary tool is a timeline that integrates information from the four quadrants of the characterization grid. The timeline delineates a series of successive states of the object from which the ideal state is chosen. The list of values from Chapter Four is a crucial element in guiding the choice of ideal state by clarifying the consequences of possible treatment choices. The topic of Chapters Eight and Nine is setting a realistic treatment goal. This step is necessitated by the many complications that can prevent the conservator from bringing an object to its ideal state. These include practical considerations such as the efficacy of available treatment methods, the lack of information on the details of the ideal state, and limitations on cost or time, and are discussed in Chapter Eight. Preservation, a primary obligation of our profession, is another factor in setting a realistic goal. Preservation is an end in itself, but is also a prerequisite for the enhancement and preservation of values. Arriving at a realistic goal, therefore, involves specifying the level of protection the treatment is expected to provide, including both measures that retard

deterioration and those that protect the object from damage. Chapter Nine deals with the role of preservation in setting a treatment goal. The realistic treatment goal is ultimately what custodians agree to when they consent to treatment. The explicit and deliberate nature of the methodology’s decision-making processes makes informed consent a reasonable possibility in a way that a treatment plan defined solely by the choice of treatment methods and materials does not. The introduction of new terminology and concepts to this point in the book may make the methodology seem disconnected from the ways that conservators routinely discuss their work. Chapter Ten explores familiar terms like “minimal intervention,” the “single standard,” and “appropriateness” using the language and ideas of the methodology.

Chapter Six – The Concept of the Ideal State The ideal state is the physical state of an object that is considered most desirable by its custodian. That makes it, by definition, the state that best embodies the object’s values. The ideal state cannot, however, be defined by what the custodian or conservator wants the object to look like, but must be one of the object’s actual historical states. The ideal state cannot be found through examination. It is not intrinsic to the object, but depends on present ownership, use, and meaning, and its projected future. Many objects live complex lives, crossing between the categories of functional objects, art, and home furnishings, undergoing changes in ownership within and between cultures, finding different uses, and undergoing physical alterations due to changing styles, usefulness, or material aging. No one period in an object's history is self-evidently the most important one, and no single state of the object is automatically the best one. Identifying an object’s ideal state clarifies its meaning and helps to shape its treatment whether or not, for technical or practical reasons, a treatment can re-create the ideal state exactly. An object’s ideal state and its values go hand in hand. Either can be the starting point for decisions about the goal of treatment, and the result will be the same. We will see in the next chapter how ideal state and values work together to assure the optimal choice of treatment goal. Using the concept of the ideal state limits decisions about the goal of treatment to a small number of concrete choices that the conservator’s professional judgement deems acceptable. This avoids a situation in which the custodian expresses his feelings about what he wants done, without any understanding about the object’s current state or plausible treatments. The proposal to the custodian describes the treatment goal, or alternative ones, using the object’s history and significance rather than a list of proposed treatment steps. The concept of the ideal state assures truly informed consent, allowing the custodian meaningful input without asking him to make decisions he is ill-prepared for.

The first part of this chapter is a discussion of the meaning of the ideal state and its usefulness in decision making. The second section discusses typical states in objects’ lives that may be chosen as the ideal state. These include an object’s original state, its as-used state and its current state. Benefits of the concept of ideal state Identifying an object’s ideal state clarifies our interpretation of that object by making sense of its history. Where has it been? How has it changed? What has it meant to its past owners and custodians, and what does it mean to us? A major benefit of the process of identifying the ideal state comes from the separation of the object’s interpretation from technical questions about its treatment. If interpretation and treatment decisions are not kept separate, the conservator tends to look only at isolated phenomena – the rips, holes, unstable and weak areas – of an object and to think about what it will take to “fix” them. In so doing, she avoids dealing with the meaning of the object as a whole. The mindset in which conservators limit their views of objects to the custodian’s presenting complaint makes conservation into a trade in which our job is simply to fix what the custodian says is wrong and leave consideration of anything else about the object to others. Ignoring the object as a whole, with all meanings attached, means that treatment discussions are moved by reverse thinking. The conservator performs a series of tasks that seem reasonable – removing dirt, securing loose parts, filling holes – and the treatment endpoint becomes whatever the object looks like when those tasks are finished. Carrying out a treatment without any advance determination of the goal means never taking control of the outcome. When a treatment outcome is limited to the state that results from a series of “fixes,” aspects of the object’s current state that are judged to be irreversible never enter into discussion. Other treatment methods and methods of interpretation outside of the object itself (like special lighting or computer imaging) are never pursued. This represents a lost opportunity for both custodian and conservator to understand the object better and perhaps to incorporate a better interpretation of it into the treatment. Addressing treatments one detail at a time creates the Chinese menu scenario in which we could choose almost any combination of possible interventions.

Should we: (a) remove an old restoration, (b) remove a layer of dirt, (c) remove a coating, (d) fill a loss, (e) flatten just the biggest lump, (f) flatten the little ones as well? How about doing (a) and (e)? How about (b), (c), and (d)? The methodology avoids this by limiting the number of reasonable choices. Once the ideal state is chosen, the smaller decisions fall into place, and the process assures an intellectually defensible and consistent result. The process of identifying the ideal state also helps to determine exactly what “the object” is. Is a nineteenth century replacement nose on a Greek sculpture part of “the object” or not? What about archaeological dirt, an early twentieth century porch on an 18th century house, a picture frame, or a stretcher? Choosing the ideal state implies a choice about the boundaries of the object and therefore helps to set parameters about the appropriateness of a treatment plan. The choice of ideal state involves a set process and a terminology that can be used to clarify the object’s meaning and thereby lead to a treatment goal that serves the needs of all parties. It provides an opportunity for everyone involved to understand the object better. When an ideal state is chosen and a realistic goal for treatment based on it is established, the conservator and custodian have a mutually agreed-upon set of choices that assures that the final state of the object is the desirable one. Those choices make treatment easier by answering in a consistent way the various kinds of questions that inevitably come up during a conservation treatment: how far should cleaning go, how much compensation should be carried out on small losses, and what the surface should look like. A moment in time An ideal state is defined by time, not by physical description. We choose the time first, based on non-material criteria, and then determine the physical state of the object that corresponds to it. If, for example, the ideal state of a costume is on the night it was worn by a particular famous person, we may have to rely on both physical evidence and research to determine what it actually looked like. If the ideal state of a painting is the point at which the artist considered it complete, its original size, tonality, and surface gloss need to be investigated. If the ideal state of an upholstered chair from an 1820’s house is at its initial period of use, questions will need to be asked about its wood finish and fabric, and about the design of the upholstery

application. A decision would also have to be made about which signs of use will be retained. Defining an ideal state by time may direct treatment choices differently than aesthetics or condition would. If the 1820’s chair were to be presented as it was in the 1960’s—because, perhaps, its “claim to fame” was the identity of its owner—the original state would be irrelevant, as would its most “beautiful” or “authentic” state. Brown vinyl might be the upholstery of choice. Lest this seem an extreme case, it must be pointed out that Victorian period rooms are often hung with paintings restored to late twentieth century taste, the dark glow of discolored varnish so beloved by Victorians having been completely removed. And 18th century period rooms with reproduction fabrics that look like the original ones when new often include actual 18th century books that look centuries old. Although some of these anomalies may be unavoidable, the application of the idea of an ideal state might help to produce a more consistent interpretation when objects are exhibited as a group. The search for the ideal state of a piece of furniture—such as our 1820’s chair—should begin by using non-material factors to choose a date and then using our knowledge of its history to deduce the material state of the object at that time. The application of the process to fine art, however, may produce some discomfort among conservators and art historians. The basis for the dilemma is the role of taste and aesthetics in making treatment choices—a topic that will be addressed shortly. The ideal state can encompass not only the object itself, but also its context, both cultural and physical, the latter including the range of conditions that affect its appearance, such as lighting, positioning, and circumstances of viewing. Conservation treatment as interpretation is clearly linked to the interpretation of the object through the manner of its presentation. Positioning, lighting, background color and texture all contribute to the appearance of objects, so these aspects as they would have appeared at the time of the object's ideal state must be compared with those aspects in current use. Was the object seen in the full round? How important was its silhouette, as opposed to its surface relief or texture? For a costume, context includes its fit and accessories; for a painting, its frame, position on a wall, its role in the scheme of interior decoration, and

lighting; for a chair, its placement in a room and the other furniture nearby. Other issues add complications. For example, glossy surfaces on furnishings were visual aids at times when interior light levels were very low. Presentation of a roomful of highly polished furniture and decorative objects under high levels of artificial exhibition light could therefore produce an impression that is not true to the original one even though each individual object may be identical to its earlier state. The role of aesthetics and artist’s intent When aesthetic value is the primary consideration of a conservation treatment, that would seem to mean that the object should be made as beautiful as possible. (When a professional conservator is involved, certain measures that are considered deceptive or harmful would, of course, be eliminated from possibility.) At its worst, the pursuit of beauty might be called appreciationism; at its best, connoisseurship. A treatment goal should come from historical fact, not wishful thinking or personal bias. Unless guided by specified goals as to the ideal state of an object, taste can be unsuitably idiosyncratic as a guide. If the ideal state of a work of art is as it left the artist's hand, then the conservator must be guided by knowledge of the creator’s tastes and his or her actual choices among the limited available options, by the aesthetic preferences of the period and by the clues contained in the current object. Many discussions about the original state of an object involve the notion of "artist’s intent," and attempts to ascertain the object's original state are certainly primary to conservation treatment. Finding out what an artist or other creator wanted something to look like may sometimes help to figure out what it did look like. However, what a creator meant to do, as opposed to what he or she actually did, is not an appropriate guide for conservation treatment. There is still room for considerable ambiguity in the matter of aesthetics. Creators were guided by the choices available to them; conservators have a wider range of materials to choose from. Certain painters’ dislike for varnish reflects their choices among natural resins and oil vanishes, all of which discolor rapidly and lose transparency. Given those physical facts—which we know both from scientific data and from direct observation—we cannot

logically conclude that artists would not want us to apply a non-yellowing material capable of assuring color saturation without producing high gloss. It could be argued, on the other hand, that the modern preference for low-gloss coatings is at odds with the taste of many painters of past ages. Judgements related to aesthetics are best made with reference to both historical fact and personal taste.[88] Interpretation and a consideration of “artist’s intent” are often needed when conservators look at the “original state” of an object. For example, a traditional European practice was to protect paintings with egg white between the time of completion and the time they were ready to be varnished. It was expected that the egg white be removed with water before varnish was applied, but there are cases where the presence of the egg was apparently forgotten and varnish was applied over it. The artist may have applied the egg, but at least based on historical records, there was no intent to leave it on.[89] This means that, although egg white is an “original material” in these cases and therefore of some historical interest, a conservator may be justified in removing it if it interferes with another value. A conservator with a sophisticated eye and knowledge of history should be able to provide reasonable limits within which a desire to make the object look as good, or as beautiful, as possible, can be appropriately acted upon. With most works of fine art, particularly paintings and painted sculpture, there is latitude to exercise taste as well as technical expertise and ingenuity, because irreversible changes in the physical state of the object make an exact simulation of the original state impossible. The conservator's taste, ingenuity, and skill are all required to produce a treated object with that gives an appropriate aesthetic impression despite irreversible changes. The custodian’s role The choice of ideal state is the step in the methodology where the custodian’s expressed preferences come into the picture. Joint decisionmaking is made easier because the choice is framed in non-technical terms that relate to the custodian’s experience of the object. In addition, the limited number of choices for the ideal state makes it easy for the conservator to explain the implications of each one. A straightforward description of the history of the object that typically accompanies the conservator’s

explanation of the choices also provides information that may be new to the custodian. Particularly helpful in many cases is information about how the object’s past contributes to the way it looks now. Clear communication based on facts is important, since custodians and conservators often start with different assumptions, different understandings of the meanings of common words, and different expectations. For example, the condition of an African mask that a conservator would consider “good” might not be what a custodian would like to see. Conservators often make judgements primarily based on to stability – that, in this case, the insect damage is not active and that paint is not currently flaking or powdering. But parts may be lost, whole areas of pigment may be gone, there may be old insect damage, and only small strands of fiber might remain, standing in for what was once a thick mass. In order to avoid confusion about the desired state of the object, it would be possible for the custodian and conservator to discuss each alteration in the object’s history separately. However, a decision about the ideal state would make those decisions as a group. A chosen ideal state just before the damage, during the period of use, or right after the object’s creation, would set the treatment goal. The conservator would be left with only technical decisions about whether various alterations occurred before or after the time of the ideal state. The conservator’s task in the treatment decision-making process is to present the custodian with clearly defined choices that lie within appropriate ethical limits, and within his understanding of the consequences. Custodians’ input into the choice of ideal state assures their participation to a reasonable extent. In some cases this may mean that the conservator leads the custodian down a path by means of a gentle push, but so be it. TYPICAL CHOICES FOR THE IDEAL STATE This section discusses the typical moments in time for which the ideal state can be identified, along with their implications for treatment. When the ideal state is the original state A common choice of ideal state is the object’s original one. The definitive role of the creator, particularly for works of art, makes it a natural choice. But the implications of the choice are not so simple.

One problem is determining what the original state actually was. Surface phenomena like gloss, original colors corresponding to faded pigments or dyes, and washes of color or graining over flat wall paint colors are commonly the subject of controversy. Technical facts about the object’s creation will not necessarily reveal the details of appearance, and subtleties of execution may be long gone. In addition, the original context, which has a strong affect on the impression conveyed to a viewer, may be lost or unknown.[90] It is sometimes possible to bring back original state, to whatever degree we can discern it, by repainting walls of historic structures or regilding sculpture. A major difficulty in these cases is describing the visual impact of the result in advance. Verbal descriptions are clearly inadequate, and drawings or computer mock-ups may still not be sufficient to assure satisfaction. Even with agreement on a color sample, the actual effect of a repainted space can be surprising, and not always welcome. Current taste and the results of research may be difficult to reconcile. Any treatment that involves major change in the appearance of an object can upset people, simply because change itself can be uncomfortable. For example, people are used to the way old things look. With paintings in particular, since there is no way to get rid of crackle patterns, we are used to them and think that cracked paintings look just fine. We accept the cracks as signs of age and authenticity and believe that they do not adversely affect our viewing of the object. We like the look of them – or think we do, since we have no opportunity to see the alternative. If the original state is what we really want, they confound the truth. And, together with fading and other color changes, they prevent us from viewing the work of art that the painter created. Since old things look old now, the idea of their “looking like new” can seem all wrong. This is a perfectly valid point of view. However, there is substantial evidence that, at many times in history, people took the opposite position, and wanted to “restore” the look of newness. A striking example is an ancient gilded head of Minerva that was found to have six layers of gold alternating with layers of dirt, indicating that the sculpture was repeatedly regilded when the surface was no longer shiny.[91] Restoring objects to their original state does not make them inauthentic or historically inaccurate.

Bringing an object as close as possible to its original state may, however, unavoidably leave it well short of the goal. In the case of oil paintings, particularly famous ones, erasing all signs of age is impossible. As regrettable as this may be, it protects conservators from some very nasty confrontations compared to which complaints about the removal of dirt and discolored varnish are relatively mild. This particular line of inquiry has many twists and turns. If conservators feel constrained from changing the appearance of objects simply because the results may not be universally admired, we are giving up our professional obligations too easily. Old objects that are in pristine condition because of their medium (like manuscript illuminations, mosaics, and some ancient ceramics) have an incredibly potent impact on viewers. Discounting socalled irreversible changes at the outset of a treatment decision-making process may result in a less than optimal treatment. An over-emphasis on age value may result in an under-emphasis on the object as it was originally created. Another, more subtle problem of major reconstruction of an object lies in the occasional necessity to fill in details of appearance based on current taste when certain information is lacking. What seems reasonable and innocuous today may not look the same in a few years. As the hair styles in photographs of people from the 1960’s and 70’s tell us, what looks normal can change quickly. Not all treatments that change objects radically are a bad idea. But a favorable reaction to the results is not automatic, and the ensuing years may not be kind. Over reliance on speculation or on currently accepted appearance as a standard may create problems unless there is agreement that those elements can be redone in the foreseeable future. As we shall see in the next chapter, an alternative to radical change on the object may be to reproduce the ideal state outside of the object. There may be also be ways to minimize the visual impact of irreversible changes in order to get the object closer to its original state. When the ideal state is the as-used state A typical situation where the ideal state is the as-used state is a historic house museum or period-room installation in an art museum. Treatment of

such objects involves a return to the appearance of use, not to an actual state of usability. Adding signs of use would ordinarily be considered unethical, so such a treatment would simply leave existing signs of use as found, or remove previous restorations that cover them. However, institutional owners may request the restoration of usability to collected objects for a rare or one-time event. This can provide information not available in any other way. Interdisciplinary and interpersonal cooperation is vital in such cases, facilitating the resolution of a whole raft of issues. Among these are potential risks to information and/or to original material, possible adaptations of the manner of use to accommodate the object’s weakness, and the efficient gathering of all information while it is available. The treatment of objects that are in current use is the source of classic conservation dilemmas. Because users’ preferences vary idiosyncratically, their preferences cannot be assumed, but must be sought out on a case-bycase basis. Custodians may want an object in use to continue to look brand new, or may want signs of use to remain. When the ideal state is now Some custodians want their objects’ outward appearance to be unchanged by treatment. A meaningful distinction is whether treatment is supposed to keep it looking the way it does or whether the object will be allowed to age – or accumulate damage - ”naturally” after treatment. Arresting further physical change may require an aggressive approach involving both invasive treatment and protective measures. If further aging is acceptable, however, little may need to be done beyond the treatment of current acute damage. Objects that are fundamentally physically sound (Feller’s induction phase)[92] but have suffered acute damage can simply be repaired, with some attention paid to preventing the damage from recurring. For objects with active deterioration (Feller’s autocatalytic phase), professional ethics oblige conservators to address the ongoing problem. That professional imperative can conflict with the desires of the custodian, who may want to have damage repaired while categorically ruling out any treatment that might limit usability, even if the conservator predicts further damage. Silk shawls whose fabric is beginning to split is a classic example. Conservators see splits in silk as a sign of ongoing deterioration, but custodians may see them as

nothing more than pesky rips, and expect repair and a return to active use, at least during opera season. The ideal treatment would protect the object while still allowing use, but devising such a treatment is often difficult, and it may be impossible to predict the object’s long-term durability. Conservators’ ingrained protective stance can make it difficult for them to deal with custodians who, it sometimes seems, “refuse to understand” the conservation imperative of long-term preservation. The methodology provides as helpful a way as possible to assure that the custodian understands the potential loss of value that continuing damage entails. Even if the attempt at persuasion is unsuccessful, however, the conservator’s concerns should be mollified somewhat by the overwhelming importance of use value and by the likelihood that an object with high cultural value is likely to come into a conservator’s hands again. Conservators may find it difficult to understand custodians’ sentimental attachment to the current state of the object, whatever that is. For example, a client of the author’s brought in a piece of outsider art, a painted wooden panel that had been the outside of a house. The paint was flaking, and the owner wanted to prevent additional loss. Yet she ruled out any compensation for existing losses, even though to conservator eyes they imposed distracting dark shapes onto the design. Other custodians want new rips repaired, but not old ones. The sentiment may seem illogical to conservators who are trained to look at the whole life of objects from their beginnings well into the future. For some owners, however, it makes perfect sense. Some custodians want an object to remain looking as it is because of fears about conservation treatment. They may have heard that “restoring” things decreases their market value, or they may have seen old objects that ended up looking uncomfortably new after a poorly considered treatment. Some conservators have embraced and even expanded this form of risk avoidance under the rubric of conserve as found. Proponents have recommended against many common treatment practices including stain and dirt removal, inpainting, coating, and repairing with adhesives.[93] One professional organization changed its definition of the aim of conservation —“to retain or recover the cultural significance of a place”—by removing

the words “or recover.”[94] This would appear to proscribe any changes of appearance, possibly any treatment at all except protection. The motivation for this recurring point of view is difficult to understand. On the one hand, technical reasons are often given as the motivation for refraining from certain treatment techniques. Various undesirable treatment outcomes are cited, including the discoloration of adhesives and coatings (which can be avoided by better material choice). It may be, however, that a reluctance to treat objects in certain ways and a tendency to recommend less treatment rather than more comes from a lack of nerve. Certainly, doing less is one way to attempt to avoid criticism, and minimizing the degree to which treatment changes objects seems to be a comfort zone for many conservators and custodians alike. However, the existence of bad treatments is an opportunity to learn to do better rather than a reason to do nothing. This is not to say that recommending against any particular treatment strategy is unconscionable. Each case is different, as conservators well know. Often the best answer to a question is, “It depends.” The difficult part is stating exactly what “it” depends on. If an object’s pre-treatment appearance is desirable, the decision not to change it makes sense. If there are technical reasons for recommending against a particular treatment technique, the decision not to carry it out is also acceptable. But it is not acceptable to avoid a treatment that will improve the object’s interpretation or increase its longevity simply because some previous treatments haven’t turned out very well. Custodians and conservators alike may shrink from treatments that change the appearance of an object for fear of criticism that their decisions are arbitrary, culturally biased, or just stupid. However, explicit use of a methodology should assure that judgements neither are, nor appear to be, illadvised or irresponsible. The ideal state as a process A special case of the ideal state being the object’s current state is when it is a process rather than a static state. For some objects like historical ships, continuing use of some kind is a primary purpose of preservation, and ongoing traditional maintenance is standard. The re-creation of original crafts carried out during upkeep of the vessel enhances educational and research value.

The values of these objects and the concept of the ideal state support the practice of replacing damaged or weakened material with materials as close to the original as possible, rather than following the classic conservation model of retaining original material and using conservation materials for treatment. Authenticity rests not in the continuity of each component but in the continuity of the whole. This approach has technical and historical roots. Ship builders selected specific kinds of wood based on rigorous criteria, matching species’ differing properties of weight, susceptibility to pests, dimensional change, flexibility and strength, to the requirements of their assigned tasks. The complex interplay among elements makes it highly unlikely that satisfactory substitute materials will be found. Custodians of these objects are dedicated to providing the materials needed, to the point of growing the trees themselves when original types are not otherwise available. The claim that preservation of old ships preserves a way of life is not idle talk. By some standards, preservation of an historical ship using original technology is not conservation. But if a conservation methodology is followed—removed parts are archived, alteration of in situ material is minimized, additions are as reversible as practically possible, and the intervention is documented—what else is it? Choosing the ideal state to fit the needs of the custodian There is nothing “wrong” with any particular choice of ideal state, as long as the consequences have been considered. For example, choice of ideal state for some objects is based on more-or-less arbitrary agreement among connoisseurs. Locomotives are commonly restored to their as-used state, while antique cars are most highly valued when they are restored to “mint” condition. Furniture can be seen as art, décor, or functional object, with each interpretation leading to a different ideal state. A ceramic vessel excavated in a broken state also has several choices. Each of the choices has implications for the interpretation of the treated object and for its values. Virtually every object has many facets. It is impossible for conservators or any observers in a particular culture at a particular time in history to see them all at once. The collecting of objects by museums tends to separate out one or more aspects to the de-emphasis or even denial of others, but different museums or exhibition policies also point in different directions. A Greek

Attic vase could be exhibited in an art museum as an example of ancient painting, in a design museum as a stage in the evolution of ceramic shapes, in a science museum as an example of ancient technology, or in an ethnographic museum as an object used in association with drinking rituals or to illustrate ancient clothing. Each choice dictates a different treatment in regard to reassembly, cleaning, and compensation for damage or loss. Reconstruction sufficient to ascertain the interior volume of the object may provide important data, but other kinds of research may require that fragments not be reassembled. There is nothing intrinsic to an object that puts it in a category. We do that. Every object can be seen in more than one more way, although perhaps not at the same time; that is one reason why it is so important to preserve as much of original objects as possible. Gerald George in Visiting History gives the example of a single ceramic on exhibition, suggesting that a computer would be needed to illustrate different facets of the object. There could be a file on archaeology, which would describe who excavated the piece, where, when, and how. Another file on anthropology would describe the culture of the people who made and used it. A third file on technology would describe how the pot was made and its place in the history of potting. A fourth would be labeled "art" and would describe its aesthetics and compare it with similar pots. This could be carried on almost indefinitely, with essays on decorative motifs, their meaning and derivation, the shapes of ceramic vessels worldwide, the history of this particular pot and how and where it was used or displayed since its excavation, materials science including essays on clay technology, with thin sections of the ceramic body, etc. Or as George states, clearly in some desperation, "If I felt like it, I could even punch nothing and enjoy looking at the thing."[95] Each of these different points of view might imply a different ideal state. The archaeological object could be exhibited still broken, with sherds lying half-hidden in a mound of dirt. The anthropological object could be restored to its whole state but with accretions and contents, in a diorama that shows it in use. The aesthetic object could be shown in a clean and unused state. There is nothing “wrong” with any of these choices. Revisiting condition

The discussions of condition in Chapters Two and Three proposed that an object examination cannot produce an assessment of condition. Condition reporting during the examination is premature because condition compares the current state of an object to its ideal state, and physical examination does not yield the information necessary to establish the desired treatment goal. The succession of states during an object’s life means that there are multiple choices for where we want treatment to take the object. We cannot figure out how far it needs to go until we know where it is going. The ideal state of an object is often not attainable, and far from its realistic goal. So there are three states to be compared when discussing condition, the current state, the ideal state, and the realistic treatment goal. Each of the three comparisons that can be made among them has its own meaning. The comparison between an object’s current and ideal states is certainly a measure of condition in a cosmic sense, and relates to the magnitude of the object’s overall cultural value. The distance between the current state and the realistic treatment goal defines a different measure of condition, representing the magnitude of a possible treatment. The second comparison is more relevant in treatment discussions. The third comparison, between the realistic treatment goal and the object’s ideal state, is the measure of aspects of an object we would like to change but cannot. In practical terms, it answers the question of whether, from one point of view (not the financial one!), the treatment is “worth doing.” *** The ideal state is ideal in two ways: it is intrinsically a theoretical construct, and it is often unattainable. In the next chapter we will look at the steps that translate the ideal state into a realistic treatment goal. We will see how an analysis of values can guide the choice of ideal state and, ultimately, of treatment choices. And, perhaps most importantly for the peace of mind of conservators, we will see how a values analysis can assure that our choices do not have unintended negative consequences for the future.

Chapter Seven – Values Analysis, the Timeline, and the Ideal State The ideal state of an object is one of its past states. The first step in choosing the ideal state is, therefore, a re-creation of the object’s history, and the choice depends on an analysis of values. This chapter describes a decisionmaking process that uses the information from the characterization to choose the ideal state. The strategy for choosing the ideal state involves the creation of a timeline that incorporates information from all four quadrants of the characterization grid. The timeline, accompanied by a list of current values, lays out the object’s material and non-material life in an orderly succession of past states, one of which will be chosen as the ideal state. As we have seen, this is the past state that best embodies the values important to the custodian—and other stakeholders as well—without irreversibly impairing other values that may be ascendant in the future. Together, the timeline and the current values list facilitate a comprehensive assessment of the consequences of possible treatments. The text has recommended that treatment decisions be deferred until all relevant data are gathered and organized. We are now at that point. Once the timeline and the current values list are assembled, the stage is set to choose the ideal state. The ideal state, in turn, defines what it is that treatment is expected to accomplish. Several case studies are presented in this chapter. The last leads to a discussion of the treatment of objects with only personal value. THE TIMELINE An object timeline brings together the data gathered during the characterization phase to document the object’s life from creation to the present, and into the future. The data include the significant findings of the physical examination and information from other sources, including historical documentation, personal reflection from the owner, and all the rest.

By organizing both material and non-material information, the timeline creates a narrative of the object’s biography. It is designed to lead to action, however, and is most useful when kept lean. Crucial information includes biographical events that establish values and physical changes that define past states. A list of every exhibition an object has been in will not help the decision-making process, but a decade of intermittent travel may be significant for an object’s market value and fame, and also may be a period of accumulating structural weakness, overall wear, or dirt accumulation. Major divisions in the timeline are associated with significant events in the object’s life. Changes of ownership are the most useful ones, since they are accompanied by shifts in use, values, physical state, and environment. Data gathered during the characterization phase, including both physical changes and events extrinsic to the object, are added into the appropriate life stages. Consider a (fictional) silver Paul Revere teapot, with the following story. It was made in 1774 for Peyton Randolph, a member of the Continental Congress. During a meeting with Thomas Jefferson, a particular point of disagreement about seceding from England proved too much for Mr. Jefferson’s usual composure. He found himself throwing the teapot across the room, denting it. After the incident, the pot was considered damaged and was seldom used, but both the teapot and the story survived through several generations. After an episode of not-so-careful handling, the tip of the dent broke through the silver, leaving a small hole, which left it unusable. The pot, with its dent and hole and a layer of tarnish, has just been donated to a museum along with the rest of the tea-set, and has come to a conservator for treatment in preparation for exhibition. The timeline for the teapot, shown below, records the above information and two events not directly linked to the object, but relevant to its values. One is Revere’s famous ride of April 18, 1775. The other is the 1863 publication of Longfellow’s, “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere,” which made Revere even more famous.

We will see later in the chapter how this timeline is used in choosing the teapot’s ideal state. Creating a timeline

Time periods The life stages described in Chapter Five – creation, original use, discard, collection, and museum acquisition – often form the backbone of the timeline. When there is little documentation of an object’s past, common sense and supposition can be used to fill in likely major events such as changes in ownership or location. A medieval stained glass window in a museum has to have been taken from a church or cathedral somewhere. Many sculptures show signs of having been forcibly removed from building interiors or exteriors. Such presumed events should be included in the timeline. Common sense also tells us that certain physical changes visible on the object are apt to be artifacts of those undocumented events. Episodes of repair or conservation treatment should be given a place on the timeline because of the importance of those events for treatment decisionmaking. The timeline includes the present time—more specifically, the time of the conservation examination—as one of the points in the timeline. This provides a space to describe the current state of the object, focussing on major physical changes since the previous listed state. The ideal state will be chosen from among all these states. A complete biography also requires documentation of the object’s expected future, particularly if it is not ensconced permanently in a museum. Dates Absolute dates should be used when available, but are rare in the dossiers we have for objects. More common are chronological divisions of time based on available documentary information and examination of the object and, again, on common sense and supposition. Information for each time period The data for each time period come from the four quadrants of the characterization grid, as discussed in Chapters One through Five. The following table summarizes the significant categories of material and nonmaterial information that might be listed in each column. Biographical events are listed here first, since changes in ownership act as the primary divisions of the timeline.

Biographical events: Information on biographical events comes from Quadrants III and IV of the characterization grid. Information in each period in the timeline should include where the object was, and, as relevant, details of viewing position, lighting, surroundings, and other factors. The object’s location can be additionally important because of its implication for environmental factors like relative humidity and temperature and light exposure, which affect its aging. We seldom have direct evidence of such data, but can ordinarily extrapolate it from what we know about climatic conditions in different parts of the world, interior heating, and traditional care and maintenance. Such information can also be used to extrapolate the object's appearance backwards in time, helping to determine its original or as-used state. Knowing past environmental conditions and their impact on the current state of the object can also tell us about the environmental susceptibility of the object, which can sometimes be useful information for developing a treatment. Also included should be any use that affected the object’s physical state or appearance and any event that affected or indicated its values, including exhibition history. These include, of, course past conservation treatment or repair. One additional piece of biographical information that may be relevant is whether the object at hand is – or was - part of a group of objects. At the time of creation, a ceramic bowl may have been part of a set, but more relevant for treatment is whether the object is still part of a set. Many kinds

of objects are part of a set of some kind, from collectibles and elements in a historic interior to permanent exhibits in museums. Crucial to the object’s history, as we have seen, are its values throughout its life—particularly its current values. In a simple case, they may also be shown in the timeline. Usually, however, it is more convenient to enter those in a separate time-based chart—the values history - as shown below. Material state: The object’s physical state involves the data associated with Quadrants I and II of the characterization grid as well as educated guesswork. For each event in the timeline we can describe the state of the object at the time in question, noting likely or observed changes in physical state, both catastrophic and gradual, occurring during the period. Fundamental physical properties such as completeness, changes in the chemistry of component materials, strength, changes in shape, surface gloss, and color, may be primary data. The appearance of an object throughout its life is a fundamental piece of data even for objects whose primary impact is not, or was not, visual. The object’s appearance should therefore be approximated for each time division. Changes in format are particularly important. Guesses about an object’s appearance may be based on its likely appearance during a period of use, but in some cases, its appearance at the point of change in ownership may be more crucial or easier to surmise. It is also important to indicate the object’s current rate of physical change. This determines the need for treatment that retards deterioration and promotes long-term preservation. The values-based focus of the methodology requires both preservation and interpretation, since the enhancement and preservation of an object’s values are inseparably intertwined with the preservation of the object itself. THE VALUES HISTORY A tool that goes hand-in-hand with the timeline is a “values history.“ This document links changes in values to the time periods already defined and to particular aspects or parts of the object. The linkages enable an assessment of the consequences of each possible ideal state for each value. This produces written justification for the propriety of treatments that might be performed and the negative consequences of those that are rejected.

An example of a values history—again for the Paul Revere teapot— appears below. The notations and the assessments are approximations. Words such as “high,” “low,” “some,” “yes,” and “no,” or minus and plus signs are adequate for the task. The form of the chart is, likewise, ad hoc.

The last, shaded, column of the chart – the current values list - shows all the values that the object has for its current custodian. When relevant, the values list also shows the values that the object has for society in addition to those held by the custodian. Since the teapot in our example is going into a permanent museum collection and will not go back into private hands, we can expect that its current values will persist into the indefinite future. The teapot will, for example, always have its historical value but will never again have use value. Discussion of values history for the Revere teapot Let us look at the teapot’s value history in detail to see how each potential value is assessed. As a reminder for the reader, the following chart provides the entire list of values that are most relevant to conservation treatment, with short definitions.

Art value: The high quality of Revere’s work was recognized virtually from the beginning, but silver pieces made for use were undoubtedly not considered art at the time. Opinion on such matters shifted at some point, and at present the teapot’s art value is high. Aesthetic value: The aesthetics of the object are impaired by the dent and, even more, by the hole. The fact that the damage is only on one side and that the pot could be displayed with the non-damaged side on view, however, mitigates the loss of aesthetic value. The tarnish also impairs aesthetics. Historical value: The piece has significant historical value resulting from the incident that caused the dent. Use value: Use value is gone both because of the hole and because of the museum acquisition. Research value: The teapot has little research value at present, but information like the composition or molecular structure of the silver alloy or the means of creating the design would persist, in any case, after any ethical treatment.

Educational value: Using the whole set to illustrate the lifestyle of wealthy 18th-century Americans is a possibility, but educational value is still very minor compared to other values. Age value: The pot clearly has age value, but there is some question about which aspects of the object convey its age to a normal viewer. The style embodies its age, but modern copies of the same general shape and design may exist. Modern copies, however, would likely have a very different surface quality. The object’s presence in a museum would seem to put its age beyond doubt. Neither tarnish nor the dent nor the hole does much for age value, as people know that these can happen in a short period of time. Newness value: Newness value is over. Sentimental value: Any consideration about sentimental value became moot once the pot left the family that owned it. Monetary value: The pot was originally a luxury item, made out of a precious material with the highest level of craftsmanship, and remains so. Revere’s fame increases monetary value, but it is not clear how the dent or the accompanying historical value would affect market price. In the abstract, monetary value can be expected to mirror the predominant values of the object – in this case, its art, aesthetic, historical and associative values. Associative value: The object has a great deal of associative value, relating to both Revere and Jefferson. The dent is the basis for the Jefferson association, while the whole pot at every point in it history embodies the association with Revere. Revere was famous as a metalsmith during his lifetime, and became more famous after his ride, and, again, after the poem that commemorated it. The poem probably assured his continuing fame. An increase in fame increases the degree of associative value. Commemorative value: None. Rarity: Rarity stays the same, or increases slightly every time another Revere item disappears but it has little effect on anything but, potentially, market value.

Choice of ideal state using the timeline and current values list The timeline and current values list together furnish the information necessary to establish the ideal state, which can be deduced in a number of ways. In one approach, we can look at the timeline one period at a time. In the teapot’s values history, for example, the state at the time of creation and first use precludes any historical value, while the state of the object right after the dent embodies all relevant values, with a minor “issue” related to aesthetics. Later states involving the hole and tarnish are more representative of neglect than anything else, and do not enhance any value. Given our assessment as to the teapot’s current values, then, the ideal state is, clearly, the state of the teapot right after Jefferson’s tantrum - with the dent but without the hole or the tarnish. This physical state is the one in which three of the object’s four significant values—art, associative and historical—are preserved or enhanced and no value is irreversibly impaired. It is true that removing the dent would enhance the teapot’s aesthetics, but doing so would irreversibly impair its associative and historical values. It could be argued, of course, that if the dent were removed, the pot would still have historical value since it was, in fact, the storied teapot that Jefferson threw across the room. But the Jefferson story without the dent would have little punch. This makes the dent off-limits. In any event, the question of the pot’s aesthetics can be largely resolved by displaying it with only its “good” side showing. Another approach is to start with the current values list. For the teapot, the important values are aesthetic, art, historical, and associative value. We then ask which one of the object’s states would preserve or enhance each value, and then check the answer against the full values list. The conclusion would be the same, of course. Historical and associative value vis-à-vis Jefferson (although not Revere) would be lost if the object were returned to its original state, and the slight downtick to aesthetic value in the presence of the dent is a minor matter for the reason cited above. Using yet another approach, we could correlate the three problematic condition issues—dent, hole and tarnish—with the four crucial values— aesthetic, art, historical and associative. Doing so makes clear that, first of all, we cannot remove the dent. Although this would enhance the object’s

aesthetics, it would, as we have already noted, irreversibly impair the object’s historical and associative values. On the other hand, tarnish removal is a straightforward decision, as it increases the aesthetics of the object and does not impair any of the other values. Although the tarnish is part of the object’s history, the tarnish does not have any historical value. In a museum, tarnish would be likely to lend the piece an air of neglect rather than respectable age. Likewise, removing the hole does not impair any values, so that is another easy call. In short, no values are impaired by removal of the hole and the tarnish, and aesthetics is improved. Display of a tarnished teapot would misrepresent both the meaning that the object had for its original users and the housekeeping standards of the age. Repairing the hole restores at least the appearance of usability (use value). Putting those conclusions together, reference to the timeline shows a point in time where the teapot was dented but was both hole- and tarnish-free. Thus removing the hole and the tarnish would put the object into a state that it actually once had, eliminating any ethical concerns about putting the object into a state that never existed. Clearly, each approach to the timeline and the current values list leads to the same conclusion. Once a conservator gets used to the interplay among values, the timeline, and the choice of ideal state, the decision-making process can be streamlined. Most things that conservators treat have neither commemorative nor newness value, for example, and those entries can be left out of the lists. But the core elements of this step should be carried out in some form: ascertaining the values that the object holds, attaching those values to specific physical phenomena, and assuring that none of them will be diminished by a proposed treatment The weighing of values that would be affected by a proposed treatment can sometimes be complex. The methodology does not in itself resolve dilemmas, but provides terminology and a method for addressing them. When decision-making proves difficult, the first step should be a check on the facts, particularly a review of the needs of the custodian, whether private or institutional. Group discussion at that point may be appropriate. Benefits of using the timeline and values history

Using the timeline and values history in order to arrive at the ideal state has a number of benefits. All the decision-making parties proceed down the same path, because they are guided by documents of their own creation. The methodology works like a mathematical equation: put in the data, and the answer – the ideal state comes out. At no point is any individual imposing his or her taste or feelings on the process, or steering the conclusion in any particular direction. Moreover, writing down in one place all the relevant information about an object and making it available to interested parties assures that issues of interest to any and all of them are fully credited. A review of all historic values assures that nothing of potential concern is missed. This fulfills the responsibility of conservators to represent points of view other than those of the custodian, including those that grow out of the technical and ethical demands of the conservation profession, those represented by collectors’ groups, cultures of origin, and others. If, at the end, the results are not met with universal approval, at least the debate takes place within well-defined parameters, and the conservator, in particular, knows where to draw the line, because the values provide footholds on the proverbial “slippery slope.” Suppose a conservator identifies the ideal state of an object and drafts a treatment plan based on it. The custodian agrees in principle, and then decides that the full treatment is too expensive, or that he really doesn’t like one recommended step. The ideal state of the Revere teapot, for example, is without tarnish and without the hole. The custodian, for whatever reason, prefers leaving the tarnish. Should the conservator refuse to do the treatment? Or suppose the custodian insists on removal of the dent? What then? As the parameters of the case are described here, leaving the tarnish alone is ethically permissible because it does not irreversibly impair any values; removing the dent is ill-advised, however, because it would irreversibly impair historical value and Jeffersonrelated associative value. There is benefit to this approach even if the conservator and custodian feel from the beginning of a project that they know perfectly well what “needs” to be done. If someone else questions it—either before or after treatmentdocuments show that the decision was well considered. The next conservator to look at the object will know exactly what was done and why.

The timeline and values history serve a number of other functions as well, including recording information about the object– both observations and conclusions. At present, conservators customarily enter limited findings of the conservation examination in the condition section of treatment documentation, but custodial information is not routinely preserved in any form. The author has found that she does not always remember details of the information that clients give her. This in some cases turns out to be embarrassing. Since the timeline and values history record information that comes from sources outside conservation, non-conservators are able to make significant contributions to the decision-making process. Few custodians – even professionals– are normally aware of the kinds of information that might prove useful for conservators. Drafting these documents assures that all such information is gathered and recorded, and makes custodians feel part of the process. One of the seldom-appreciated benefits of treatment is the opportunity it provides for conservators to augment an object’s dossier. Since the timeline includes material information not normally included in treatment documentation, it is the perfect vehicle for sharing such information. One example is changes in an object’s appearance over time. This category of information is part of conservators’ expertise, and helps custodians understand why objects look the way they do, but is not routinely conveyed. Because it is an important, but often unacknowledged, factor in treatment decisions, it should also help custodians understand the conservator’s unique point of view. The timeline and values history facilitate collaborative investigation of the object. And once compiled, they aid in the vetting of information by making the same data available to all decision-making partners. Their agreement on the accuracy of the information, or, in the face of disagreement, their discussions, will set the terms upon which the treatment will be based. For example, the decision about treatment of our Paul Revere teapot is based on a family story. If the timeline were sent to a number of family members for review, asking for any supporting or contradictory anecdotes to supplement museum records, something unexpected may happen. A family member might claim that Great Aunt Fanny, who was quite a jokester, made

up the whole Jefferson thing when her cousin, who always wanted to own the pot, noticed the dent. The staff of Jefferson’s home, Monticello, might respond to a query by saying that no contemporary or later mention of the alleged incident exists. This might lead to a re-examination of the dent to see if it supplies any indication of age. This disconfirming data—if deemed reliable—could change the balance of values and might lead to a treatment choice that involved fixing the dent after all. For many objects, the timeline and values history can be a quick scribble on the back of an envelope. However, the drafting of a more formal version with a complete range of topics can be an informative exercise. It promotes the fullest possible view of an object, assuring that the conservator takes into account more than individual problems that treatment can be expected to correct. This makes these documents an educational tool for student conservators as well as for custodians. For private owners, and institutions as well, it is “value added” as a consequence of contact with a conservator. A comprehensive timeline can also be primary permanent documentation for the object. It can include, for example, citations for the origin of the information. This can help indicate the reliability of information, and thereby help to resolve discrepancies, if the discussion of treatment options touches on complex issues or evidence is contradictory. A completed timeline, with references to, or copies of, archival documents, photographs, publications, previous conservation records, etc., becomes a useful document summarizing everything that is known about an object. Making these documents part of permanent documentation also assures that the same information will be available to those who have the object later. It is a familiar experience that conservators can find copies of conservation reports for former treatments, but that the reports do not contain the information that is needed. What is usually missing is background information and a rationale for decision-making. If a “fact” recorded in the documents turns out to be erroneous, or if the use or meaning of an object shifts, a treatment step that might in the future seem ill-advised would have an explanation. A timeline both records data in permanent form and documents a major step in the decision-making process. The values history is a somewhat different animal, recording as much supposition as fact. On the other hand, those suppositions are vital to people

in the future examining the object or considering another conservation treatment because they facilitate an understanding of the decisions that were made. Those decisions, however, rest with the major values, not with the details. Once the major values are ascertained, the rest is not critical. Nor is it critical whether the values history chart uses yes/no, high/low or lots/some other words or symbols. Absolute accuracy and consistency are not required. What matters is the big picture, and the internal workings of the methodology will assure that the big picture is accurate. ADDITIONAL CASE STUDIES: THE USE OF A TIMELINE AND VALUES HISTORY TO CHOOSE THE IDEAL STATE The balance of this chapter presents additional examples using the timeline and values history to identify the ideal state and, therefore, the parameters of treatment. Like the Revere teapot, some of the examples are fictional; others are from the author’s practice. Egyptian sarcophagus with mummy: age, educational and sentimental value An Egyptian sarcophagus, with a mummy inside, has been exhibited for decades in an early twentieth-century house built and owned by a wealthy collector. The house was transformed into a museum in the mid-twentieth century. Displays include zoological material collected in the wild by the owner, along with a mixed group of objects purchased during his travels. There are no other Egyptian objects. The scattered selection of objects and the somewhat Victorian style and labeling of the displays embody the owner’s views of the collection as curiosities, exotica, or specimens, rather than works of art or ethnography. The sarcophagus and mummy are major sources of publicity for the museum. The removal of the mummy in the 1990’s (on Halloween!) in an ambulance to a hospital for a CAT-scan was covered by the local news, and an outside expert on the mummification process has been brought in to supply information for a small exhibition. The sarcophagus has been an extremely popular exhibit for generations, visited by hoards of schoolchildren and their parents and grandparents before them.

The original inscription on the mummy case does not include the deceased’s name. This is evidence that the case was an off-the-shelf model, not particularly expensive at the time of its creation. The wood around one of the pegs of the lid apparently broke through during construction, and the area was repaired and repainted in a sloppier manner than the first paint layer, confirming a certain lack of fastidiousness. (The area is definitely not a later restoration.) When the mummy was removed from the case, chunks of another sarcophagus were found underneath, making it likely that the mummy was removed from the sarcophagus after excavation, perhaps in the London shop where it was purchased. The mummy might therefore not be the original one. There is no provenance. The author was first consulted about this object in the 1970’s, when she was sent snapshots of deterioration in the carved and painted face. The following was her written assessment of the object’s pre-treatment state upon examination: The wooden members of the lid are pulled apart, as is one end of the base. The head and face on the lid have efflorescence of soluble salts, and the paint and some of the ground are flaking, with substantial losses. The surface has scattered splotches of discolored resin (clearly not an intentional overall coating), and there is a cloudy layer of dirt on the surface that obscures the painted design. There are sizeable areas on the base of white repair material, presumably from the period just after excavation. The linen wrappings on the mummy are loose and falling apart. The timeline and values history follow.

Discussion of values: Art value: Sarcophagi are sometimes not thought of as art, but if they were, art value of this piece would be low compared to that of many other, finer, examples. Any art value is impaired by ongoing deterioration, but the losses are not yet severe enough to make accurate restoration impossible. Aesthetic value: The piece has a certain amount of generic aesthetic appeal, but the dirt and splotches of discolored resin on the surface weaken the visual impact of the design, and the deterioration of the face is sort of creepy. Historical value: Minimal because of the lack of provenance and unknown identity of the person. Use value: Ended when the piece was excavated. Research value: Not very high because it is not rare or documented.

Educational value: Given the museum’s visitation – busloads of school kids – and the fact that the collection is not exhibited as art, educational value is major. Age value: Substantial. It is old, it looks old, and we like that it looks old. Newness value: Long gone. Sentimental value: The mummy is a long-time favorite object for several generations of visitors, so it has substantial sentimental value. Monetary value: Not very high either originally or at present. Associative value: None. Commemorative value: None Rarity: Not very rare, except in terms of the museum’s visitors; it is the only one (and probably the only piece of Egyptian art) in the surrounding area. Values analysis Age, sentimental, and educational value are probably the most important values for this object in its current context. Age value is particularly important because the mummy is by far the oldest object in the museum. That it is not very old – for an Egyptian mummy – does not matter to visitors, but it will continue to look old no matter what treatment is done, so this is not a factor in treatment choice. Sentimental value would be an issue for treatment if visitors preferred that the object’s appearance not be changed, but everyone in the museum, including docents, agreed that the deterioration was icky-looking and that visitors would prefer that the object appear well cared-for rather than neglected. Educational value comes primarily from what the object is. Treatment to arrest the ongoing deterioration obviously enhances educational – and all other values – because additional loss would eventually make it impossible to reconstruct the face. Exhibition conditions were contributing to the efflorescence, so treatment was needed to allow further display.

Aesthetic value would be enhanced by a treatment that restored the appearance of the face from its current blistered condition and removed the dirt and blotchy discolored resin from the surface. Neither art nor educational values are impaired by such a treatment. The positive contributions of treatment are particularly relevant to this object because visitors are so drawn to it. Egyptian sarcophagi and mummies have an appeal that has little or nothing to do with aesthetics or history in the academic sense, and the publicized treatment only reinforced visitors’ attraction to it. The idea of making the piece look “better” was also important for the staff, since study and treatment of the sarcophagus and mummy and redesign of the exhibition were seen as contributing to a revitalization of the institution. An obvious improvement of the object’s aesthetics was therefore beneficial to the institution in more than the usual ways. Ideal state Based on the values or based on a review of the appearance at each time period, the ideal state would be at the time of first use - when the body was put in. This would mean that the sloppy repair that already existed should be left as is, dirt should be removed, and losses should be restored. The resin, however, remained a question. Assuming that the resin is original to the sarcophagus, but that it had relatively little color at the time of application, its removal would restore original appearance even while removing original material. Since the sarcophagus has little historical value, we need not worry about reducing it. Research value associated with the resin is completely served by leaving some of the material in place in a designated area where it has no negative aesthetic effect. A review of the values against the choice of ideal state reinforces the correctness of the choice. The return of the object closer to its as-created state increases art value. Removal of dirt and discolored varnish and restoration of missing parts bring back the original aesthetics of the object without compromising any other value. The clearer reading of the design promotes aesthetic value, as does the elimination of the blistering on the

face. Removing the varnish only where it shows and leaving it on the edges of the base of the sarcophagus protect research value. In deference to educational value, an exception was made to the plan of total restoration: in one section of the head where the gesso had been lost down to the wood, the loss was not entirely filled, so that the internal structure of the object remained visible. The treatment clearly serves the custodian’s needs. Publicity about examination and testing of the object and its return to exhibition after vast improvement in appearance has been beneficial. Conservation, along the way, gets a boost. The chosen treatment of this (real) object involved cleaning, consolidation, and restoration of missing parts, most completely on the face. The damage and repair that occurred prior to first use were left as is. The mummy itself was tightly wrapped in polyester net of an appropriate color to hold the wrappings in place. Design of a new humidity-controlled exhibition case assured that the efflorescence would not recur. A Fictional Van Gogh: art and associative value Imagine a (fictional) a Van Gogh portrait with a yellow background. Examination shows that the background was originally green; the color under the rabbet is undoubtedly very close to its original hue, with very little variation around the three sides of the painting. Outside of the fading, the painting’s history is uneventful, and it has no physical problems. So we can dispense with a formal timeline and go directly to a current values list. Current values list Art value: Extremely high, but theoretically lower than its original state because of the color change. Aesthetic value: Everybody loves Van Gogh, no matter what, but which color would they like better? A more difficult question is whether their knowing about the fading would affect their enjoyment of the painting. Historical value: Difficult to separate from other values, but probably relatively minor. Use value: None

Research value: Considerable just because we are so taken with everything about the artist. Educational value: Nothing special. Age value: Because of the still-bright colors, the painting does not look old. Because of the contemporary appeal of the artist’s psychological life, we do not want it to look old. So it would seem that Van Gogh paintings do not have age value. Newness value: Considerable. The painting looks relatively new even though it isn’t, and we like it that way. The fact that the painting doesn’t look like it actually did when it was new is a separate issue. Sentimental value: Negligible. Monetary value: Huge – could be altered by a really bad treatment, but the numbers go so high, and the potential buyers so small in number, that the numbers would still be high. Associative value: Very high. Commemorative value: None. Rarity: Huge. Values analysis Museum-goers will travel hundreds of miles to see a Van Gogh show. If there were a tiny brown spot in the corner of a painting that someone claimed was dried blood from the ear incident, they’d come from even further. So to the first approximation, nothing short of putting the painting through a shredder would lower any of its values – aesthetic, art, associative, newness, or monetary. But what is the painting’s ideal state? In theory, a work of art is considered at its height in the state it was in when it left the artist’s hands—exactly as the artist made it and, presumably, exactly the way he wanted it to be. From this perspective, the optimal treatment restores the painting’s original appearance by glazing it with a transparent toned layer to turn the yellow “back” to green.

Neither readers not the author believe that anyone would do this, but what exactly is the problem? Is doing it really a bad idea – or just too controversial to contemplate? Are we wrong about the ideal state? How much do fame and monetary value affect our reaction? The dilemma, despite the exaggerated nature of the case, is not unique. The question of how much restoration work is appropriate when we want to return an object to an earlier known state is a common one, and probably most difficult when the object is considered to be art. So this example typifies a whole category of conservation dilemmas. Let us look, first, at what the values of the Van Gogh tell us. If we whittle down the list to the ones that might be changed by the proposed treatment, we are left with art value, aesthetic value, and perhaps associative and monetary value. Returning the painting to its as-created condition increases art value because the current color is the result of deterioration and not the artist’s intent. Since we defined aesthetics as personal, aesthetic value is unpredictable and is therefore not a useful factor in decision-making. Besides, if the goal of treatment is to be guided by the ideal state, whether we like a green painting better than a yellow one should not be a factor. Associative value would be lowered by the treatment because of the intrusion of a contemporary hand over the artist’s. Monetary value, of course, would depend on whether people considered the treatment to be successful. It could be argued that making the painting green again gives viewers the opportunity to appreciate Van Gogh’s genius. In this view, not doing anything to recreate the reality of the artist’s “version” of the painting presents a falsity and deprives the world of a great work of art. Most conservators, however, would recoil from adding a toning layer—reversible though it may be.[96] A common argument against attempts to “restore” an object to an earlier state regards accuracy: restoration is out of the question as long as we cannot be one hundred percent sure about the most minute details of the original appearance. We know for certain, however, that Van Gogh painted a green background, so it would seem that a well-studied re-creation would bring the painting at least, say, ninety-five percent closer to the truth than yellow. Thorough examination and the use of cross-sections would provide data on

the original color. The distribution of color change across the surface of other Van Gogh portraits could be studied. Yet none of these measures is likely to quiet conservators’ unease at the idea of changing what is admittedly a totally inaccurate embodiment of the artist’s intent to something demonstrably much closer. Perhaps inaccuracy is not the problem. If we stand by the idea that what the artist painted is the ideal state, then it would seem that covering artist-applied material is the real problem. The painting is irretrievably damaged – irretrievably because viewing the hand of a conservator rather than the artist is unacceptable. This is despite the fact that a restored green painting would be virtually what the artist painted. Before we make a final judgement on this fictional scenario, let us look for other contributing factors. Their influence can be investigated by imagining details that might push the decision in the other direction. Van Gogh’s personal history has a contemporary appeal that may make covering his paint with our own particularly transgressive, but, realistically, doing such a thing to a not-so-famous artist’s painting is not likely either. And for a lesser work, the question would probably not be asked in the first place. Even with a painting that is not art – a shop-sign, for example - certain very specific conditions, including use, would have to apply in order to open the door to any repainting. Perhaps if such a sign were to be used in a period reconstruction…. Well, probably not, if restoration would cover original paint. Creating a replica in that situation would be a more likely choice. Suppose an art historian were studying the color patterns of a group of Cubist paintings and found one in which a not-very-large area of a flat color had faded so that it was tonally out of line with the other colors. Repainting now looks more feasible, particularly if a transparent glaze, rather than an opaque paint layer, would do the trick. The high level of independent research by someone with no stake in conservation treatment is undoubtedly a factor, as is the percentage of the original area to be covered and the possibility that the texture of the artist’s paint would still be visible. Still, prudence in such a case would likely dictate a full-size digital photograph of the painting with the color changed before alteration is carried

out on the painting. But even in this admittedly contrived scenario, how likely is it that the restoration would be carried out? We have stipulated that the fictional Cubist painting and the Van Gogh are exhibitable in their current condition. It is only expert knowledge that tells us there is anything “wrong” with them. Why create a problem where none exists! When objects are incomplete or when they “need” treatment for other reasons, major restoration to an earlier state is perhaps more feasible, but, admittedly, still not likely if it covers original. An entirely different issue is our anticipation of public controversy. After all, in the case of the Van Gogh, people would notice that a formerly yellow painting is now green. In virtually any other case, however, museum-goers know nothing about the degree to which artworks have been treated. And private owners not only expect changes in appearance from treatment but, usually, actively seek them. They assume that, whatever the details of treatment, the changes will be for the better. From either point of view, nothing sets toning of faded color areas apart from any other type of treatment that changes appearance – like cleaning. Many normal people assume, in fact, that conservators who treat paintings do so by sitting at the easel with paint brushes in hand – deciding what the thing should look like, and then mixing up some paint to make it look that way. So, in reality, public consumers of conservation services have little to offer to this discussion. Curators and art historians could no doubt contribute to the accuracy of our determination of the earlier state of any object, and professional custodians would have to be party to the ultimate decision. But the question of whether it is proper for conservators to insert ourselves this far into the physical state of an object is ours alone. On the face of it, there is no justification for seeing toning of a color area as a radical departure from all other modes of treatment. This is, admittedly, a very difficult issue to make sense of, but perhaps our reaction comes out of the relationship between ourselves as conservators and the makers of the things we treat. We efface ourselves in their presence. We love seeing the signs of their touch – the fingerprints and hairs and tool-marks they leave behind. We attempt to preserve every molecule of what they created without leaving even the slightest sign of our own presence. And even when what they make is art – for paintings that means the front of the object – we

sometimes prefer not to cover up the back of the canvas the artist stretched, nor to replace any of the nails that the artist hammered in. As stated repeatedly in this text, a methodology cannot tell us what to do. But the possibility that some treatments are guided more by the way we see ourselves in relation to artists than by any definable logic is unsettling. If we have no right to alter an artist’s work, then why is it acceptable to leave it not looking as he made it? Our values analysis shows little historical value and no age value. Claims of historical value do not hold up against exhibiting a work that is without a doubt not what the artist intended it to look like, and age value is not served by radical color change that does not look like a sign of age. Readers will undoubtedly advocate for the production of a digital image of the green Van Gogh rather than alteration of the original. Unfortunately, this leaves the painting unaltered only in the obvious physical sense. Like objects that have been falsely accused of being forgeries, it would be irreversibly changed by knowledge. Publicizing its accidental state of yellow-ness could irreversibly reduce its art value and monetary value. There are, therefore, three alternatives rather than two. Publicizing the state of the painting without altering it risks devaluation, although the opposite could also be true: museum-goers’ fascination with the facts and the opportunity to choose which version they like better could result in a big boost in museum admissions. Carrying out the alteration means attracting some of the same attention, with its attendant up-side consequences, and, no doubt, potential down-side consequences as well. Leaving well enough alone means exhibiting a painting that falsely represents itself as a legitimate vision of the artist. However we choose to interpret this fictional case study, one certain conclusion is that our attitudes – conservators’ and art historians’, as well as the public’s - toward art are complex and not internally consistent. Art value never exists in a pure form influenced only by what we see rather than by what we know. And other values, including a perhaps exaggerated notion of associative value vis-à-vis famous artists, may take precedence. Archaeological ancient glass: aesthetic and age value

The object under consideration is an ancient glass vessel with an iridescent surface produced during burial. It is unbroken, with only, perhaps, a few chips along the rim. It belongs to a large museum. Most of the timeline is constructed based on supposition, but it is useful to construct it anyway. The values history for this object is shown below. With experience, the conservator can leave out the values that are clearly irrelevant to the choice of ideal state, as seen here.

Current values list Art value: only applies to the unpatinated object because the iridescence comes from chemistry, not artistry. Aesthetic value: considerable, but largely associated with the iridescence. The shape may have aesthetic value as well. Research value: may be considerable, but in a collection of like objects, probably not a unique contribution. Educational value: Not distinguishable from its interpretation as related to the purpose of exhibition. Age value: considerable – partly resides in the iridescence. Monetary value: considerable, but not relevant. Rarity: in the world of major museums, not all that rare. Values analysis The major question of treatment regards the presence of iridescence, which, like the yellow of the Van Gogh, is not original to the object. Resinous impregnation might return the glass to its previous transparency.

The ruling values are age and aesthetic value, and educational value as part of an exhibition. The survival of a very fragile object from so long ago makes the object appealing in a general way, but typical viewers would see two things: a remarkable testament to early technology, and a beautifully colored object. They are unlikely to understand that the two are unrelated. The museum is likely to be presenting this object as one of a group of items of everyday life in the ancient world – spoons, jewelry, bowls, and small sculpture, perhaps. It is unlikely that any written material will explain that the iridescence is not original to the object, though certainly the existence of the iridescence runs counter to the purpose of the exhibition. The choice of ideal state comes down to a balance between educational value and aesthetic value. The situation is similar to the Van Gogh in that, as displayed, without explanation, the object gives a false impression. There are, however, differences from the Van Gogh. The current, altered, state of the glass has value in itself even though that value runs counter to the intent of the exhibit we have imagined. Also different from the Van Gogh is that knowledge of the source of the iridescence does not diminish our regard for the object. The greatest difference is that logic and values, rather than squeamishness, get us to the conclusion that the object should be displayed as is, with an explanatory label about the source of the iridescence. Thanksgiving linens: personal (use and sentimental) values only This case is also based on a real incident, and involves a tablecloth and napkins imprinted with a Thanksgiving motif. The linens were purchased in the 1960’s. Although it is possible that no one in the family really likes them, the holiday would not seem right without them. The family brought the napkins to a conservator because of a few holes. The owner wanted one napkin to be sacrificed so that the material could be used to patch the others. The life story of these objects is so simple that we can dispense with a formal timeline, but it is instructive to create a values history.

Values analysis and ideal state The linens have no cultural values to impair, only personal ones, notably use value and sentimental value. If the linens could not be used, however, even sentimental value would probably wane with time. Newness value is impaired by the holes, but the linens are otherwise in good shape, so a highquality repair could restore the look of newness. The ideal state maximizes utility, which means the largest possible number of complete napkins. With only sentimental and use value attributed to them, and both values tied to the capacity for current and future annual use, there is no justification for not cutting up a napkin if there is no other technical way to make them usable. This conclusion may appear to contravene conservation ethics, but the values analysis tell us that it does not. The existence of an apparent dilemma cannot, however, be dismissed. Readers’ immediate reaction may be that

honoring use value and sentimental value would be nice, but would nonetheless be unethical on the grounds that “original material” is being “destroyed.” The linens come under the category of objects with only personal value as discussed in Chapter Four. Treating these things often creates problems that are difficult to resolve comfortably, particularly when custodians ask us to do something that would clearly be unethical if it were done to objects that have cultural value. Let us consider a couple of alternatives that might solve the problem the napkins present. One is to refer the family to a non-conservator, like a seamstress. This, however, hardly avoids the underlying ethical issues because it does not protect the napkins. In addition, a repair done by a nonconservator might be of lesser quality than if it were done by a conservator. A conservator would line up all the threads when piecing is done, so that the napkins will survive washing and ironing flat and intact, and the sewing would be as invisible as possible. Moreover, the process would be documented, loss of “original material” would be minimized, and fragments would be saved to avoid the need for the process to be duplicated the next time. None of this would be expected of a seamstress. So it seems there is no benefit in taking the job away from a conservator. Another way to avoid the dilemma is to say that it is acceptable for a conservator to do the work, but under the rubric of “repair” rather than “conservation.” If the work is “not conservation,” so the argument would go, we are not bound by conservation ethics and therefore destruction of one of the napkins would not be an ethical lapse. The argument does not hold up, however, because many conservation treatments like sticking broken things back together are, in fact, repairs. So re-naming the activity gets us nowhere in terms of understanding why, in fact, the proposed treatment might not be precluded by conservation ethics. Cultural vs. personal values The justification for the proposed repair of the Thanksgiving napkins as an ethical conservation treatment lies in the distinction between cultural and personal values.

Objects with cultural value have significance for a broad segment of the population, as indicated to some extent by their having substantial market value beyond what their physical use would justify. Society acknowledges their importance in part with historic preservation laws and the charters of museums. Specific values may shift over time with societal changes in attitude, but cultural value is established and maintained by consensus among experts and the general public over a number of years. The process of sorting all objects in the world into those that will and will not pass the test of cultural value is ordinarily carried out by experts, either professional or amateur. People who study photography set the bar for which prints have lasting merit and which represent important historical innovation, leaving the rest for family albums. Connoisseurs of steam locomotives know which trains were the most reliable, which ones were the most technologically innovative, and which are now rare. Art historians and museum curators have a large say in identifying artists worthy of recognition. Objects in museum collections can be said to have passed the test of cultural value during the acquisition process, if not before, whether or not that value is historical, scientific, or associative. All these judgements filter down to museum-goers as well as collectors and others who are interested in the market for art, antiques, and collectibles. Objects with cultural value are not limited to those that have worked their way through academia or into the realms of high culture. Other types of objects come into prominence not from expert judgement but from popular culture, in which case it could be said that experts follow where the marketplace leads. Objects related to popular music, movies, sports, and even the annals of crime, engender a great deal of interest, and therefore can have as much cultural value as art. Institutional ownership of objects with cultural value is governed by ethical codes and sometimes by laws developed for objects that are important to people other than the owners and that are considered preservation-worthy.[97] One purpose of conservation ethical codes is to assure that conservators protect the object from change desired by one stakeholder that will compromise the interests of others, including people in the future. In an acknowledgement of cultural value, the AIC uses the term “cultural

property” in its official documents to refer to the objects that conservators deal with. Conservators’ responsibility to the distant future as embodied in their care of “preservation-worthy” material culture is a major piece of their professional identity. Conservators do, on the other hand, treat things that are of no interest to the larger public or to anyone except the owner and possibly the owner’s family. These things include family keepsakes and photographs, mass-produced household furnishings or decorations that exist in large numbers, reproductions, souvenirs, and all manner of tchotchkes, many cherished simply because the owner’s parents owned them. Old household furnishings that have seen long years of use and a series of major restorations fall into this category because they will never have the kind of value that museums acquisition requires. The judgement that an object has “only personal value” must be made carefully, one object at a time. It does not necessarily correspond to any particular type of object. For example, a painted photograph can be a beautiful museum-worthy work of art or a thing with no aesthetic attributes, of value only to the family of the sitter. If it is an unidentifiable baby picture found in the dressing table drawer of dear departed Aunt Fanny, it may have no value to anyone! The market value of these items, if known, may offer a clue, but the conservator’s treatment choices depend not on monetary value but on judgements of the object’s intrinsic quality or potential significance to the outside world, and on the nature of its value to its custodians. Objects with only personal value are often strongly entwined with their owners’ lives. That they exist at all means that their owners value them. No matter what they are, they deserve high-quality treatment that will extend their useful lives and enhance their capacity to give pleasure of whatever kind the custodian gets from them. It could be argued that today’s ordinary household possessions will eventually acquire cultural value and therefore deserve protection now. After all, someone may want to open a museum of middle-class life, with exhibits that represent average homes. There are several holes in this argument. One is that there are so many similar items in existence that when the time comes for them to be collected and preserved, there will still be plenty around. No one is suggesting cutting

up every Thanksgiving napkin in existence, only the one that is proposed for sacrifice to allow further use of the set. In any case, the exact number of extant napkins in this set would probably not matter if it ended up in a museum. Another argument relates to the magnitude of the crime and its implications. Conservators reflexively take an extreme view, but total destruction of one napkin does not equate to destruction of the artifact. The family is not seeking to destroy the set; they brought it to a conservator in order to save it! Here’s the argument again: the conservator’s obligation to the long-term preservation of objects is based on their being “preservation-worthy” in light of their importance to society. When this standard is not met, the conservator has leeway in providing a treatment that serves the custodian’s interests. If we accept conservators’ affirmative obligation as enhancing the values of an object for its stakeholder(s), and the custodians and perhaps their immediate family are the only stakeholders, then conservators can fulfill the needs of a custodian without doing anything wrong. This apparently simple conclusion will no doubt be regarded in some quarters as an invitation to violations of conservation ethics, a step on a slippery slope. Why is flexibility in this matter so difficult for conservators to accept? One of the things that lends the discussion an unsettling tone is that it is the flip side of an argument that conservators occasionally have with custodians when their wishes are at odds with the demands of preservation. The custodian claims a right of ownership, expressing bafflement, and sometimes resentment, at the view that ownership of an inanimate object does not confer the absolute right to alter it in any way he chooses. The thing is his possession, and as people often say, “It’s not a Rembrandt.”[98] The conservator feels bound by conservation standards when the owner does not. The conservator’s explanations may not convince the custodian, and the conservator feels that she has “lost” the argument. Conservators are extremely sensitive to these particular battle lines. Perhaps the prospect of finding themselves on the “other” side is simply too disconcerting. As it happens, the turkey napkin story has a happy ending. Its moral is the importance of listening carefully to custodians and distinguishing between their goal and their often uninformed suggestions about how to reach it.

Whether the issue is matching oil paint with oil paint, or wood with wood, custodians are often surprised that original materials do not have to be matched like with like in order to do a successful restoration. In this case, the conservators went into their drawer of old scraps and found a piece of fabric that matched the color and weave of the originals and could be used for repair of the holes. Missing parts of a turkey’s tail were drawn in with conservation-grade materials, and everyone was happy. The trick ending of the story does not negate the point about objects with only personal value. The principle does not demand or allow conservators to do anything a custodian asks; it requires thoughtful analysis of the values the object has and the values it does not. *** An object timeline and a values history are valuable tools in making a factbased decision about the most desirable past state of the object. Their use allows us to side-step the ambiguities inherent in an approach that arrives at treatment goals based on the treatments of individual condition problems that someone has decided need fixing. The information contained in these documents is descriptive rather than technical, assuring the feasibility of meaningful participation of non-conservators in treatment decision-making. The fact- and values-based decision-making process discourages arbitrary, politically loaded, or one-sided judgements. The presentation of the methodology to this point has remained stubbornly innocent of the physical realities of conservation treatment. The ideal state sets a baseline for establishing a treatment goal, but we also need to consider what it is that treatment can realistically and ethically be expected to accomplish. The next chapter discusses setting a realistic treatment goal: the factors that prevent treatment from getting an object to its ideal state; ways of edging it closer; representation of the ideal state apart from the object; and the assessment of whether the realistic goal is “close enough” to the ideal state to make the treatment worthwhile. The following chapter, Chapter Nine, takes on another aspect of the realistic goal: how treatment decisions are affected by our obligation to the object’s long-term preservation.

Chapter Eight – Determining the Realistic Goal of Treatment The ideal state of an object is one of its past states. Since we cannot reverse the arrow of time, we cannot actually re-create a past state. At best, we can make the object look or behave like it did at the time of its ideal state. Sometimes we can only approximate the desirable previous state, and sometimes what we can produce is not even close. The next step after choosing an ideal state is to establish a realistic goal, an imagined endpoint that can be both achieved and maintained. It must, in addition, be close enough to the ideal state to satisfy both the custodian and the conservator. “Close enough” can be defined by the degree to which the treated object will fulfill the values embodied in the ideal state. This chapter discusses how to judge whether the achievable state of an object is “close enough” to its ideal state, and presents strategies for edging the object closer to the ideal state if the first approximation is not close enough. A treatment endpoint close to the ideal state is sometimes achievable in a technical sense while being undesirable for other reasons. For example, an object may be so incomplete that the treated state would consist of an uncomfortably large percentage of restoration. (We might put the fictional Van Gogh of the previous chapter in this category.) Situations like these are governed by the conservator’s general sense of ethics and with those fuzzy but strongly felt judgements that come under the rubrics of “suitability” and “appropriateness.” The methodological steps described up to this point may appear to focus on treatment as interpretation rather than on the role of treatment in promoting long-term preservation. However, values cannot be enhanced without being preserved, and the preservation of values obviously requires preservation of the object. More specifically, it requires preservation of the parts or aspects of the object that embody those values. Preservation concerns must be part of the process of establishing a realistic treatment goal because not every post-treatment state is sustainable.

The sustainability of a particular state of an object depends on the conditions of its predicted future. So setting criteria for the preservation aspect of the realistic goal involves a number of interrelated questions: Under what levels of care and environmental stressors will the object live? What maintenance, monitoring, or additional conservation treatment may be required to keep the object in its post-treatment state? What potentially damaging events should treatment protect the object from? Will a proposed treatment make the object more or less susceptible to damage from water or fire or air-borne dirt? Is a capacity to withstand normal (that is, non-museum-type) handling required? Such preservation-related issues are sufficiently complex as to warrant their own chapter, which follows this one. Steps in determining the realistic goal The process of determining the realistic goal of treatment proceeds in a number of steps, most of which happen quickly in a more-or-less automatic mental process. The first is a comparison between the ideal state and the current state of the object. The next is creating a mental list of the phenomena that separate the state we have from the one we want. Typical “issues” include a layer of grime, a distorted support, weak fibers, missing parts, and faded colors. The list includes issues relating to both appearance and long-term usability. We then determine the degree to which familiar treatment methods can address the phenomena in question. These judgements come from training, from experience with similar treatments, and from testing on the object. The composite of the results of all the separate treatment components is our mental image of the object’s achievable state. This imagined state is then submitted to a values test. Does it embody the same values as the ideal state to an acceptable degree? If the answer is “yes,” we are done. We have our realistic goal. Otherwise, further steps are required. One way to bring the object closer to its ideal state is by enhancing our normal treatment methods or by adding new ones to our repertoire. The conservator can consult the literature, talk to colleagues, or simply test materials or methods beyond what has been tried already. Another possibility is to consider methods other than treatment that improve the appearance of the treated object, such as special lighting or

display techniques, or documentation outside the object that will aid in its interpretation. Reconsideration of measures that were initially rejected as being inappropriate for some reason is sometimes helpful.[99] If these tactics fail, the ideal state and the values that the object can realistically support should be reconsidered. A disparity between every acceptable ideal state and any plausible attainable state may indicate that treating the object is a bad idea altogether or that a review of the decisionmaking process from the beginning is in order. The differences between choosing a realistic treatment goal using the methodology and the “normal” process of “looking at what’s wrong and fixing it” lie in several areas. One is the values-based approach, central to the methodology, that assures that all aspects of the object and its meaning have been considered during the decision-making process and honored in the final presentation of the object. Another difference is the use of a single process to answer individual questions about the degree of compensation, desired appearance, usability, etc., assuring that the answers serve the same goal. Yet another unique characteristic of this step in the methodology is that it forces us to look at disparities between the attainable state and ideal state that might otherwise have been set aside—even as early as the physical examination—as things that we cannot do anything about and will therefore ignore. Keeping them in mind prompts us to imagine novel ways of improving interpretation. Addressing irreversible changes explicitly can also help to avoid misunderstandings and to predict when the custodian may not be satisfied with treatment results. This description of choosing a realistic treatment goal hides several practical and conceptual complications, including exactly what it means to return an object to its ideal state. Those complications are addressed in the following sections. The chapter then discusses various stumbling blocks to achieving the ideal state and the conflicts they create. We will also investigate fallback positions that may become necessary in order to accommodate the sometimes pesky limitations imposed by physical reality. These include ways to re-create the ideal state outside of the object. THE TIME MACHINE CONUNDRUM

Returning an object to its ideal state does not mean putting it into a time machine to recapture a previous chemical or physical state. Return to a prior chemical state is almost always impossible as well as being ethically undesirable. The conservation profession actually promotes practices that make treated objects less, rather than more, like an earlier state. For example, the materials that treatment leaves on the object are supposed to be chemically dissimilar to the original ones for reasons of detectability, reversibility, and optimal aging characteristics.[100] This policy protects research and age value, prevents misunderstanding of the actual state of the object, and makes future treatment safer and more efficient. Professional standards consider changes in the current chemical make-up of an object unethical, even if such change brings the object closer to a previous chemical state, because they change the essential nature of the object. Exceptions are objects for which chemical change - like desalinization or deacidification – arrests deterioration. Conservators not only accept, but embrace, past changes in the object’s chemistry, no matter what else we wish a treatment to accomplish. Similar considerations apply to an object’s overall physical state. Conservation treatment seldom returns an object to an actual previous physical state. It more often recreates a previous appearance or level of usability. We do not go backwards to what the object was, but forward, to present it as it is to be seen or used in the future. The purpose of treatment is not to reproduce the reality of an object’s previous physical state, but to reestablish the object’s prior appearance or behavior using materials and methods unlike the historical ones. If we treat something that has a hole identified as “damage,” ethical conservation practice normally requires that the object still have the hole when the treatment is finished, even though it will appear not to have it any more. To this end, we bridge gaps and fill holes with modern materials. The state in which the damage appears to be gone is sufficient for us to say that we have recreated the ideal state of the object, at least so far as the damage is concerned. Likewise, when treatment involves providing support on the interior or reverse of an object, we are really making the object less like it was by adding a material foreign to it. But if such support contributes to making the

visible portion of the object look more like its ideal state, then the treatment accomplishes what we want it to do. For example, a painting on canvas, after lining, will be taut on its stretcher as it was when it was painted. Reference to the values analysis and choice of ideal state as described in Chapter Seven assure that the proposed treatment has only positive effects. In short, when we say that we are returning an object to its ideal state, we are really talking about a simulacrum of the ideal state. What we mean is that we are bringing back the attributes that we care about – aesthetics, robustness, usability, appearance of completeness, etc. A time machine is not required. HOW CLOSE IS “CLOSE ENOUGH”? Generally speaking, the proposed attainable state is “close enough” to the ideal state if the object’s appearance or behavior fulfills the same values as the ideal state to an “acceptable” degree. For objects on display, visual satisfaction is commonly defined by the “sixinch, six-foot” rule. Viewers should be able to look at an object from a normal viewing distance without their attention being drawn to defects or damages, while those interested in the actual state of the object can look closer and find what they are looking for. Making damages completely invisible is not required. This rule may not hold in all cases, however, and it is very difficult to predict a custodian’s reaction to an object’s post-treatment state, particularly while they are paying the conservator’s bill. Custodians will ordinarily look at an object in the conservator’s laboratory much more closely (both literally and figuratively) than they will once it is returned to its previous life. Equivalency of the values of the attainable state and the ideal state can involve use as well as aesthetics, and therefore concerns more than compensation. Consider an eighteenth-century bed frame for which we have decided that the ideal state is its as-used state. In a museum period-room setting, the predominant value is educational or aesthetic. For those purposes, the conservator might replace a non-original mattress with an Ethafoam block carved to resemble the lumps and bumps of whatever the original is thought to have been, and then cover the carved block with the appropriate fabric covering. By contrast, in a residence where the bed is actually in use, the conservator might recommend erecting a modern metal bed frame inside the antique one as the actual support for the mattress, so

that the bed can be “used” without exposing old joins to stress. In either case, the use of the bed is equivalent to its eighteenth century state. In neither, however, is the post-treatment state “real” in the sense of being the same as the original. But both fulfill the values that are of concern to their custodians. Illusion can play a large part in achieving values equivalence, as for objects that were originally flexible but have lost their flexibility over time. A harness on a horse mannequin does not have to be flexible; it can be hardened into the required spatial conformation. Costumes intended to fall and gather as they did when they were new do not actually have to be flexible; they only need to look flexible. Sometimes, however, “close enough” means very close indeed. For example, viewers have an instinctual human response to the human form—particularly to faces, which they look at before any other part of an image. Blistered or spotty faces conjure up thoughts of human disease and disfigurement and are therefore particularly distasteful. An attainable state close enough to the ideal state for an object including a depiction of a human face may depend on successful restoration of the face, while damage in other parts of the object may not be as crucial. The need to come close to the ideal state in order to achieve values equivalence also arises for three-dimensional objects that represent settings where humans conduct their lives. For example, if one small part of a ship model is damaged, the intended illusion of it being a real ship is destroyed. The viewer may experience it as an object neglected by its owner or as the depiction of a shipwreck. All such damage, therefore, may need to be corrected. For similar reasons, vintage automobiles are almost always displayed in as-new condition. The viewer experiences a dented or rustedout Model T car as a present-day piece of junk, rather than as a fascinating object from a bygone era. The opposite can be true of ancient objects, where damage may be an expected, and therefore welcomed, part of their appearance. How these issues get resolved is very specific to the kind of object and the kind of damage. A dented car brings to the viewer an entirely different set of responses than, for example, a dented pewter plate or a dented painting. The newness value of the car is compromised, while the dented plate has age

value as long as the dent looks like a sign of use. Damage to twodimensional pictorial works that create the illusion of depth or, conversely, to abstract works in which the pictorial surface is supposed to appear planar, destroys the illusion central to the meaning of the object. Such damage must be made to disappear. The size of an object also affects “how close is close enough” because the answer depends in part on the level of detail that a viewer perceives when the object is viewed. The size of an area of damage may have less impact on a viewer than the percentage of the overall surface that is damaged. Conservators working with very large objects therefore concentrate on matters that affect the whole sweep of a surface more than on the kinds of tiny details that are crucial to the viewing of much smaller objects. The conservator’s prediction of viewers’ perceptions has to take into account the distance from which the object will be viewed as well as the lighting intensity and direction and the scale of an object’s decorative detail. In answering the question of “how close is close enough,” certain issues give the conservator a free pass. These are situations in which the normal aging of virtually all objects of a particular type produces a state substantially different from the original one. Examples include slow-growing corrosion layers on archaeological bronzes, crackle patterns on paintings, and faded colors in certain categories of textiles. Whether or not viewers are aware of the implications of what they see, they are used to the appearance of such things, and might see the rare unaltered object as uncomfortably new. DEALING WITH CUSTODIANS AND THEIR EXPECTATIONS A custodian’s response to the treated object is the ultimate answer to the question of whether the realistic goal is “close enough” to an object’s ideal state. This is a touchy business in many ways: predicting the details of the final state is difficult, and describing it in advance is impossible. Moreover, although most custodians have positive reactions to treatment results, they do, on occasion, have serious “problems” that may surprise the conservator. For example, an expressed preference that an object should not be made to "look new" does not assure satisfaction with signs of age that are still visible after treatment. A common disconnect between conservator and custodian is the level of compensation. The custodian may have difficulty understanding why only

certain damages were successfully made to disappear while others remain annoyingly visible. On the other hand, the conservator knows that in many cases additional filling or inpainting can be carried out if the custodian prefers, but custodians unsatisfied with a treatment outcome may not understand that. They may think the conservator did a bad job and no remedy exists, or may feel uncomfortable criticizing the job. The actual subject of disagreement may be as trivial as a few black flyspecks that can be made to disappear in a few seconds. Another potential misunderstanding is that, for custodians, what the treated object looks like is the sole measure of treatment success. For conservators, the long-term aging of the treated object is just as important. The attention that conservators pay to matters of long-term preservation, like reversibility, structural dynamics, and chemical stability may go unappreciated. Fearing a negative response from the custodian of an object, the conservator may find it difficult to stop fussing over every last wrinkle or lump. In the author’s experience, this is counterproductive, but she is not know aware of any accurate way of predicting the custodian’s response, or of knowing when enough is enough. In truth, no level of performance can guarantee a positive response. When an object has numerous losses, and the conservator works like a dog to make them go away, the custodian only sees the one that is located in the middle of a plain white area. Some negative responses are not related to treatment. The author, for example, recently treated an ancestor portrait. The custodian agreed that it looked “much better” after treatment, but the removal of grime and discolored varnish emphasized the unattractiveness of the female sitter so much so that the custodian decided that she would put the painting back in a closet. Conservators are pained when a custodian does not see a treatment as an unqualified success. A sad fact of conservation life is that few custodians are aware of the mental and physical effort of treatment, the pains that conservators take with every last detail, the high standards we use to measure our performance, and the unavoidable uncertainty of the whole endeavor. Many private individuals, and some museum professionals as well, assume that bringing something to a conservator is like bringing their

coats to a dry cleaner. The professional is expected to do whatever it is that professionals do, and if the result is not what the client wanted, that means that the professional did not do a good job. When a custodian is unfamiliar with conservation or has no prior experience with the conservator ion question, it may be almost impossible for him to interpret an unsatisfactory treatment outcome as anything other than an incompetent job. The fact that there are many choices of treatment that lead to a variety of outcomes is, for custodians, not necessarily a satisfactory explanation. The technical difficulty of certain treatments goes unappreciated. There is no magic pill to erase the uncertainty at the interface between conservator and custodian; only continued communication can chip away at it. Custodians sometimes respond negatively when they do not understand the limitations of a proposed treatment. For example, there is no way to know how effective a stain removal process will be, or how uniform a surface color will be after a layer of accretion is removed. If a prediction were possible, there would still be no way to put it into words. When, as is often the case, complete removal is impossible, the custodian may not be satisfied with the result. The deciding factor is individual perception, which is influenced by lighting, personality, the aesthetic qualities of the object, and a host of other issues. All the more reason that discussion of the client’s expectations at the outset is critical. Cases where the custodian is happy but the conservator is not are in a different realm entirely. Conservators, in their characteristic self-deprecating and compulsive way, take little satisfaction in the praise of someone who doesn’t know what treatment involves. Conservators are perfectionists, and given the unavoidable uncertainty of prediction of both the object’s behavior and the custodian’s, it is possible that we will never be entirely satisfied. LIMITATIONS ON TREATMENT There are any number of factors that keep us from taking the object as close to the ideal state as we might like. The most basic of these are the practical considerations of resource allocation: time, space, money, equipment, and professional expertise. Conservators know only too well the problems that these limitations can present, so there is no need to discuss them further. Certain other practical limitations are less often discussed and warrant some elaboration.

Extrinsic factors Threats to the health and safety of the conservation practitioner or to others working nearby or happening along sometimes present limitations to conservation treatment. Problems commonly relate to the toxicity and handling requirements of conservation materials, but can come from the object itself. Explosives and ammunition are obvious examples. Other potential hazards from objects include radioactivity of some geological specimens and objects painted with radium-containing paint; toxic green pigments on wallpaper; strychnine and mercury in old medicines; liquid mercury in electrical devices; lead or other heavy metals in powdery paint, particularly if it is being scraped; pesticide residues on objects or in timber treated with industrial preservatives; asbestos contamination; and mold. The treatment of any potentially dangerous object or the use of potentially toxic conservation materials may be limited by resources available to mitigate potential dangers and circumscribed by applicable laws. On the other hand, health and safety concerns may limit a treatment more than necessary if the conservator is unduly or unnecessarily alarmed. This can happen when no effort has been made to confirm the existence, identity, or concentration of the problem material; if the conservator is unaware of available safety measures; or if the conservator feels particularly vulnerable after learning that she was unknowingly exposed to hazardous materials in the past. Conservators may overrate the danger of a specific material by failing to differentiate among materials with different levels of toxicity. For example, some conservators are wary of all solvents equally and, as a result, may curtail their activities more than necessary or, on the other hand, use more toxic solvents where less toxic ones would do the job. Other safety issues arise with large or heavy objects, including projects where scaffolding is needed. Injury from handling heavy objects or from the stress of working in awkward positions for extended periods is an obvious concern. The pressure of time constraints can make these matters worse. Other limitations on treatment include legal restrictions imposed by an object’s donor and limits on the conservator's access to the owner by a custodian who is not the owner. Another factor is legal or perceived moral rights of parties who are not the owners, such as artists and their estates and members of cultures of origin. Legal and moral issues related to human

remains or to sacred objects may also restrict treatment choice. Another problem may be the unavailability of non-conservation personnel with the expertise to participate fully in decision-making and/or to provide historical or curatorial information required for treatment. Limitations of these kinds do not necessarily make treatment impossible, but might limit its scope, particularly when non-standard treatments or radical changes in the appearance of the object are anticipated. Irreversible changes in original material The conservator's ability to re-create an early state of an object is limited by changes in the object’s materials. These include cracking and breaks, fading, corrosion (particularly beneath the original surface line), abrasion or other loss of original surface, and changes in gloss and transparency. Pentimenti in drying oil paint films and darkened painting supports showing between brushstrokes are additional examples of such changes. These conditions are irreversible in the time-machine sense and are often considered untreatable partly because compensating for them would involve obscuring original surface. Covering cracks, inpainting abrasion, and toning faded colors are all tactics that, aside from ethical constraints, may be unsuccessful for technical reasons if undertaken on more than a small scale; as a practical matter, it is sometimes difficult to produce results that actually improve appearance. But calling certain changes irreversible may represent a premature judgement. A rip is an irreversible change that normally will be made to disappear. Some cracks and some abrasion can be compensated for successfully, or at least be made less evident, even if in other cases attempts may look labored and unappealing. Pentimenti are sometimes considered desirable. The tendency to disregard changes that seem irreversible may be due to conservation training. During the author’s internship, for example, she was instructed that condition reports should describe only the aspects of the object that the treatment was designed to address. Not to be mentioned were aspects that were “irrelevant” or so common that they “needed no description.” The condition statement had little independent purpose, serving only as justification for the proposed treatment.

This approach precludes an open decision-making process by making the treatment seem an inevitable outcome of the object’s “condition,” which is actually a highly edited description of its current state. A lack of attention paid to “irreversible” aspects of objects has other consequences. When conservators routinely ignore factors that affect the custodian’s impression of the object, they eliminate any possibility of addressing those aspects of the object’s appearance in some way and thereby enhancing all viewers’ experience of the object. In addition, awareness of what irreversible changes do to the appearance of objects reminds conservators of the importance of preventing those changes from occurring in other objects. No conservator wants to emphasize what cannot be accomplished by treatment. But it is certainly beneficial to clarify, before a treatment begins, aspects of the object that the conservator considers unchangeable, so that the custodian is not surprised by them later. Custodians need to be able to envision the outcome of treatments in order to give their informed consent. If something the conservator considers unalterable is particularly distressing to the custodian, some treatment measure to de-emphasize its appearance may be possible. Concerns about the artist’s hand Conservators think of fine detail in the original, like brushstrokes and tool marks, as revealing the hand of the artist. Some details, like the pattern of hair follicles on a piece of parchment, do not, strictly speaking, reveal the artist’s hand. They do, however, represent the artist’s material choice and, as such, can raise the same dilemmas in the conservator’s mind. Based on their regard for signs of the artist’s hand, some conservators see every aspect of an object as inviolable, and hesitate to make substantive additions to a work, even with the artist’s instructions to do so. As noted in the discussion of the Van Gogh in the previous chapter, a lack of total and absolute accuracy in a proposed reconstruction can make conservators uncomfortable and sometimes provides a reason – or an excuse – not to carry it out. Such concerns can be taken too far. It is important to distinguish between intent and randomness. Randomness is a more pervasive attribute of parts or

aspects of objects than conservators generally acknowledge, making the absolutely accurate reproduction of a previous state unnecessary. Details like the exact shape or set of bricks in a wall, the shape of ridges of paint laid down by a dry brush, and the location of nubs in a textile are all random. The overall appearance of any of these objects is partially caused by the distribution and scale of irregularities, and may or may not be intentional. A painter, needle worker, or weaver picks raw materials—that is, base fabric or solid support, yarns or threads— from whatever choices are available. Whether intentional or not, the overall appearance created by the scale and distribution of irregularities can be duplicated by the eye of the conservator. To refuse to bring an object much closer to its ideal state because we cannot be sure of the one-hundred-percent correspondence of our work with the lost original cuts against our responsibility as conservators to restore the usefulness and meaning of objects to their custodians. It is well within the bounds of ethical practice to “restore” details of an object to fit an overall pattern without specific knowledge of every lost nub. Some details of objects are random in the physical sense; others may be random in the sense of being of little interest to the artist. A collage treated in the author’s laboratory, for example, was made from a green window shade with adhered string and paper cut from newspapers and magazines. The possibility of washing and deacidifying the paper pieces, which had yellowed to varying degrees, raised the question of whether such treatment would alter the original relationship among the different "white" tones of the paper. The artist was contacted. He was not concerned about the color of the paper either at the time of the treatment or at the object’s creation. That an artist is not invested in a particular facet of his creation does not entirely relieve the conservator of the responsibility to preserve as much of it as possible. But a treatment option that has been proven to increase longevity and does not impair values should not be categorically ruled out based on reservations on the part of the conservator that are not shared by either the artist or the custodian. Along with conservators’ regard for signs of the artist’s hand goes discomfort at seeing too much of their own. There is a line beyond which an object has too much conservator-created material. Exactly where that line gets drawn is, however, difficult to define.

A commitment to the inviolability of every aspect of objects as created, and conservators’ tendency toward an uncompromising perfectionism can make restoration decisions painful. Knowledge of detail at an exceedingly fine level is almost always lacking for many classes of objects. Nonetheless, conservators do treat such objects, knowing that the some details in the treated object will differ from those of the original. Surely, when we know for sure that an object prior to treatment looks nothing like its ideal state, a restoration that is easily, say, 95% accurate fulfills all the values that the object has. Consistent use of the methodology during decision-making should assure everyone involved that nothing of value has been erased, and that the reasons behind the actions ultimately taken are sound and have been agreed to in advance. OTHER FACTORS IN DETERMINING THE REALISTIC GOAL OF TREATMENT Truth vs. authenticity The basis of many treatment dilemmas is the conflict between representing truth and preserving authenticity. “Truth,” in this context, refers to what an object actually looked like at some point in its past. “Authenticity” refers to the presence of original material. The goal of conveying the truth of an object without violating authenticity may be unreachable for many objects. When original material has been altered by time, that material no longer represents the historical truth. But addressing such changes ordinarily requires the addition of new, and therefore inauthentic, material. Sometimes the choice is clear. It is generally regarded as acceptable, for example, to repaint walls in an historic interior to a color that research has shown to be historically correct. Authenticity has little claim in this case because the pre-existing surface paint layer is unlikely to be the original one, so truth can be honored without negating authenticity. The acceptability of repainting is strengthened by the absence of the “artist’s hand” in the painting of walls. In addition, the “object” being treated in this case is ordinarily not the walls themselves but the interior as a whole, and the overwhelming influence of surface color to people's experience of being in the space creates a strong argument in favor of repainting. Architectural

conservators and conservation architects acknowledge this judgement by not including wall paint in the category of “historical fabric.” Metal outdoor sculpture is another genre for which re-surfacing to an earlier state, even though it covers original material, is accepted as proper. There are several contributing factors. Patinas are not usually artist-applied, new surfaces may be protective, and, often, multiple castings exist, so one object out of many does not have to carry all the values ascribed to the set. The tension between achieving truth and preserving authenticity is, however, the basis for many treatment dilemmas. Feelings about truth and authenticity run deep and both must be honored in some way. Conflicts can sometimes be resolved by re-creating the ideal state outside of the object, with a mock-up or model. This device is useful for ruins, objects with faded colors, and buildings that have been radically remodeled, among others. For example, conservators have replicated the original appearance of a faded Baroque map by producing a copy tinted in the map’s original colors.[101] Highly degraded flags and prehistoric costumes are often represented by replicas.[102] In some cases, the process of replication sheds light on original production techniques; this enhances research value as well as educational value for viewers of the re-created artifacts. Computer graphics provide an elegant means to create mock-ups or models, particularly since alternate versions can be viewed side by side. Collaborations among conservators, scientists, and art historians to produce accurate replicas can add invaluable data to art history and to conservators' understanding of the effects of deterioration. Original material Conservators use the concept of “original material” to assess the preservation-worthiness of individual parts of objects. Conservators ordinarily feel committed to preserving all original material in toto. But this is not the best way to define which parts that an object had before treatment should remain after treatment. Most objects have a number of components. Canvas paintings, for example, have a design layer as well as ground, sizing, fabric, inscriptions, labels, canvas-makers marks, stretcher, attachment hardware, frame, backings, and hanging hardware. Working forward from the paint we have the artist's non-

design coating, brush hairs, later coatings, grime, etc. In addition are treatment materials such as linings, patches, fillings, inpainting and overpaint. A piece of furniture is similarly complex. It can have original adhesives, upholstery fabric, webbing and stuffing, casters, labels, accretions and stains from original use and from later periods, old dust in crevices, labels, repair hardware and adhesives, objects left in drawers or cupboards, and whole replacement parts. Decisions on which of these elements are preservation-worthy do not depend on whether they are original to the object or not, but on values. Pollen in the dust in the crevices of furniture and non-original labels may help to determine provenance, and have research value. Materials attached to objects that were common over long periods of time, like cardboard and many types of hardware, have no research or historical value and therefore can be replaced without negative consequences. The choice of ideal state defines which of these components, original or not, are a legitimate part of “the object.” The research and historical value of many components can be fully preserved by saving them, or samples of them, outside of the object; they do not have to be preserved in situ if doing so would compromise other values or make a treatment more difficult. Other parts can be documented and not preserved, while yet others have no value whatsoever. Importance of the object The treatment of objects of extraordinary value and fame involves complications of various kinds. Like plastic surgeons with high-profile patients, conservators have the added burdens of publicity and public scrutiny when treating famous objects. In one scenario it seems vital to carry out complete restoration no matter how great the loss or damage. A past restoration of the Cimabue crucifix is an example. But re-creating substantial areas of loss commonly results in the criticism that the restoration is not of as high a quality as the original and therefore downgrades the observed quality of the object. Partly to avoid that criticism, the current restoration of the Cimabue provides a neutral tone in the losses rather than even attempting complete restoration,[103] but that

hardly solves the problem. It may be impossible to produce a satisfactory resolution when everyone really wants back what is irretrievably gone. On the other hand, extraordinary fame can produce the opposite effect, making every mote of the work sacred either literally or figuratively, and thereby making the addition of “inauthentic” material sacrilegious. In either case, whether fame leads to more restoration or less, an object’s historical and research value increase along with its importance in the world. For a famous work of art, the analysis of materials and an investigation into their origins may interest scholars, and the public as well, while comparable information on works by a relative unknown does not. The effect on treatment of objects having (what we might politely call) “lesser value” is an uncomfortable topic and rarely discussed. Even the idea that a technical analysis is never going to be carried out because the object is not significant enough is difficult to commit to writing. Conservators seem to fear that if the lesser status of an object is acknowledged, someone will infer that the proposed treatment will not be the best that could be carried out, or that the conservator will not adhere to the highest standards. Yet we need to acknowledge that we treat some objects that do not live in the highrent district, because that fact can effect treatment choice. Consider, for example, objects that are referred to as having (only) “decorative value,” as discussed in Chapter Four. Low aesthetic quality of the pre-treatment object often means visual impact not strong enough to overcome the distractions of even small losses. A Chinese polychrome wooden sculpture of indeterminate age, for example, was brought to the author’s laboratory for treatment. It had signs of age: multiple paint layers (possibly none of them original) and multiple "old" repairs; all surfaces were worn and "banged up," with many sizeable paint losses. Stylistically it could have been produced at any one of various periods in Chinese history. Vaguely comparable pieces in much better condition and with greater stylistic distinction can be found in art history books and many museums. This piece was purchased for not a huge sum (whatever that may mean) for display in a home. Its values lie in its aesthetics and look of age, but the object has no historical value or rarity and is not destined for a museum. The treatment was designed to honor the object’s values – age and aesthetic – and to produce a reasonably decorative object that still looks old. In order

to maximize aesthetics, an aggressive effort was made to counteract tenting of paint on the curved surfaces of the figure’s skin. Substantial bare areas of the wooden surface were covered with new paint, since major losses of original paint had made the piece almost unreadable. Treatment in the author’s laboratory of a number of objects of relatively low aesthetic quality involve similar narratives. A lack of importance of an object to the wider world forces us to take most seriously whatever value an object has for its owner. The relative weakness of an object's aesthetic impact can increase the need to compensate for types of disfigurement which might not intrude as much on the visual impact of a more decorative or aesthetically distinguished object. In short, the lack of aesthetic quality, importance and/or monetary value of an object to be treated must be factored into decision-making. Once the matter is discussed openly, it may turn out to be not a crucial one. Age value and the goal of treatment When an object has age value, the ideal state is necessarily one that includes signs of age. But not all of an object’s signs of age need to be retained in order for it to look authentically old. As noted in the sarcophagus case study of Chapter Seven, it may no take much to preserve an object’s age value. The look of age does not even have to come from physical changes. Many of an object’s signs of age can, therefore, be removed or compensated for without adversely affecting it look of age. Such a treatment might enhance other values, such as the object’s aesthetics. Part of establishing the realistic goal of treatment, then, is determining how much, if any, of the object’s signs of age should be removed or compensated for. We may have to wait until the treatment is well along before we can make a final determination because our responses are unpredictable. It is often difficult at the outset to imagine the visual impact of a treatment that eliminates only certain signs of age. It may well take only small changes in appearance to change the look of an object from “decrepit,” “grungy,” or “neglected,” to “nice.” Another small step could easily move it past another boundary and on to “overly slick.” Different people have different ideas about where the boundaries lie, and other influences, like lighting conditions and framing, can shift them again.

When the attainable state is not “close enough” When the attainable and ideal state are so far apart that the first cannot in any way stand in for the second, treatment may ultimately not be “worth doing,” or a different ideal state may work better. But even if it is impossible to bring the object to any acceptable approximation of its ideal state, there may be other solutions. For example, when a (non-historic) stain cannot be removed from a textile, other tactics may reduce its visual impact. Large areas of overpaint on textiles are unlikely to make the disfigurement disappear, but dotting out the hard edge of the stain or making the color transition more gradual might achieve a lot. On exhibition, it may be possible to cover the stained area with something else or drape the textile so the stain doesn’t show, or arrange lighting to put the area in shadow. Compensation for fading or other color shifts in textiles can sometimes be accomplished by covering an area with colored net.[104] Mylar with colored glazes can be used in the same way for other types of objects. Exactly the right color used as a mounting fabric or wall covering behind an object can make a surprising difference in the appearance of colors. Skillful lighting design can compensate for color changes as well.[105] Heightened attention by conservators to the visual effects of irreversible changes should result in additional innovative methods for mitigating their effects. All in all, there are many different ways outside of treatment to provide the viewer or user of an object with an experience equivalent to the experience provided by the object in its ideal state. These are not the traditional province of conservators. But if we do not promote creative solutions along these lines, it may be that no one else will either. PSYCHOLOGICAL FACTORS Much as we might not want to admit it, treatment decisions are affected by any number of psychological factors, including the conservator’s attitude toward the object, toward the custodian, and toward her work in general. Worries about the response of a custodian to the treated object can become uncomfortable. The clarity of the methodology can provide reassurance for our misgivings as well as opportunities for assuring that custodians agree with our overall approach as we arrive at a realistic treatment goal.

What other people might think Many diverse groups may be interested in the outcome of a treatment and are all potential sources of criticism of the choices that conservators make. The list is long: potential purchasers, dealers, auction house personnel, collectors’ groups and enthusiasts, curators and art historians, cultural groups from which the object originated, artists and their families, donors and their families, boards of owning institutions, and the general public that sees the work—and, of course, other conservators. Most of these potential critics are far removed from the fact-finding that leads to treatment choices. They may have no knowledge of the pretreatment state of the object, the nature of the treatment, and the decisions made along the way. The result can be a complete misunderstanding of the situation and uninformed and, consequently, unwarranted, criticism. Some viewers may criticize the appearance of a treated object simply because they don’t like what it looks like now or because they liked the way it looked before better. Opinions may depend on whether the "new" object supports or contradicts the person's beliefs about it. Unfortunately, the sting of criticism is felt strongly, no matter what the intellectual seriousness of the complaint or the degree to which it is based on an informed understanding of the issues or even the facts of the case. Adding to the conservator’s fears of being attacked unfairly is that dissatisfaction with a treatment is often expressed through indirect channels and well after the fact. The professionals involved have no platform from which to speak, and only a moving target. It can even be difficult to understand the nature of the criticism. Do critics think the work was done badly or do they think that it should not have been done at all? Do they think the object was actually damaged by the treatment or do they just not like the way it looks? It can be difficult to defend against an amorphous, generalized attack. In any case, a defense after the fact sounds, well --defensive. Professionals may try to shrug off criticism from people who are uninformed or have some axe to grind. Or they may try to get their better-informed views made public. But whatever the response in a particular case, public criticism can be chilling not only for the practitioners involved, but for others as well. The fear of criticism undoubtedly shadows many of our treatment decisions. Sometimes it promotes conformity to old familiar

practices even when better techniques and materials are available. At other times, it can cause us to do less for the object than we otherwise might, even though the safety and effectiveness of the proposed treatments are well established. A long-term defense lies in taking a proactive stance and anticipating public scrutiny. When a well-known object is to be returned to exhibition in a visibly altered state, for example, didactic material about the treatment can be displayed in the gallery or presented in a public lecture or press release. The non-technical terminology of the methodology can help in this effort. Our knowledge that we have followed a rigorous methodology in partnership with other decision-makers can help to counteract fear of public criticism that might keep us from carrying out treatments that we believe will promote the values of an object. Fear of criticism from colleagues is a different sort of problem. It can discourage open discussion among professionals, inhibiting the development of new techniques and approaches, and stifling individual creativity. The fear of what colleagues may think affects treatment choice more than we admit. The types of treatments that conservators choose to submit for publication, for example, undoubtedly reflect this. Fear of the “slippery slope” Part of conservators’ discomfort about unusual or unprecedented treatments involves concerns about the notorious “slippery slope.” The source of this discomfort is not that a proposed treatment is demonstrably inadvisable in and of itself, but that it takes us close to some line we should not cross. We fear that once we come close, we may be tempted to drift across that line, perhaps unwittingly, the next time. This kind of discomfort is evident, for example, in a report of investigators who had identified the dyes used to create marquetry decoration. Their goal was to create a computer image of objects in their original colors. The writers expressed their discomfort with the potential for misuse of the technique in a slippery-slope sense: "The example of the marquetry tabletop shows that it is possible to reverse the effects of light and time and recreate a surface's original color scheme without even touching the object. This capability may raise fears that such images would encourage more radical treatment of objects."[106] [emphasis added]

Slippery slope concerns are a poor excuse for avoiding a treatment that will enhance an object‘s meaning and optimize the values that it holds for the custodian. Conservators are not a constitutionally impulsive lot, nor do we often act in haste. The extensive deliberation involved in treatment decisions virtually insures that we will not find ourselves blindly straying into forbidden territory. When we find ourselves thinking about a “slippery slope,” we need to figure out what exactly it is that is making us uncomfortable, resolve the discomfort, and then move ahead to do what needs to be done. The conservator’s psyche Treatment decisions arise from consideration of a variety of facts, linked together in logical ways. But beneath the logic is the psyche of the conservator. Conservators as a group share certain biases and a certain personality type, both of which subtly affect treatment decisions. Without understanding the relationship between our personal feelings and our professional decisions, we risk subverting exactly what it is that we are trying to accomplish. Conservators choose their profession for a range of reasons. The field provides the opportunity to enter into the past, to participate in a physical way in the secret world of long-dead civilizations, and to re-vitalize objects that people made and used long ago. At the same time, we are aware that the real beneficiaries of our work are people who will live well into the future and that, even if we are anonymous, our work is a legacy. Conservators can derive pleasure from dealing with works by well-known artists or owned by well-known people – sometimes famous enough that even our parents recognize the names! A more private pleasure is seeing the point in a treatment when an object starts to come together and when, with our help, it reasserts itself as a coherent whole. That is every bit as pleasurable as the gratitude of a custodian for a job well done. Conservation practice has its unnerving and uncomfortable aspects as well. One of these is uncertainty. That a treatment is "in most cases" appropriate to one kind of object does not mean that it is appropriate to the particular object in question. Procedures that have worked well on nine similar objects may not work on the tenth. No treatment can be guaranteed. Sooner or later, an object decides that we have become complacent and it bites us.

Conservators’ desire to keep complete control over the treatment process cannot always be satisfied. Yet another source of discomfort is that treatment often entails intellectual and physical deconstruction of the object. An object’s state typically has to get worse before it gets better, and the conservator needs the stomach to handle the former in order to enjoy the satisfactions of the latter. It has been suggested that conservators are made anxious by broken and damaged things; this may partially account for the difficulty that some conservators have in uncovering damage that was not previously visible. Conservators' confidence in their skills and ability to internalize a vision of the final product must be sufficient to enable them to overcome the psychic distress engendered by inflicting various indignities on the object. Whatever emotions are involved, conservators tend to have strong feelings about their work. Their relationships with custodians involve a desire to please, and when the custodian is of high status, the emotional stakes increase. Anticipation—or fear—of the custodian’s response to treatment may at times overcome our best intentions for the welfare of the object. We need to be aware of these emotional factors because when, without our being aware, emotions override logic, less-than-optimal decisions can result. At times, for example, conservators are forced into acquiescing to decisions they disagree with, and their official response, as well as the way they respond emotionally, affects their professional credibility and their relationships with colleagues. A typical case relates to loan or physical use of an object we judge to be too fragile. If we “lose” the argument, we are still expected to undertake whatever measures might help protect the object. And if we do a good enough job at that, we are preventing exactly the damage that we warned against, reducing the likelihood that we will “win,” or even be listened to, the next time. The absence of damage in one case does not invalidate our warnings, but it seems to. When something like this happens, walking a fine line between “giving in” and behaving like a pill is difficult, and requires that we acknowledge the nature of our dilemma and our personal reactions to it. If we carry resentment into the next project, then everyone loses. We could claim that our stance as protectors of objects in these cases is entirely logical. But it often looks like – and can sometimes be – an

exaggerated response to the frustrations of our professional lives. Saying “no” without offering any alternatives can become a habit, and compromise of any kind can seem like losing. If we cannot get some perspective on our work, we can end up in the role of perpetual nay-sayer, making our nonconservator colleagues into permanent adversaries. We conservators need to be aware of the ways our zeal for our work and our self-doubts affect our decision-making and our professional relations. To do otherwise is to limit our effectiveness as advocates and protectors of the objects entrusted to our care. *** This chapter discusses some of the dilemmas that arise when the theories of conservation meet the practicalities of real objects and real life. Sooner or later, a realistic goal must be chosen and the treatment process must move along. Subject to preservation concerns, as described in the next chapter, the conservator is ready to choose treatment methods and materials and begin the physical phase of the work. Use of the methodology will have established rationale for all decisions made, and the conservator will be reasonably certain that the established goal can be met.

Chapter Nine – Preservation and the Goal of Treatment Long-term preservation of objects is a stated goal of the conservation profession. In fact, the Preamble to the AIC Code of Ethics says it is the “primary goal,” and no other goal is mentioned![107] Preservation has two related meanings. In gross terms, it refers simply to assuring an object’s survival. A priority of the historic preservation movement, for example, is saving old buildings from demolition. But virtually all of the objects conservators treat are already in the care of some entity - an individual or institution – that wants to keep them. Preservation in this broad sense is therefore not primarily the responsibility of conservators. Our role, more often, is as a technical advisor to preservation efforts. As conservators use the term, however, preservation refers to more than assuring that objects have a future. It involves maintaining the details of appearance and behavior of an object as well as possible, and for as long as possible. The conservator is not only responsible for bringing an object to its desired post-treatment state, but also for ensuring the continuity of the object in that state and reducing its rate of change to a minimum. Enhanced preservation is therefore part of the realistic goal of treatment. The fact that conservators feel responsible for preserving objects forever is noble, but, practically speaking, unrealistic. It is impossible to controlling the post-treatment life of objects completely. Preservation is an imperative of our profession, but that philosophical stance does not produce useful guidelines for action. Establishing a realistic treatment goal involves deciding on the level of protection that the object needs in order to slow its deterioration and prevent certain kinds of damage. Conservators tend to equate long-term preservation with so-called preventive conservation. The development of this relatively new conservation specialty places the burden of protection onto measures other than treatment. But protective measures cannot be limited to practices like environmental control or disaster management. Even the best environmental control cannot stop deterioration or prevent damage from handling, shipping, an occasional

disaster, or vandalism. And to be realistic, high-quality control is rare; only a small percentage of the world’s cultural patrimony will ever be in controlled environments. Preventive conservation measures are sometimes cited as less expensive than individual treatments, but environmental control often entails a permanent commitment to the high energy costs of mechanical systems, constant monitoring, and frequent maintenance. Preventive conservation is sometimes cited as being totally benign, but when humidity control systems malfunction, whole collections can be put at immediate risk. Where there is no preventive conservation – for objects in uncontrolled environments or in private ownership - treatments may need to take on more of the burden of preservation. Long-term preservation needs to be a part of—not separate from—treatment planning. Conservation treatment necessarily plays a major role in slowing deterioration and preventing damage. Many kinds of treatment can contribute to an object’s ability to withstand environmental stresses and other forces of change, both external and internal. In order to incorporate preservation into the treatment goal, we need to ask what the agents of change are and how their effects can be neutralized. We need to improve the object’s survivability in the face of its predicted major adversaries. This involves strengthening it physically to protect it from inimical environments and from acute damage from vandalism, rough handling, and other sources. Producing an object that can weather the indefinite future intact and unchanging is, of course, impossible, but measures that prolong an object’s life have significant long-range consequences. Even a minor change in the aging rate of an object could result in several additional generations of meaningful use. Despite the oft-stated goal of preservation as the fundamental goal of conservation treatment, however, current conservation practice reflects considerable ambiguity about the conservator’s obligations, particularly when the consequences of pursuing that goal conflict with improvements in an object’s appearance. This chapter proposes specific criteria for preservation that should be considered when establishing the realistic goal of treatment. They include: levels of protection appropriate for different objects, limitations imposed by

the interpretive aspects of treatment, and the nature of the agents of change we are protecting objects from. DETERMINING FACTORS IN PRESERVATION Addressing preservation concerns in setting a treatment goal requires assessment in several areas. These include the capacity of the custodian to provide protective environments or other kinds of ongoing care, the existence (or absence) of cultural value, the originating culture’s attitudes toward preservation, and the object’s current rate of change. Prospects for future care In settings where the treating conservator is on the staff of the owning institution, some aspects of long-term preservation can be achieved by the conservator’s direct involvement in such measures as environmental control, security, staff training, supervision of loans, and similar activities. Even if humidity control, for example, is less than perfect, major treatment is only one of many ways of limiting deterioration and damage. Particularly sensitive objects can be containerized to passively buffer relative humidity or to actively control it. Collections can be monitored on a regular basis and minor treatments performed as needed to prevent loss of unstable paint layers or other kinds of loss or damage. On the other hand, the outlook for post-treatment care varies widely when no conservator has assigned responsibility for an object’s long-term welfare. Museums, libraries, archives, and other institutions whose collections are primary to their mission are legally and morally required to preserve those collections. Staffs are (or should be) aware of this responsibility, whether or not there are conservators on the premises. When contract conservators treat objects for such institutions, there is some prospect that instructions for posttreatment care will be followed. Other institutions, like universities or religious bodies, have no corresponding legal responsibility, but are usually said to have a moral obligation. By contrast, responsibility for care is less likely to be acknowledged or explicitly assigned for objects in private hands or under the stewardship of a political or private entity not in the cultural realm, as with many buildings and much outdoor sculpture. All these variables affect the degree of protection that needs to be built into a treatment.

Cultural vs. personal values Long-term preservation is not a concern when objects have no cultural value. Conservators do, however, have an obligation to their custodians to provide for the continuing usability of these objects in their current context. Since values such as research or historical value are absent, the conservator has more latitude to accommodate custodians’ individual goals. This situation produces an interesting paradox. Objects without cultural value present fewer restrictions on treatment. But such an object may receive less than museum-style handling. The conservator may therefore be obligated to provide a more protective treatment than may be appropriate for an object with cultural value. Attitudes toward preservation by the culture of origin or custodian Questions of long-term preservation arise where the prolongation of life is not a goal of the creator, custodian, or originating culture. Certain Native American and other religious artifacts are of this type, and individual artists differ widely on their desire for permanence. When custodians, understandably, do not subscribe to a creator’s preference for impermanence, the conservator needs to walk a fine line to resolve conflicts. Where "using up" an object or allowing it to die is regarded as not merely acceptable but desirable, the conservator's appropriate role may be to let the patient die with dignity. The conservator can still preserve some of the object’s values, however, by creating documentation with information on the object and its cultural meanings. Deterioration phase as a determinant of preservation-related treatment The Feller graph presented in Chapter Three describes two phases of objects’ lives relevant to conservation treatment. During the induction phase the object appears unchanged, although small-scale changes do occur. At the end of the induction phase, the accumulation of those changes pushes the object into the autocatalytic phase, which represents significant and accelerating deterioration of the materials of the object.[108] The Feller-graph phase that an object is in affects the role of preservation in the treatment. The preservation-related goal of treatment in the induction phase is to prolong it. The ideal function of treatment in the autocatalytic

phase is to halt the object’s ongoing deterioration and start a new induction phase. The induction phase is prolonged by measures that protect against damaging environmental conditions. Typical are backings for paintings on stretchers, archival framing of works on paper, and ultraviolet-filtering glazing on framed textiles. Other preservation-related treatment measures in the induction phase lower the odds of catastrophic failure or mitigate the consequences of damage from accidents or vandalism. Various means of strengthening objects to prevent damage from use include replacement or reinforcement of weakening supports like bead strings or chair webbing. Stretched paintings would theoretically benefit from being stretched around a panel rather than a stretcher in order to prevent stretcher creases when the paint layer starts to crack, but this has seldom, if ever, been recommended. The stakes rise as objects get closer to the autocatalytic phase, and the risks of non-intervention grow. Continued uncontrolled use may reduce values and end usability. Hazards to the object may present hazards to the user. Physical changes that signal the beginning of the autocatalytic phase make conservation-style interventions more suitable, particularly for functional objects, because they are no longer in original use. Since the effects of deterioration are visible, the idea that even minor damage can cause or accelerate additional damage becomes easier for non-conservators to understand, and intervention becomes more acceptable. Conflicts between preservation and use that might have arisen earlier in an object’s life are often avoided by a change of ownership occurring at the end of the induction phase, sometimes after a period of neglect. Changes in ownership imply changes in values as well as changes in location, maintenance, and care. These changes are likely to bring objects into the relatively nurturing world of collectors and museums, and therefore into the realm of conservation. Objects at this point in their lives receive maximum benefit from treatment that wards off the kind of aging that represents permanent loss of value. The desirability of creating a new induction phase points to major treatment, without which undesirable change is inevitable. Treatment in the autocatalytic phase should flatten the graph of deterioration into a new induction phase or, at least, make it less steep. For example, treatment cannot stop the chemical deterioration of textile fibers, but

containerization retards it. A new support retards fiber deterioration further by removing stress to the threads and also assures that fiber weakening does not threaten the structural integrity of the object as a whole. The overall aging rate of the structure would shift into a new induction phase dominated by the aging of the new support and limited by the aging of an adhesive or sewing threads or by structural failure of some other aspect of the support. The duration of the new induction phase, based on the life span of conservation-grade support materials represents a major increase over the useful life span of the untreated textile. This is a dramatic example of the contribution that conservation treatment makes to the preservation of objects. Many treatments can launch an object on a long and uneventful future. Some conservators believe that treatment is, or should be, primarily curative rather than preventive, and prefer treatments that simply “fix” what is “wrong.” This is an unsupportable stance for objects in the autocatalytic phase, where fixing existing damage will not prevent further slippage down the slope. Conservators have an obligation to carry out treatments that have been shown to retard deterioration. Treatments that retard deterioration are the ones that quantitative science can address most clearly. Science cannot tell us which varnish will look better on a particular painting or how to repair a rip, but it can tell us which treatment for bronze disease will prevent it most effectively under certain environmental conditions. Conservators are responsible to use available scientific resources in planning a treatment procedure that is intended to enhance long-term preservation. LEVELS OF PROTECTION The survival of objects depends on sufficient robustness to withstand normal use, but also on their ability to withstand stresses for which they were not designed. Durability can only be predicted in context. The durability built into a book, for example, is predicated on its use by a reader, not as a doorstop or a child’s booster seat. A treatment designed for durability in a specific context may fail if the life of the object takes an unanticipated turn. Decisions about providing increased durability with treatment require a particularly meticulous and open-minded investigation, because both material and non-material issues are involved. Although more invasive

treatments, like full linings or impregnation, are more protective than localized consolidation, some conservators are uncomfortable with greater invasiveness for a variety of reasons. Added durability can, among other things, have a negative effect on appearance. But if repairs give way soon after treatment because of efforts to make them invisible, or if a beautiful coating discolors, the short period of time during which the appearance was improved is hardly worth it. Integration of interpretive and preservationrelated goals can be complex. Planning for the future of objects requires that we look at exactly what it is that we are trying to prevent. Among the possibilities are undesirable changes due to use, acute damage, the accumulation of accretions both accidental and purposeful, changes in materials applied during treatment, and destruction of the object as a whole. The agents of change include inappropriate temperature and relative humidity, light, vibration, movement (as during shipping or handling), and pollutants. Also on the list are vandalism, misplacement, inappropriate treatment, fire, water exposure, and being dropped on the floor! Conservation treatment cannot prevent all of these eventualities, but can sometimes minimize damage when they do occur. There is one factor that conservators certainly can control, however: the longevity of treatment materials that will stay on the object. Treatment materials should be as permanent as possible. It is far from ideal to predicate a treatment on the idea that the material(s) of which the piece is made (like old silk) are so ephemeral that it is acceptable to use treatment materials that are themselves relatively short-lived (like new silk). Mastic and dammar resins discolor in a relatively short time and their transparency decreases, so the post-treatment state of the object is not sustainable. Using only the most permanent treatment materials is only a start. Any number of dangers lurk in an object’s future. Categorizing those dangers may help in defining levels of protection to be provided by treatment. A strategic treatment plan addresses explicitly the kinds of threats the object will be subject to and incorporates measures that mitigate their deleterious effects. Assessing the object’s “loads” Many treatments strengthen objects, but how much strength is required?

Engineering concepts of load to describe the forces on a structure are useful as a basis for thinking about protective measures in treatment of objects. The terms static load and dynamic load, for example, describe two distinct kinds of forces that affect individual objects as well as well as architecture.[109] Static load refers to forces that do not change during the normal life of the object. They include, first of all, the forces that need to be counteracted to allow an object to support its own weight and hold on to all its parts (its dead load). Strengthening an object to the point where it can hold itself together against the pull of gravity is the focus of many treatments. These include consolidating flaking paint, repairing breaks, sticking broken fragments or detached parts together, re-adhering separated layers, increasing cohesion of a structurally weakened material, and providing cohesion for powdery substances in order to prevent small losses. Static load also includes unchanging forces from outside the object, such as the force exerted by heavy furniture on a floor. If any such forces are expected, the treatment should deal with them as well. Prevention of unprovoked structural collapse of an object by considering its static load is, however, only a modest measure of treatment success. A treatment must also take into account an object’s dynamic load. This involves changing and/or transient forces that vary in intensity. At one end of the spectrum is the gentle dynamic load imposed on an object during careful handled by museum personnel. At the other extreme are forces caused by the object being dropped—so-called impact load— or by pencil pokes or other vandalism. In between are forces associated with “normal” use, less-than-careful handling or minor accidents like bumping against a door frame. Treatments are ordinarily designed with some margin to spare over the object’s static load. For example, consolidation of a powdery surface is often carried to the point where the object can be lightly touched without leaving a mark, even though in proper museum use the object’s surface would not be touched at all. Treatments ordinarily also account for modest dynamic forces including reasonably careful but not perfect handling and reasonable but not elaborately designed packing and shipping, with some accompanying jolts and uneven stresses. Anticipating these types of stresses is routine conservation practice because handling and shipping are so common and

because many existing treatments can be expected to deal with them successfully. Another common dynamic load that treatment can address is future maintenance. (In this case, we are using the concept of load, which refers only to mechanical forces, in a metaphoric way to encompass chemical stresses as well.) The most common maintenance activity is undoubtedly the removal of surface dirt. Almost every object not tightly containerized will collect some, which is often removed by someone other than a conservator. The ease with which an object can be cleaned will be partly determined by its previous treatment. Sticky coatings, like waxes or oils, will increase dirt build-up and make removal more complicated. Clear coatings that dry completely, on the other hand, and are past their glass transition temperature, can make dirt removal relatively easy. Many treatments protect objects in more than one way. Immobilization reduces the possibility of handling damage and reduces the dynamic load. When accompanied by containerization, immobilization reduces handling damage even more, and prevents vandalism and dirt accumulation. It also slows many kinds of deterioration, discourages pests, and buffers humidity changes. Textiles intended for exhibition are traditionally both immobilized (mounted onto a solid support or stretched fabric) and containerized (framed or covered with glass or Plexiglas®). Impregnation of weakened materials, in addition to preventing material loss, can also protect against rough handling and pests, and increase the ease of future cleaning. Coatings have similar advantages. Matting and mounting of works on paper onto ragboard is a classic example of an intervention with many protective – and interpretive functions. Except for containerization, protection against dynamic loads is not often an explicit part of treatment plans. Coatings on outdoor sculpture, for example, can make graffiti removal easier, but few if any other treatment measures are designed to protect objects from vandalism, although a stronger object may suffer less damage than a weaker one. The probability of vandalism is not normally considered high enough to justify coating an object or lining a painting that does not otherwise “need” it. On the other hand, some

museums glaze paintings whose subject matter makes them likely targets of vandalism, and private owners with young children sometimes do the same. These considerations illustrate that designing a treatment with the object’s static and dynamic loads in mind is a matter of risk assessment. We need to assess the likelihood of different kinds of damage and the most efficient ways to prevent and mitigate them. For example, in a protected environment, like that provided in well-staffed museums with advanced environmental control and few out-going loans, many objects can live out their lives happily with only static loads and modest dynamic loads to deal with. In other settings- even in other museums - objects often require more extensive protective measures. Despite conservation’s professed commitment to preservation, however, few treatments are explicitly designed for protection from much more than static loads. Few conservators consider damage prevention explicitly. It may be that conservators consider aggressive measures to provide protection as inappropriate intrusions into an object’s existing state, or that conservators fear that such treatments may be considered inappropriate by others. Perhaps conservators are simply not trained to consider the future of objects in less than ideally protective settings. A methodology, as noted previously, does not prescribe treatments, but only provides a list of considerations to be factored into decision-making. The concept of loads refers only to mechanical stresses, not chemical ones. But preservation as a goal of treatment involves both. Treatment planning should include a thorough risk assessment that addresses the conservator’s responsibility to assure long-term preservation both by slowing deterioration and by preventing damage resulting from both static and dynamic loads. CONFLICT BETWEEN APPEARANCE/USE AND PRESERVATION Many conflicts between the ethos of conservators and custodian preferences occur with functional objects in the induction phase. The conflicts often arise because commonly recommended measures to protect objects from damage or deterioration limit or preclude physical use. Routine repairs done by mechanics, seamstresses, and other specialists are designed to return objects to active use, but conservation-style interventions are not. Although some conservation repairs may prove to be strong enough to survive use, there is no straightforward way to find out, and an under-performing repair may

harm the object, its user, and the client relationship. For all these reasons, conservators can probably be most helpful with functional objects in the induction phase when they have substantial previous experience with the exact same type of object. Knowledge of typical non-conservation methods of repair is also helpful, as they can often be modified for conservation use. Objects whose current use is art have a different set of problems. Here we run into the familiar complaint that what conservators really want is to put everything into permanent cold storage. For collections in storage, containerization – cold or not – may actually make access and handling easier, but for display, the interests of interpretation and preservation can be at odds. Putting museum objects in Plexiglas or glass cases is seldom the object of complaint – it, in fact, produces the “museum effect,” the enhancement of an object’s “specialness.” Glazing textiles that are not very big is often acceptable, and adds to the look of value. Glazed works on paper seem comfortable to viewers of all kinds. Glazed paintings, on the other hand, push many people over the edge. The proven beneficial effects of framing and glazing on damage prevention and aging seldom sway custodians if they do not like the way the objects look. Thus, although backings have become routine in collections overseen by conservators, framing behind glass or acrylic has remained a seriously considered alternative only in extreme cases of “inherent vice” or danger of vandalism. This is especially disadvantageous for paintings on canvas, particularly large modern ones. The deterioration of paintings and other composite objects has been shown to be retarded significantly when they are containerized. Backing paintings and framing them behind glass or acrylic sheet protects them from fluctuations in relative humidity, air pollution, and ultraviolet light if ultraviolet-filtering plastic sheet is used. This means a radical slowing of all manner of deterioration including cracking, canvas discoloration and embrittlement, fading, and dirt accumulation. Much acute damage is also avoided. No matter how careful the environmental control in museums, it is virtually impossible to provide the same level of protection that is provided by glazing or other containerization.

Research has shown that wax-resin linings provide protection similar to containerization. However, attacks on the use of wax have made many conservators reluctant to use any penetrating adhesives. In short, conservators’ track record in advocating measures that prolong the useful life of objects has been inconsistent, and may be weakest for works of art that may benefit the most, like mid-twentieth century paintings with exposed canvas. Many of these works are now close to the end of their induction phase, with the noticeable darkening of canvas and weakening of fibers that will eventually result in textural changes, altered color values, and difficulty in holding a stretch. Despite conservators' stated commitment to slowing the deterioration of the works in their care, the interests of improved appearance have subjected these works, many quite valuable, to unnecessary deterioration. Conservators are seldom comfortable advocating for the routine glazing of paintings, anticipating the understandable objections of curators based on cost, aesthetics, and the difficulties involved in handling the additional weight. The balance between aesthetics and preservation is particularly difficult in this case, and the practical and technical difficulties of treating large paintings, particularly those with exposed canvas and/or acrylic paint, raises the stakes. These paintings stand in contrast to the unusually good preservation state of paintings on so-called American panel stretchers, those with floating wood panels between the stretcher members. Even better preserved is the small number of paintings continuously kept framed behind glass. They may represent our only opportunity to see paintings of any significant age without a crackle pattern. The conflict between aesthetics and preservation is not always so difficult. Conservators are hesitant to coat polished silver and brass to slow corrosion from pollutants, partly because of changes in appearance, but under normal exhibition conditions few if any viewers can distinguish between coated and uncoated objects. Questions remain about the merits of different coatings, the longevity of their protection and ease of removal, but appearance is probably a problem only for serious connoisseurs. ***

The conservation profession claims a commitment to long-term preservation, but common practice does not explicitly or consistently address the preservation-related aspects of treatment, particularly as regards damage prevention. Many treatment measures are protective, but many are not, and the current trend toward lower levels of intervention eliminates some of the more protective ones. Overall, the methodology promotes a more activist agenda for conservation treatment than ethical codes generally do, bringing up a common problem in ethics: whether sins of commission and sins of omission should be judged by the same yardstick. If a treatment procedure that reduces value is unethical, what about not carrying out a treatment procedure that would increase value? Since conservation ethics commit conservators to promoting the longevity of objects, is a treatment that improves an object’s aesthetics without addressing structural weakness ethical? This line of inquiry takes us back around to the classic conflict presented by working toward a goal: the balance between the potentially negative consequences of taking action and the downside of not taking it. Polishing silver removes some of the original metal but restores the object’s desired appearance. Putting a fragile painting under Plexiglas detracts from its aesthetic power but slows aging. No rules can provide the “right” answer. Little data exists on the extent to which specific treatments protect against various loads, particularly dynamic ones, and there is no widespread agreement about an ethical standard for any particular level of protection. Conservators need to know more about how to protect objects, and they need to make decisions about the degree to which they should protect them. As with the rest of the methodology, the possible implications of alternative treatment choices to the future of objects should be made explicit to all decision-makers. Custodians can only make informed decisions if all the alternatives are explained. The realistic goal of treatment reached by reference to values and the ideal state may need to be modified based on preservation concerns if that state cannot be sustained. Polishing silver objects makes little sense if a treatment does not prevent them from tarnishing again. Removing dirt from the façade of a building makes no sense if the dirt will re-accumulate in short order.

Long-term preservation is a goal of conservation treatment. The Feller graph clearly demonstrates the need to deal with known pathways of deterioration, and the literature on risk assessment in conservation is just as clear in enumerating external threats. As a step in the methodology, determining the realistic goal of treatment requires both interpretive goals, as discussed in the previous chapter, and protective ones. Setting treatment goals should consider the ability of an object to withstand the loads of its anticipated future and its ongoing deterioration rate as well as its appearance.

Chapter Ten - Traditional Conservation Concepts and the Methodology Arriving at a realistic treatment goal, as described in the previous chapter, is the last step in the methodology before developing an actual treatment plan. Previous chapters describing the steps leading to this point have introduced a number of new concepts and accompanying terminology. This chapter is a pause to explain how this novel material relates to the ways conservators routinely think, and talk, about their work. Conservation codes, for example, recommend a “single standard” to guide treatment “quality.” They recommend that treatments be “appropriate.” They proscribe “damaging” objects. Some conservators invoke “minimal intervention.” By systematizing the non-material aspects of treatment, the methodology clarifies the meaning of such abstract terms and delineates the concrete ways that ethical constructs are honored in treatment decision-making. The single standard Early versions of the AIC “Code of Ethics and Standards of Practice” used “single standard" to describe the conservator’s responsibility in every case: With every historic or artistic work he undertakes to conserve, regardless of his opinion of its value or quality, the conservator should adhere to the highest and most exacting standard of treatment. Although circumstances may limit the extent of treatment, the quality of the treatment should never be governed by the quality or value of the object. While special techniques may be required during treatment of large groups of objects, such as archival and natural history material, these procedures should be consistent with the conservator’s respect for the integrity of the objects.[110] The “single standard” terminology was dropped from the Code during the 1994 revision, [111] but the term still has currency. Unfortunately, there is still confusion about what a single standard might actually commit conservators

to. This would seem to have arisen from a misreading of the text. For example, a group of conservators charged with evaluating a proposed revision of the AIC Code judged that the single standard requires “elaborate treatments” and “extensive documentation,” which are inappropriate for library and archival materials.[112] The idea that “the quality of the treatment should never be governed by the quality or value of the object” was thought by many to require treating a child’s drawing the same way they would a Rembrandt. None of that was intended. In its most general form, the application of a single standard simply means that conservators cannot pick and choose when to do their best work or when to act ethically. They must do so consistently and routinely. This involves practice standards relevant to all objects, including an attitude of “informed respect,” responsibility for preventive conservation, due regard for health and safety, avoidance of damage to objects, documentation, and the detectability of added materials. It would be difficult to disagree with these criteria, which describe the fundamental tenets of the profession. A single ethical standard for judging treatments is, still, inherently limited as a guideline for practice. An abstraction cannot be applied to specific treatment decisions, and good intentions cannot make up for deficits of education or training.[113] No one can argue about the desirability of high quality treatments and the importance of avoiding damage to an object. But quality and damage are judgement calls, the former being used for treatments we approve of, and the latter for those that we don’t. Generalized admonitions to be careful and do a good job cannot improve our treatments. The idea that ethical codes and standards for practice require the same kind or degree of treatment for every object has nonetheless proven hard to shake. It is easy enough to justify committing substantial time, effort, and financial resources to the treatment of objects that are rare or carry high price tags. Published treatment case studies often refer to such objects, and commonly begin with descriptions of the object's historical or art historical importance. However, it is becoming more common for people to bring their personal possessions – the stuff of everyday life - to conservators, something that the profession actively encourages. So conservators routinely treat inferior examples of many types of objects as well as souvenirs that are pale

simulations of authentic ethnographic or folk art. Portraits of dignitaries, family members, or pets are sometimes really bad art.[114] Many hobbyists’ works eventually need treatment as well. There is no shame in providing competent conservation treatment for these things. But the question remains as to how conservators can provide ethical treatment for low-status objects under real-world constraints while still conforming to the idea of a single standard. The answer lies in identifying objects’ values and focussing a treatment on the values the object has rather than on those that it lacks. Using the object’s values as a treatment guide, rather than judging every treatment against some monolithic standard, produces a corresponding range of treatment types that enhance the specific values of each object. From this point of view, “museum-quality” treatments are more accurately described as “museumstyle” treatments, suitable for the specific values that museums promote and the protected environments they often provide. Promoting the values that an object has for its custodian is important. Planning a treatment—or declining to do so—in order to protect values that an object does not actually have - art value, research value, or historical value, for example – is misguided. Deciding what constitutes minimum ethical treatment for every object remains uncomfortable at times, particularly with personal possessions and other objects having no cultural value. These are not an easy fit with longaccepted practices that had their genesis in the world of museums. Many ethical practices are based on the concept of “cultural property” that says that the objects we treat belong to all mankind. Ethically acceptable treatment of objects with only personal value is therefore a crucial test for questions about a single standard for ethical treatment of objects generally. As discussed previously, when society at large does not have – and will likely never have - interest in an object, criteria appropriate for obviously preservation-worthy objects may not apply. More importantly, the application of standards that are irrelevant to an object with only personal values may, for no valid reason, rule out a treatment that would enhance the owner’s experience of it. Conservators who treat this kind of object can attest to the heart-felt reactions of their clients to the outcome.

Ethical codes in conservation tend to emphasize what not to do, or what we need to be careful of, more than the potential benefits of treatment, which include the object’s ability to give pleasure and meaning. With things of (only) personal value, conservation expertise provides a powerful opportunity to enhance people’s enjoyment of the objects they choose to surround themselves with. Conservators have an affirmative obligation to use their treatment skills to interpret all the objects they work with, to enhance their meaning, and to strengthen their power to illuminate the lives of people who come in contact with them. Working on objects with only personal value is a part of this obligation. Potential clashes between the wishes of a custodian and commonly accepted treatment norms for cultural property often occur when long-term preservation of the object or preservation of the information embedded in it would be violated by the owner’s wishes for treatment. On the other hand, we are not talking about destroying objects or any of their actual values. The custodians of objects do not want to destroy them; they come to us for help in preserving them! The difficulty is that their concept of preservation is sometimes a little different from ours. Wider latitude in certain aspects of treatment for objects with only personal value than for objects that have cultural value does not imply an inferior level of professionalism. We are ethically mandated not to impede future technical examination or scientific investigation,[115] but objects with only personal value are highly unlikely to have these in their future. Treatment of household possessions and other objects with value only to their owners needs not be constrained by the same limitations as those that govern the treatment of objects that society regards as significant. This does not violate any ethical standard. In fact, the section of the AIC Code that proscribes treatments that impede future scientific examination also proscribes treatments that impede use. Following this paradigm to treat objects with no cultural value is not taking the easy road. In fact, the wider range of acceptable choices makes decisionmaking complex. Objects of low monetary value are apt to be handled carelessly and therefore may require treatments that provide a high level of physical protection. And because objects with no cultural value are often of low quality technically, they may not be of the best materials or construction, and can represent difficult technical challenges.

This a departure from the way many conservators see their professional obligations. Despite its whiff of permissiveness, however, the approach still incorporates standards that draw a line beyond which conservators should not go. For example, conservators who are asked to alter a family wedding dress for use are “allowed” to do so, with appropriate documentation, minimizing destruction of the original material, etc. They are not “allowed” to cut the dress into squares to make decorative pillows for bridesmaids’ gifts. The first course of action preserves what the owners define as the dress, enhances its family meaning, and promotes its future use. The second destroys the dress, ends its family meaning, and erases its future. A single standard still applies in all these ways. A single standard does exist. The difficulty is in the details. Conservators have a deeply ingrained professional ethic that propels them in certain directions and holds them back from others. Given a difficult situation, of course, the directions vary. The methodology does not insist on uniformity, but on a process that accounts for choices in an explicit and logical manner. Treatment quality Treatment quality is a logical term for whatever it is that makes one treatment better than another, but it tends to be used to refer only to treatment execution. In actuality, a high-quality treatment also requires an appropriate treatment goal and a well-informed choice of methods and materials most likely to bring the object to its goal state. As we have seen in previous chapters, an appropriate treatment goal fulfills the needs of the custodian by enhancing the values that are currently the most important while not impairing others, particularly those that might become more important in the future. Part of that calculus involves respecting preferences expressed by the artist and other current stakeholders, and the values given to the object by past cultures. This requires sensitivity to the object’s cultural meanings as expressed by the custodian, and knowledge of its broader societal values. A treatment goal is particularly creative when it honors a variety of preferences at the same time. We have also seen how an appropriate treatment goal arrived at through the steps of the methodology requires accurate conclusions from the examination and a correct analysis of the course of the object’s aging and its likely future.

A high quality treatment also requires an optimal choice of materials and methods. Optimal material choice maximizes the long-term stability of the treated object without compromising working properties necessary to carry out the tasks of treatment. Optimal choice of method involves treatments that have been shown to be most efficacious over long periods of time. These are discussed in detail in Chapters Eleven and Twelve. Finally, as we saw in the Chapter Ten, treatment quality involves due consideration of long-term preservation, including protection from various threats in the object’s future. A high quality treatment, in addition, poses no risk to the object or the conservator and leaves a number of options for future treatment. An entirely different issue is evaluating the quality of a treatment after the fact. The criteria that conservators traditionally apply to their treatments are abstract and come from the world of ethics, where good intentions are expected to provide good outcomes. Those intentions can be channeled by the specific strategies of the methodology, but professionally treated objects in themselves provide surprisingly little evidence by which their treatments can be evaluated. Except in the matter of neatness, the object seldom carries readable evidence of the skill used in carrying out the treatment or whether the most appropriate methods were used. Examination reveals very little that can be used to assess the criteria of permanence, durability, reversibility, and efficacy. Only after the passage of years will the object show the full effects of a treatment that should have been better. Clearly, then, the conservation profession is based on the honor system. Conservators are the primary judges of their own work. They (and the custodians) decide whether a treatment is successful by looking at an object to see if it looks “better” than it did before.[116] A major impediment to judging the quality of a treatment is that reports rarely state the treatment goal or how it was arrived at. Without knowing the intended treatment goal, how can we evaluate whether it was reached? Reports commonly tell more about what was done than why. Judging a treatment after the fact would seem to require looking into the conservator’s head (for decision-making) and over her shoulder (for execution). Neither is likely.

Considerable improvement in our ability to evaluate the quality of a treatment after the fact would be provided by changes in the kinds of information included in documentation, particularly by specifying treatment goals. This will be discussed in Section IV. The difficulty of evaluating a treatment by examining the object is compounded by the difficulty of finding words to describe the conclusions. Discussing treatment criteria naturally leads to judgements about one treatment being better than another, and we can easily find words for the better ones. But what do we call the others? Mistaken, insensitive, illadvised, irresponsible? “Inappropriate” is commonly used, but is mildly judgemental without much informational content, and, in fact, is too mild to describe treatments that are seriously wrong-headed. It is often used sarcastically in preference to more damning terminology. Calling conservation a profession implies that we can define differences in quality based on an objective standard, and that the treatments we do are not just a matter of personal preference. Our difficulty in judging the work of others in an unbiased way is indicative of a corresponding difficulty in judging our own. The obstacles to assessing treated objects and talking about relative quality represent a serious challenge to our ideas of professionalism. Despite these difficulties, assessing treatment quality is a serious issue, and one that conservators should be able to discuss. The goal of a conservator is to produce the best treatment he or she is capable of – the “optimal” treatment. Some treatments are better than others. Some are harmful, sloppy, or inadvisable for any number of reasons, and some fail to address the real nature of the problem the object presents. Others seem elegant or impressively invisible. Early steps of the methodology can help to ensure the quality of treatments—particularly in regard to the choice of treatment goal, an aspect of decision-making that is often undervalued. Defining damage[117] Another criterion addressed, either implicitly or explicitly, in conservation codes of ethics is avoiding damage to the object. However, the range of opinions among conservators as to what constitutes proper treatment suggests that there is a correspondingly wide disparity of opinion as to what constitutes damage.

The methodology provides a guide: “damage” (or “harm”) is alteration of an object that impairs an object’s values, particularly its most important ones. Alteration of an object is not “harm” or “damage” if enhances the object’s values, as long as it does not compromise the object’s preservation. Altering an object in ways that do not provide any benefit is generally considered unethical, whether or not we define it as harm. For example, drilling into a heavy object may be necessary to maximize the durability of a repair. Such an alteration is not damage because it protects the object – and its viewers - from possibly catastrophic damage in the future. The same is not true for drilling a hole in an object to secure mounting hardware. On the other hand, many objects have a reverse that is not a design surface and is not ordinarily seen. If a values analysis concludes that the reverse carries no historical, aesthetic, or research value, or if such value can be preserved with sampling or documentation, then altering or making the reverse inaccessible is not damage as long as it enhances values or promotes preservation. Altering an object is sometimes portrayed as a bad thing. But conservation treatment is supposed to alter objects. It is up to conservators to assure that changes are for the better. Suitability and appropriateness “Suitability” and “appropriateness” are both terms used to describe desirable attributes of conservation treatments. These criteria are so subjective, however, that they can be used to justify almost any kind of treatment favored by a conservator. One conservator may think that mounting a textile onto an aluminum honeycomb panel is appropriate because the object would benefit from immobilization, while another may think that a stiff construction with an industrial-looking back is entirely inappropriate for a thin flexible object. Treatments have to be appropriate or suitable to something in particular if the words are to have any useful meaning. The methodology provides a list of objective standards for this judgement. For example, the treatment of the textile has to be appropriate to its use. If it is to be displayed hanging on a wall, then a very stable mount provides appropriate protection. If it is to be

draped on a mannequin or handled by a private owner, then a solid mount is not appropriate. If there is no space in storage for the mounted object once an exhibition is over, then an appropriate mounting method is one that is easily reversible. Since treatment has to be appropriate to the current aging rate of the object, the solid flat mount would make sense for a textile that is brittle and powdery. Treatment choices are always judgement calls, on which conservators may disagree. But all treatment choices should be subject to logic. Conservators should apply objective criteria, whether those criteria are material- or nonmaterial based. For example, dislike for the industrial-looking reverse of the solid support of a textile mount is not a good reason to reject such a treatment. If the custodian does not like the look of it, a new textile can be attached to the reverse surface. There are several different ways to provide stable support for a textile, but whatever choice the conservator makes must be based on explicit reasoning. Traditions within the culture of ownership can also be definitive of what is appropriate and/or suitable. An example is the replacement of metal fittings on Japanese temples, where virtually identical replicas are made using original techniques.[118] Because the Japanese have preserved expertise in ancient methods, the process is practical; because of increased permanence and durability the new fittings give to the structure, it is physically appropriate to the use of the buildings; and because the Japanese traditionally do not regard replacement of old materials with new as a violation of authenticity, it is culturally appropriate. Treatments can also be suitable for the intended environment of the object. Anti-tarnish coatings for silver are appropriate to uncontrolled environments, but not to exhibition in sealed cases lined with archival materials. In terms of the methodology, the idea of appropriateness best fits the choice of ideal state and realistic goal. If the choice is indeed appropriate, then it is predicated on an accurate reading of the object’s physical needs, honors its values, and serves the purposes of the custodian and other stake-holders. Minimal intervention “Minimal intervention” is a term that has achieved a certain amount of currency within the profession. But what does it mean?

If minimal intervention were to mean that conservators shouldn’t do “too much,” we would all agree. Doing “too much” is never a good thing, and ethics proscribe unnecessary treatment. But it would seem to mean different things to different conservators. As discussed in this section, many, if not most, of those meanings and the treatment philosophies that they imply run counter to the underlying tenets of the methodology. On the one hand, the term minimal intervention is sometimes used simply to refer to treatments carried out under the ethical strictures of the modern conservation profession, as opposed to restorers of the past. Modern conservators, for example, do not repaint original surfaces. In this view, minimal intervention is not a particular treatment philosophy within conservation, but simply an interesting way of characterizing modern conservation practice. Along those lines, Orlofsky and Trupin point to a desire among some conservators to do minimal reconstruction on objects in order to differentiate their work from that of restorers and craftsmen.[119] Treatment choice is clearly influenced by outside factors like a desire to be well thought of, and its flip side, fear of criticism, but it is not good professional practice to allow those feelings to affect our judgement about what is best for the object in front of us. This usage, in any case, does not seem to be the primary context for the term. Most conservators espousing a minimal intervention approach to conservation treatment have a specific philosophy in mind. One example of this approach limits treatments to “fixing” the presenting complaint. This is in contrast to a more comprehensive treatment that addresses long-term preservation by retarding deterioration. For other conservators, the idea of minimal intervention is used is a guiding principle for the choice of treatment methods and materials. Its application means that, among all the methods and materials that can be used to address a condition problem, the best choice is the one that alters the object as little as possible. Underlying these and many other applications of “minimal intervention” seems to be the feeling that conservators did – or perhaps still do - too much,

and that so many past treatments have come out badly that we should do as little as possible. This implies that mistakes can be avoided by doing less. One modern conservator has written that minimizing conservation is “an acknowledgement that conservation treatments have often failed in the past, and that many heavily altered objects have been devalued because of changes in taste or display fashion.”[120] Another has said that a lack of open discussion about “repair and reconstruction” has made her feel “as if the misjudgements of the nineteenth century have produced in us a `sense of reticence.’”[121] In an apparent questioning of even well-researched conservation materials, one conservator has observed that “[i]t is easy to criticize its [rubber cement’s] use now with the advantage of hindsight, but I am not sure that we are much more knowledgeable about the future effects of the adhesives that we are using on leather artifacts at present than our predecessors were about rubber cement.”[122] The principles of the methodology do not support minimal intervention as a guiding principle for conservation treatment; “doing less” is not necessarily in the best interests of the object. First, conservators have an affirmative duty toward the preservation of objects. Thus the philosophy of only “fixing what’s wrong” contravenes ethical norms. There is perhaps leeway here in the case of institutions that provide the controlled environments that can make some highly interventive preservation-directed treatments unnecessary. In addition, institutions with professional staff can monitor the condition of collections and intervene with minor treatments at any time. However, this is a specialized circumstance and should not be used as an overarching guiding principal for treatment. Moreover, limiting intervention to fixing what is “wrong” with an object eliminates enhanced interpretation as an appropriate treatment goal. An underlying principle of the methodology is that all treatments involve some measure of interpretation, and that they should be designed to enhance the appropriate one. As to the idea that the best choice of methods and materials is the one that alters the object as little as possible, that, likewise, may not be in the best interests of the object. Treatment choices should be driven by the nature of the problem the object presents and by its context, not a one-size-fits-all

philosophy. General conservation theory cannot guide the incredibly wide range of projects conservators are involved with. For example, objects in art museums almost never sustain the kinds of damage that private conservators routinely see. Repairing rips in canvas paintings without additional overall support of some kind may be feasible for two-inch rips, but minimal intervention will not work for twenty-inch ones. Another justification advanced for minimal intervention relates it to reversibility. “Concern about reversibility must derive from an everincreasing conviction that minimum intervention in the treatment of works of art is the only right approach.”[123] “The ideal of minimal removal of original material and minimal additions seems to be replacing reversibility as a standard of conduct and practice.”[124] However minimal intervention and reversibility are different concepts. Reversibility should make conservators more comfortable about carrying out interventive treatments. Minimal intervention would be logical for a proposed treatment that is not reversible, specifically when the object’s problems can be addressed with a lower level of intervention. Finally, past actions of uninformed people who do demonstrably stupid things should not affect the practice of trained professionals. Ideas about the propriety of particular treatments may change, but a trained conservator who adheres to professional standards is unlikely to do the kind of damage to an object that generations of future conservators will contemplate in disgust. Whether or not things may have gone badly in the past, lumping together all interventive treatments and indicting them as a matter of principle is both illogical and unhelpful. Any individual conservator may have regrets about a treatment she personally carried out that was deficient in some way. But modern conservation practices assure that potential permanent damage to objects is minimized. Most professional conservators exhibit a painstaking and constantly self-critical attitude toward their work, and agonize over the most minute potential downside of treatments. Conservators, like other professionals, must deal with their critics, but they do not need to apologize for all the actions ever taken on objects in the name of restoration. Sometimes less is more, but sometimes less is simply less. Erring on the side of caution is another chestnut that takes us nowhere. In the far from ideally

protective world that most objects live in, too little treatment is a real source of danger. The idea that doing less helps to avoid mistakes is probably more comforting than the idea of doing better, based on superior knowledge and experience, but that does not make doing less the best course for the object or for its custodian. Using minimal intervention as a guide in all cases disregards the individual needs of the object and its custodian, its interpretation, and its longevity. It would seem to rely at least partially on the unwarranted assumption that all objects live in sheltered environments where they can survive happily in whatever state they are in already. Given an object’s physical state, its use, its context, and its likely future, an optimal treatment may, indeed, be anything but minimal. Professionals in any field need the wisdom to determine what should be done and the knowledge about how to accomplish it. Armed with that wisdom and knowledge, they should have the confidence to go ahead and do whatever they think is best. *** Applying a single methodology to the conservation treatment of all kinds of objects rather than following specialty-specific ways of thinking about treatments is a departure from common professional conservation practice. But all the familiar ingredients of treatment choice are still recognizable. The concrete applications of familiar terms used in ethical codes, like suitability and appropriateness, the single standard, and damage avoidance are, in fact, explained by the terms of the methodology. This chapter is the last one in the section on establishing the goal of treatment. The next section addresses the topic of treatment choice.

Introduction to Section III Choosing a Treatment The previous section of the book describes how a conservator and custodian arrive at a realistic goal for the treatment of an object. This section looks at the choice of materials and techniques that will be used to reach that goal. The section is a departure from the previous ones, which address issues that conservators rarely deal with systematically or explicitly. The new steps introduced include the four-part organization of material- and non-materialbased information, a graph depicting the object’s material change over time, a chart of its cultural life, a values analysis, choice of ideal state and realistic treatment goal. This section, by contrast, focuses on the daily preoccupations of practicing conservators – the selection of materials and methods that can bring the object to its new state. During their training, conservation students are typically faced with a treatment task and instructed in one or more methods to carry it out. They learn from specific cases – like reattaching flaking paint on a wooden object or removing cigarette smoke from a plaster sculpture. Chapter Eleven and Twelve take the opposite approach: what characteristics are important for any conservation application? What “rules” do we apply in order to pick from among the possible alternatives? What criteria can be used to distinguish the “better” candidates? The section begins with Chapter Eleven, which deals with the choice of materials. The criteria for material choice include extrinsic issues like availability of the material and the quality of research data. Characteristics of the materials themselves, like their aging and handling properties are also discussed. Chapter Twelve looks at the choice of method in a similar way, by addressing criteria that define treatment quality, including reversibility, efficacy, and issues related to possible damage from treatments.

The role of science in conservation The interface between science and conservation is a recurring theme of this book, addressed in several contexts. Choice of materials and treatment methods are areas where science rather than any kind of cultural study should play a definitive role as the arbiter of quality. Once a realistic goal has been chosen, the “human” factors in treatment choice have been taken care of. However, the role of quantitative science in conservation is, still, far from clear. There are two major areas of uncertainty: what science can do to improve treatment outcomes, and how conservators use the research that already exists. Already we can spot the first bump in the road: working scientifically to improve treatment outcomes requires quality assessment. We saw in Chapter Ten how difficult that can be. In order to ask questions that science can answer and to apply the findings once research is done, objective and quantifiable measures of treatment quality or success are needed. Needless to say, conservation does not have them - for many reasons. Conservation is a profession governed by Goldilocks – not too much, not too little, just right. Treatments are governed by “appropriateness.” A host of non-material issues are involved. High quality treatment results can be reached using a variety of methods and materials, based on the conservators’ preferences and skill. Reactions to treated objects are based to some degree on the taste of the viewer. In view of all these non-scientific stipulations, it is easy to see why scientific research cannot solve conservators’ most pressing problems. Material choice for treatments, the subject of Chapter Eleven, is a case in point. Strength and flexibility, for example, are crucial to adhesive choice, but the optimal level of either one depends on the problem at hand. Stronger and more flexible adhesives are not necessarily preferable, and sometimes the two qualities are at odds. Suppose we would like to use an adhesive that is slightly less strong than the materials of the object but somewhat more flexible. We would have to measure those qualities both in the object and in possible adhesives. Realistically, we can’t test objects, and there aren’t many conservation-grade adhesives to choose from. So, although science can tell

us which materials have properties, like chemical stability, that make them suitable for conservation, the choice among them is up to us. This is not to say that science cannot do more to improve treatment quality and make conservators’ work more fruitful. For example, further research on the aging qualities of conservation materials would be extremely valuable. Many synthetic resins in common use have not been thoroughly tested, and protocols for the purpose are well established. Resins introduced recently have increased the number of choices, particularly for coatings. Data on the development of discoloration in materials used as varnishes would therefore undoubtedly improve the long-term results of today’s treatments. Other data, related to appearance and solubility behavior, would also be helpful. Scientific research aimed at more complex issues of treatment would require collaboration among conservators and scientists to establish a set of unanswered questions and determine how they can be addressed. Examples used in this book, like materials that can be used to prevent metal corrosion, are among the relatively straightforward problems, with one basic phenomenon and measurable results. Other treatments, like the consolidation of powdery stone, may be more typical of the complexity involved in research aimed at improving treatment outcomes. The difficulty of using quantitative science to improve treatments is multiplied by a host of other problems, including the inevitable lack of funds for conservation research and the volume of effort required to figure out exactly what kind of research would help. A probably undercredited source of difficulty is the potential value of the outcome. What is the extent of unsolved conservation problems and how important are they? Advancement of knowledge happens on two fronts. On the leading edge, we have the most advanced knowledge in the field, which may or may not be available to most practitioners. On the trailing end is the rest of us, using primarily what we have been taught, along with additional information that we get from talking to colleagues or reading the literature or from our own experience. Conservation research lives at the front end, but an argument could easily be made that the world of cultural property would be better

served by spreading around the information that already exists than by supporting further research. A few types of objects like water-logged wood, underwater finds of iron cannons, and the disintegrating stone mentioned above, present serious technical problems, but even in highly publicized projects, society as a whole is not clamoring for better methods to preserve shipwrecks. And there is no sign that owners of works of art are anxiously awaiting more information about the best ways for their property to be treated. Conservators in many specialties would welcome data on which treatments work best, particularly if it confirms the conclusions they have drawn from years of experience. The question remains, however, about how many professionals whose conclusions are not supported by new research would change their ways. So what is the bottom line about materials and methods and the degree to which science improves the quality of our choices? On the leading edge, science is extremely helpful in straightforward ways, particularly material characterization. It could be helpful in dealing with more complex issues, but the magnitude of such projects would be quite different, needing scientists in several different specialties and a number of conservators as collaborators. On the trailing end – in everyday practice – it seems as if there is a need for improvement, based on complaints (supported by some research) that conservators don’t read the literature. There is, however, another way of looking at the question of treatment quality. We previously noted the difficulty of assessing treatment quality by examining a treated object. But perhaps the conclusions – that the difficulty of assessment reveals a fundamental flaw in our profession - are wrong. Perhaps professionally done conservation work in general looks pretty good, and the results achieved by a variety of methods and materials are just fine. Conservators rail at the terrible work they have seen, but, by definition, a certain level of awfulness – huge areas of repaint to conceal tiny damages, lumpy overfillings, thick molasses-like coatings, etc. – is attributable to untrained or insufficiently trained workers. Perhaps the real problem is how to assure that conservation treatments are carried out by real professionals!

This judgement, however, refers mostly to treatments done within the last few decades. The modern profession, with its reliance on synthetic materials, may not old enough for certain deficiencies to exert themselves. The passage of time – more time than has yet elapsed - is the ultimate arbiter that will distinguish better treatments from not-so-good ones. Long-term efficacy is, in fact, just the kind of thing that quantitative science can handle, if conservators and scientists can get together to figure out exactly what needs to be done. Let us look at the choice of treatment methods and materials to see what criteria can be applied, given our current state of knowledge.

Chapter Eleven – Choice of Treatment Materials This chapter discusses the attributes of treatment materials that make them suitable for conservation in general, issues of material choice for specific projects, and ways of modifying the behavior of the materials that are chosen. Material choice is a major factor in conservation treatment decision-making. [125] Strategies that involve the innovative application of a small number of well-tested materials to a wide variety of treatment problems are central to modern conservation practice. The use of materials with superior aging properties contributes in many ways to the future welfare of objects. Chemically stable synthetic materials have many inherent advantages over the natural materials used by earlier generations of restorers particularly in the longevity of treatment results. Their use as adhesives, varnishes, and inpainting media has its own advantages of detectability and reversibility, since they are so different from the materials of most objects. Treatments are not, however, defined solely by the choice of material. Questions of what is used should not overshadow questions of how it is used. Materials applied in different ways produce different results. Wax, for example, is a better moisture barrier for wood if it is melted on rather than brushed.[126] Coatings can be wiped on, brushed, or sprayed, in a variety of solvents and dilutions. Adhesives can be used in solution or aqueous dispersion, or activated by heat. Variety in application methods produces a variety of results related to appearance, penetration, bond strength, and other characteristics. Material choice in itself, however, remains vital because of the importance of aging properties for the long-term welfare of objects. Stability of materials should be the most predictable aspect of a treatment. A material with excellent long-term aging properties is not in itself sufficient to make a treatment optimal, but the use of materials with poor aging qualities is sure to create problems.

Chemical stability is what makes a material “conservation quality,” but material choice for a particular treatment involves other considerations. Many are related to handling properties, but others are practical. For example, insufficient product information and difficulty in finding suppliers are common problems for conservators and may limit the number of choices available. Ultimately, the choice of materials has as much to do with conservators’ combined lore as with scientific data because of the need to exert extremely fine control over application. The properties that make a treatment material useful in a particular application are often difficult to describe, and the judgement can be very different for different conservators. The choice of treatment and its execution rely on the conservator’s skill, experience, and creativity, supported by scientific fact.[127] A body of practical knowledge about manipulating materials is learned directly from teachers and colleagues, augmented and embellished as needed. As a subject of collegial interchange among conservators, this information is often referred to as “helpful hints” or “tips.” A good example is the sanding of mylar to avoid transfer of its smooth texture to a work on paper.[128] A balance between science and practice is vital. Some conservators may discount overmuch the contribution of science to material choice in deference to their own long-standing work habits or ease of use. However, the comfort of the conservator does not justify the use of materials that will potentially lead to undesirable change in the treated object. Although recalcitrance on this point usually remains hidden, on occasion some sign of it turns up; an example is the return to using mastic resin as a varnish for paintings.[129] Long-term chemical stability Optimal conservation treatments require treatment materials with optimal long-term aging properties. We cannot accurately predict the future environment of an object or the care it receives, but we should be confident about the behavior of the materials we use. Treatments are expected to last an exceedingly long time, longer than most off-the-shelf materials do. So the quality of treatments shows itself long after the job is finished. Changes in materials may take many years to become visible, but the underlying chemical causes can be detected well before that.[130]

Yellowing of varnishes and embrittlement of adhesives to the point where they lose their hold are obviously undesirable changes. But chemical instability has other, less-obvious, consequences. Chemical reactions produce by-products that often continue to react, in a cascade of ongoing chemical change. Some by-products will be gaseous, and off-gassing can promote deterioration of the object. In addition, the increase in the number of chemical species present in the object can multiply the kinds of chemical changes that occur. Due to these complications, chemical changes that are of no apparent importance in a treatment – like color change in materials that do not show on an object’s surface – may still represent potential damage. Materials with the highest possible levels of chemical stability are preferable. Chapter Three discussed Robert Feller’s graph of aging rates. Yet another of his major contributions to conservation is a four-part classification of treatment materials based on their photochemical stability. Standards of intended use and photochemical stability for materials in conservation[131]

The stability class standards were developed to summarize the results of age testing on synthetic resins. The most familiar entry for Class A is Acryloid (or Paraloid) B-72 (Rohm & Haas). The polyvinyl acetate resins AYAC, AYAB, AYAA, AYAF, and AYAT (Union Carbide) probably belongs in Class A, although some yellowing has been observed. Beva 371 and Acryloid B-

48N may fit into Class A as well, but definitive research on this question has not been published. These standards have not been used to categorize materials other than synthetic resins - like plaster, waxes, gelatin, or textiles. Doing so would not be difficult, however, since categorization is based on observable change due to light exposure, not chemistry.[132] Class A materials should always be the first choice. Only when none can be used should conservators move down the chart. As discussed below, the lessthan-ideal aging properties of even Class B materials makes their use more complicated. Chemical stability of materials, however, is only one factor in the long-term success of a conservation treatment. It assures that properties will remain constant. It does not assure that the added material is appropriate to its intended use. Acryloid B-72, for example, is ineffective as a moisture barrier or corrosion inhibitor for metals because thin films of the resin are quite permeable. When, as in this case, materials identified to date as belonging in Class A are not suitable for a particular application, the use of somewhat less stable materials becomes necessary. Judging the suitability of Class B materials Feller’s Class B encompasses materials with a wide range of aging characteristics. Materials at the low end, with twenty years of useful life, are clearly not a good choice in any but the most protected environments. Because of the range of properties, optimal choice among them depends on the details of their aging rates, susceptibilities, and use, and their selection involves more elaborate decision-making than for Class A materials. The specifics of post-treatment object use and environment and the overall design of the treatment are crucial in avoiding problems in the future. Determining the suitability of Class B materials for a particular treatment involves, among other things, matching the susceptibility of the treatment material to the object’s future environment. Agents of change include various wavelengths of light, moisture, oxygen, and heat,[133] and chemical reactions involving pollutants. Potential chemical change due to ultraviolet light, for example, involves three different scenarios for the object: outdoor exposure, indoor exposure

with no ultraviolet filtration,[134] and indoor exposure where ultraviolet light is filtered (or objects are in opaque containers). The appropriateness of conservation materials susceptible to deterioration primarily from ultraviolet light would vary, therefore, based on the setting. The susceptibilities of the component materials of the object are also relevant to the choice of Class B treatment materials. An acidic treatment material may be acceptable for contact with objects made of ceramics or wood, but not metals or paper. Another relevant variable is the penetration of different wavelengths of light into transparent or translucent materials.[135] Because of the importance of photochemical reactions in deterioration, the final location of a material in or on an object can be important for its aging, and therefore relevant for treatment choice. Many Class B materials are appropriate for use where they will not be exposed to light. For the same reason, different properties will be important for an impregnant than for a coating or filling material. On the other hand, long-term loss of solubility may be less important for a filling material than for a surface coating because fillings are often removed mechanically. As discussed in Chapter Twelve, reversibility can sometimes be achieved by means other than solubility. Materials with poor aging qualities may occasionally, despite everything, prove to be effective for the job. Nitrocellulose is well known to have poor aging properties—so much so that many consider it a conservation no-no. For anti-tarnish coatings, however, nitrocellulose lacquer conforms well to the metal surface and protects well because of its low permeability. The object can be coated more easily, it looks better, and the coating retards tarnishing more effectively than B-72, which is commonly chosen for coatings because it does not discolor.[136] However, there are practical issues that mitigate the disadvantages of nitrocellulose as a coating for metals. So-called “strong” solvents that might be necessary for eventual removal can be used without damage to metal, and, at least for copper alloys, slight yellowing of the film does not alter the color of the surface. Some nitrocellulose plasticizers retard discoloration.[137] Evaluating potential damage from non-Class-A materials

Numerous articles in the conservation literature question the suitability of certain non-Class-A treatment materials used by conservators. Materials that have provoked criticism include soluble nylon, cellulose nitrate adhesives, polyethylene glycol, shellac, and thymol.[138] Cautionary data on some other materials, like polyvinyl alcohol and polyvinyl butyral, have been more discreetly published and may not have received the attention they deserve.[139] It would seem appropriate that warnings against the use of a material be at least as prominently published as an article that recommended it, but this is not always the case.[140] Some reports warn that the presence of the suspect material on an object is enough to cause damage. Others report that the material may become ineffective, or that its safe removal may be impossible. Some supply new data, while others restate information that have been published before, but that the authors feel is under-credited. Alternative materials are sometimes suggested, but substitutes for some specific uses of these materials may be difficult to find. It is difficult to know how to respond to negative reports on materials. In order to decide whether or not to use materials whose safety or efficacy has been challenged, we need information. We need to know whether the materials always misbehave, or whether certain conditions are necessary to trigger problems. And we need to know what potential physical changes to look for when we are examining objects that have been treated with suspect materials. Controversial materials are often discussed without reference to a specific use. For example, some conservators who use cellulose nitrate to adhere potsherds defend the material, but would probably not recommend it for consolidation of painted surfaces, a use for which the destructive results of film shrinkage are well known.[141] Similarly, the liberal use of soluble nylon over a large surface has different consequences from using one drop at a time to reattach individual flakes of paint. The amount of material used, its final location on the object, and questions of reversibility may mean that one treatment is ill-advised while the other is perfectly reasonable. Clearly, some uses of less-than-Class-A materials are defensible, given the current state of knowledge.

One of the difficulties of assessing treatment materials that have been maligned is the lack of hard data. Most in-depth research on material aging is concentrated on the best-performing materials, so anecdotal evidence may be the only information available. Another difficulty is that conservators feel safe with materials that have a long track record, and some dislike having to switch to something new. It is, admittedly, a nuisance to abandon the use of materials we are used to. In addition, problems with less-than-optimal materials are not likely to occur immediately. If they did, conservators would have ceased using the material a long time ago. Without scientific data or documented negative side-effects to motivate them, many conservators prefer to ignore warnings and stay with what they know. Certain warnings are based on chemistry, but scientific theory (and occasional warnings in trade literature) informs us of the possibility of trouble more than its likelihood. An example is the development of unpleasant smells after the use of methyl bromide as a fumigant. Although this treatment has been gradually phased out for other reasons, some conservators who used it in the past have reported that no noticeable smells developed. Anecdotal information like this is difficult to assess, as it has a certain persuasive power that may or may not be warranted. Another example of a questionable warning is the recommendation that proteinaceous material not be stored in contact with buffered tissue. Exactly what negative effect is expected to occur? Has anyone ever seen a physical change attributable to buffering materials or tried to produce such change in a laboratory under extreme conditions? There is no implication here that methyl bromide or buffered tissue or the other materials mentioned above can be used without reservation. But we should be clearer about the difference between suspicions and proven facts and should try by some reliable means to convert the former into the latter. Optimal material choice for treatments requires hard data, and in many of the cases cited here, we do not have enough. THE NEED FOR INFORMATION A prerequisite for optimal material choice is access to reliable and detailed information, and information on chemical stability does not come easily. The

research required is lengthy and time-consuming, and therefore expensive. For these reasons, it makes sense to investigate chiefly those materials that have the greatest expectation for longevity.[142] Such research is most effectively carried out by conservation scientists rather than manufacturers. In order for the effort to be worthwhile, the material should be widely available, relatively inexpensive and non-toxic, and sold under a single unambiguous name. It should have an indefinite shelf life, and production should be reliably uniform. When applicable, solubility in a range of common and relatively nontoxic solvents is also desirable. Testing should measure susceptibility to aging from heat, various wavelengths of light, and a range of reagents including those in common pollutants.[143] Research results should be available in the conservation literature. This assures that manufacturers’ data have been verified and that requirements for long-term aging have been met. Information on properties other than aging, including refractive index, solubility, flexibility, glass transition temperature, and moisture permeability, are useful. It is impossible to overstate the breadth and depth of information required for understanding a conservation material. Research on Acryloid B72, for example, has been going on for decades, yet research has produced some data that are unexpected, such as acidic off-gassing.[144] Clearly, as noted above, we do not have the kinds of information required to evaluate many non-Class-A treatment materials. We do not know whether commonly-heard warnings represent sufficient reason to avoid the materials entirely, or whether there is some way to minimize or eliminate possible negative side effects. Neither the theoretical possibility of problems nor the absence of visible effects on an object indicates whether the danger is real. The lack of ready support for materials research in conservation has meant that the testing that can be done is not apt to be duplicated, and conservators sometimes base material choice on a single isolated test.[145] The difficulties of assessing possible undesirable side effects from less than optimal materials underline the importance of using the most stable materials that can be found to do the job. MAKING CHOICES

It seems logical to think that conservators can choose a conservation material by listing its desired properties and then looking for a material that fulfills the requirements. Life is not so simple. First, there are few well-researched conservation-grade materials to choose from, even including the upper echelons of Class B materials. In fact, so few materials meet the highest conservation standards that treatments often employ the same time-honored ones, over and over again. It is unlikely that many additional conservation-grade materials are waiting to be discovered. A case in point is a reported study that assessed corrosion inhibitors for copper. The investigator found a number of promising materials in the industrial literature that are unfamiliar to conservators, and tested their efficacy against more familiar ones. He found that a common conservation choice, benzotriazole, was by far the most effective, and that the second-most effective caused yellowing of surfaces and was therefore unacceptable.[146] This result may be typical for many other material categories. Many problems of material choice relate to the specific demands of conservation use. For example, proprietary consumer products, like metal or wood polishes or white glues, can be both effective and easy to use, but may have ingredients, like silicone, or ammonia, that make them unsuitable. Some proprietary polishes are too abrasive or leave potentially damaging residues. As crucial a matter as chemical stability is, many other issues are involved in material choice. Some materials that initially appear to be chemically appropriate for conservation use have problematic properties. They may be smelly or allergenic, or acquire a static charge. Some have a limited shelf life or may be difficult to handle. Some powders are so light that they float into the air with the smallest breeze. Science may not be able to help us in these cases. Same material or different? A fundamental issue facing conservators is whether to use treatment materials that are the same as original materials or different. The decision is

often made a priori rather than on a case-by-case basis,[147] and seems, in fact, to be characteristic of certain schools or styles of conservation. There are a number of reasons that favor different materials for restoration: detectability, reversibility and superior aging. If these criteria can be met in other ways, materials the same as original ones can be appropriate. In fact, that is sometimes unavoidable, as with feathers or decorative inlays of stone or wood whose color and texture are difficult to duplicate. In these cases, special markings that are not readily visible can make the additions easily detectable. Reversibility and detectability can be achieved by using different methods of attachment than the original ones. The third issue - avoiding the aging problems peculiar to original materials - can be seen in conservation bookbinding and other uses of new leather in treatment: the conservator seeks leathers tanned in the same way as the original but with less sulfur in the final product. Other situations calling for materials as close as possible to those of the original include structural repairs in stone buildings,[148] functional parts of machinery, and the repair of musical instruments in use.[149] On the other hand, this is seldom satisfactory for moisture-reactive materials like parchment or wood in certain uses.[150] It might seem that added reactive materials are uniquely compatible with original ones. However, the direction, reaction time, and magnitude of dimensional change would have to be matched precisely so that the composite will behave uniformly. Another problem is that new parchment is more reactive than old, particularly in response to changes in relative humidity.[151] Likewise, compensation with a light-sensitive colorant that is chemically the same as the now-faded original will not prevent color mismatches from occurring, since the original and newer, added material will tend to fade at a different rate. Matching the properties of the object’s materials The fundamental issue in questions of “same or different” is a comparison between the properties of the treatment materials and the materials of the object. The conservator looks for materials that have some properties the same as the original materials, and other properties that are different in specified ways. An added material may be more or less permeable to gases and liquids than the material of the object. It may be stronger or weaker,

stiffer or more flexible. Support materials, for example, are usually more rigid than the structure of the original. Restoration materials commonly have texture, transparency, and gloss as close as possible to those of the original, while being more easily soluble. Materials used on or near paper have a pH higher than that of the object being treated. Ordinarily, all added materials are expected to out-perform the original ones in terms of their chemical stability and resistance to various environmental hazards. When a treatment material is to have certain properties different from the materials of the object, the choice often requires a combination of science, experience, and educated guesswork. For example, it is often said that adhesives using to stick fragments together should be weaker than the internal cohesion of the original, so that if the object breaks again, it will come apart at the existing breaks rather than breaking in new places. Data are available on the cohesive strength of adhesives and on the strength of certain adhesive bonds, but we rarely have comparable measurements on the cohesive strength of the materials of the object, so we cannot make an informed decision. We cannot easily quantify the stresses on an object that is dropped, crushed, or picked up from one edge. So the recommendation that repairs be weaker than an object remains largely a theoretical one. In any case, the crucial property may be brittleness rather than cohesive strength, and, unlike ceramics, conservation adhesives are typically not brittle at all. Conservators use the term “compatibility” when talking about matching the properties of applied materials to those of the object. Compatibility refers to combinations of materials that will not promote damage. An example of incompatibility is the combination of a material that off-gasses acids with an acid-sensitive substrate. Another is the combination of materials that respond differently to environmental changes. These issues most commonly arise in the treatment of buildings or other outdoor objects in extreme or widely fluctuating conditions.[152] The expansion and contraction of indoor objects that result from the cycling of relative humidity or temperature can create similar problems, if less extreme. Original materials that swell and shrink, or distort in shape, can be damaged by added materials that are stiff and unresponsive. Some treatments attempt to control such movement with brute force, like

traditional cradles for panel paintings, paper stretched taut on a strainer, or ivory panels fixed to solid supports. These cause damage when they underestimate the strength of the forces involved or do not include measures that assure environmental stability. Modern hydraulic lime or cement mortars can react in unfortunate ways with the calcium sulfate of older gypsum mortars. It is not inaccurate to refer to this as chemical incompatibility, but there are better terms to describe other kinds of material mismatches. For example, the application of a low pH material to a work on paper and the use of plaster as a filling material for losses in bronzes are better described as inadvisable or, simply, bad practice. Handling properties of treatment materials Science can help conservators to understand the properties of materials and possible ways to modify them, but only conservators can invent recipes for combinations of materials adapted for specific treatment problems. New application methods are often required as well. Handling properties of materials cannot easily be quantified, and they are even more difficult to describe in words. For example, the amount of material left on the object and its ultimate location are controlled by adjusting properties such as viscosity and wetting, speed of application, and solvent evaporation time. These variables are in turn affected by the choice of solvent, the molecular weight of solids, and the nature of the interface between object and added material. The temperature of the room as well as that of the applied material and the object can also have an effect on treatment. Additional factors include the relative humidity of the room, solvent vapors in the air, the equilibrium state of the object,[153] and air movement in the room, which affects evaporation speed. The goal in applying treatment materials is to do exactly what needs to be done, no less, no more. There is a narrow line between too much and too little. When, for example, an adhesive is used to reattach two layers of an object, an appropriate degree of penetration is vital. An added adhesive must wet internal surfaces well enough to penetrate into voids, but must not seep too much into the layers themselves. Otherwise, no adhesive buildup will remain to adhere them. Penetration past the affected area may promote tide lines or stiffen isolated areas of the object more than is desirable.

Treatments can fail if adhesive penetration is incomplete. When wax or a wax mixture is used to treat interlayer cleavage, for example, the object must be heated to a high enough temperature for long enough to assure the proper degree of penetration by still-molten wax. Further complications arise when the layers to be reattached need to be plasticized. Much interlayer cleavage is the result of shrinkage or distortion that causes materials to pull away from other layers or from their substrate. Some metals, leather, fibers, paint layers, textiles, paper,[154] and even wood sometimes need to be plasticized before they can be reshaped and re-adhered in order to avoid the breakage of embrittled layers. Solvents, moisture, and heat in various combinations are often part of adhesive application. Layers must be softened during treatment to allow reattachment, but if they are softened too much, original texture can be lost. The plasticizing effects of treatment are ordinarily intended to be limited to the period of treatment, but long-term reduction of internal stress is sometimes beneficial in order to prevent the material from reverting to its pre-treatment state.[155] Reattachment of separated layers is a common conservation task. It requires a high level of control during the application of adhesives in order, ultimately, to control the post-treatment state of the object. This is one reason that conservators become wedded to the adhesives they have used in the past. The ability to control the process in subtle ways requires in-depth experience with the materials that have been chosen. Manipulating the properties of treatment materials The use of a small number of well-studied materials in a constantly increasing number of variations is the essence of conservation expertise, a unique combination of science, ingenuity, and skill. Although the list of Class A conservation materials is short, the behavior and properties of these materials can be adjusted using a variety of formulations with various liquid and solid inert additives to control wetting, tack, viscosity, and appearance. Class A materials can also be made into aqueous emulsions without using most of the additives that are necessary for manufactured products (see below).

Unfortunately, some examples of the innovative uses of Class A materials are hard to find, buried in the conservation literature in case studies where the titled topic is something else entirely. An article on the treatment of a painted plaster sculpture, for example, includes three sentences describing an Acryloid B-72 emulsion made with a small amount of Triton X-100 as the only additive.[156] An article on repairing tears on fur skin garments describes, only in a footnote and endnote, alteration of polyvinyl acetate resin with ethyl hydroxyethyl cellulose to increase tack and workability.[157] An article on the treatment of tin plate describes the thickening of citric acid almost to a solid to control its application to the exact size and shape of areas to be treated.[158] The application of an alcohol to a surface before the application of an adhesive to improve wetting is a common method of controlling the application of an adhesive or consolidant.[159] Acryloid B-72 is the subject of several articles describing the manipulation of its properties with a number of additives and a variety of application methods.[160] The use of Acryloid B-72 as an adhesive became easier and more widespread when Stephen Koob published directions for putting solutions in tubes.[161] (A related development is the use of a syringe to store starch paste that stays mold-free without the use of fungicides.[162]) Innovative methods for applying conservation materials also expand their usability. These include the casting of films from resins,[163] the use of a mister for treating vertical surfaces or those that are too fragile to allow direct application by brush,[164] and treatment in atmospheres saturated with solvent fumes to slow evaporation.[165] Innovative methods can also be used to provide compensation using conservation materials rather than original ones. An example is the photocopying of wood grain to produce replacement parts. Another is the use of painted mylar or colored and strengthened tracing paper as a substitute for mother-of-pearl[166]. Learning to use new materials and techniques is not always easy, and individual conservators come to rely on very different sets of favorite materials and methods for handling them. Successful results can come from any number of alternative materials and recipes. Glass microballoons, for example, have some qualities that have made them anathema to many conservators, who refuse to use them for anything. Other

conservators enthusiastically add microballoons to resins in a wide range of applications. The author, on trying a simple microballoon/B-72 mixture, was having handling problems and consulted a colleague whom she knew liked it. His e-mailed answer is an example of the kind of innovation that may be required for the successful use of a new material: I very much enjoyed your description of the B-72/microballoon matrix. Yes, ...dried marshmallow fluff…. You can … control the hardness and strength of the fill material by adjusting the percentage of resin in the solvent solution you use. The microballoons tend to float on the solution and in acetone the stuff crusts over continuously. You can get around this by working from a small pot (like a film can) that you stir often...and when the stuff begins to get too thick, just add more acetone in small quantities. If you top up with resin/solvent, you eventually end up with a mix that is too rich in resin which in turn becomes unworkable when it dries. I usually use around 2025% resin for places which I want to be pretty strong and 12-15% for cosmetic fills. Up to around 15% you can sand and carve it pretty easily, after that it gets rather tough. One thing to keep in mind is that this material is hopeless until it dries...crumbly and fussy. After it dries, though, it can be shaped pretty precisely. A final tip: once you get a fill just about where you want it, you might want to consolidate it a little with some acrylic emulsion (diluted down with water). You can then add some more fill if you need to and it will stick without dissolving everything around it, or you can finish it smooth with a hot spatula and a piece of mylar. It is weird stuff, but once you get the hang of it, it goes pretty fast...and it is really, really reversible.[167] An example of material choice—fillers Choosing a material to suit a particular treatment problem can involve either finding a known conservation material with suitable properties or customizing one from a combination of materials. In either case, the conservator first has to figure out what the desired properties are, and which undesirable properties could make the choice totally unsuitable. Filling materials make an interesting example, because of the recent development of a class of mixtures based on synthetic resins. These materials are, to some extent, replacing traditional filling materials like gesso, plaster and wax mixtures in certain uses.

The three historical materials have many positive characteristics in common. They are homogeneous and fine grained, easy to use, and inexpensive. A variety of coatings and paint media can be applied to them. However, they each have some disadvantages. The most obvious difficulty with gesso, for example, is that it shrinks on drying. This means that deep or large areas have to be filled a little at a time, and measures must be taken to assure that each layer sticks to the one below. Very shallow fillings can be difficult to handle; cleaning up around the edges of complex gesso fillings is difficult because of the danger of picking up too much. Fungal growth can occur when gesso is made in advance. Another difficulty with traditional gesso is the persistence of a white residue in cracks or pores of the original surface next to the loss, referred to as “ghosting.” Also, gesso is brittle once it is dry, making detailed carving of surface contours impossible. In addition, brittleness can lead to flaking when gesso is used to fill unstable gaps such as the joins in panel paintings. Gesso’s brittleness and overall weakness means that it cannot be used unsupported. Plaster has some of the same advantages and disadvantages (e.g., ghosting) as gesso, but because it is stronger, it is more often used for large fillings. On the other hand, plaster is less adhesive than gesso, sometimes making it necessary to adhere fillings in place with a regular adhesive. Wax is soft enough to make carving of detail possible, but even relatively hard wax mixtures are too soft to be used in large or unsupported areas, or in any parts of an object where they might be touched or handled. Wax can be hardened, but at the cost of increased brittleness. It is sometimes easier to use wax than gesso in areas with many small shallow losses, since their relative transparency makes it easier to assure than small islands of original surface are not covered up inadvertently. Wax is not suitable for some porous substrates. Many of the limitations of natural materials like gesso, plaster and wax are avoided by resin-based mixtures. There are many published recipes, primarily with Acryloid B-72 as a binder. Fillers include glass microballoons, fumed silica, cellulose powder, sand, marble dust, and pigments. Combinations produce a wide range of properties. With other

resins, such as polyvinyl acetate resin, ethyl cellulose, and even epoxies, the range of properties that can be produced is virtually infinite.[168] Among the advantages of resin-based mixtures is their ability to help to consolidate the area around a loss. Mixtures can be kept indefinitely and redissolved, so that, as with wax mixtures, a color can be mixed once and reused. Colors look the same wet or dry, which makes color matching easier. Resin-based fillings can be painted with pigments and a solvent or with additional resin so that translucency and a range of gloss can be created. Fillers themselves can make mixtures transparency enough to match marble. The greater cohesive strength of resin-based fillings compared to that of traditional gesso and wax permits the introduction of even the large-particle additives needed to create coarse texture. Wetting a resinous filling with solvent makes it slightly sticky, so that sand or other granular materials can be stuck into the surface to adjust its texture further. The problem of ghosting on tender surfaces like plaster can be avoided by filling losses with dry material and consolidating it in situ with an ethyl cellulose/ethanol solution applied with a dropper. More resin and solids can be added until the loose filling is as hard as desired. Unlike most other resins, ethyl cellulose is a poor film former and is effective as a consolidant at very low concentrations, so added applications of the liquid penetrate well into the filling. Another useful mixtures is epoxy and glass microballoons which together are lightweight and relatively inexpensive, and therefore useful for large fillings.[169] Synthetic-based filling materials are not a panacea, however. A review of filling materials for use on wood, published in 1988, describes such problems as drying slump and difficulties with sanding, carving, and painting.[170] Learning to create mixtures with the desired properties takes experimentation. Getting used to new handling properties also takes time. Tests of a variety of Acryloid B-72 recipes in the author’s laboratory revealed problems not encountered with wax or gesso. Some test recipes produced materials that were too rubbery to be sliced with a scalpel or abraded with sandpaper. Others were so quickly soluble that an

added layer or drop of solvent turned the whole filling to mush. Some mixtures were too granular to match the texture of fine-grained objects. In some, small bubbles left little pits when the surface was cut back. Aqueous inpainting media bead up on some resin-based materials. Some mixtures take many days to dry, creating a skin that may prevent solvents in the interior from coming out, and leaving the material soft enough to dent with a fingernail for a long time. Creating materials “to order” using only ingredients that are chemically stable has enough advantages to make the effort of learning how to do it worthwhile. A Single material with multiple uses: wax[171] Wax has multiple uses in conservation treatment. Many of its properties make it appealing for use on objects. Natural and synthetic waxes exhibit “considerable” chemically stability.[172] Their range of transition temperatures, comfortably above room temperature but not too high, makes them suitable for a variety of applications. They are a good moisture barrier and are slowly soluble in mild solvents. Different types of wax have different physical properties including color, stickiness, hardness, and flexibility. Properties can be adjusted with a variety of additives. These characteristics have made wax a favored material in restoration and conservation since ancient times. With various admixtures, it has been used as a coating for furniture and wooden sculpture; for metal objects to prevent corrosion; on ceramics to enhance gloss; on paintings over resinous varnishes to protect from pollution; and on outdoor metal sculpture as a sacrificial coating over resins. As a coating for leather it can also fill the role of consolidant. As a hot-melt adhesive, it has been used to reattach loose paint on paintings and polychrome sculpture, and to adhere linings to paintings on canvas. Wax is also used as a filling material, mixed with pigments or other inert fillers. It has been used as a preservative coating on wall paintings and as a consolidant for stone. It is also used in emulsion form as a cleaning agent, and as a matting agent in varnishes. In short, wax has been used for almost every purpose known to conservation.

Although waxes are excellent barriers to both liquid water and water vapor, their effectiveness varies widely depending on the substrate. In adhesives for paintings on canvas, it has gotten high marks for protection from fluctuating relative humidities and from air pollution as well, providing as good protection as sealing under Plexiglas.[173] However, wax coatings – or even impregnation - cannot prevent the cracking of wood, and wax does not perform well as a corrosion inhibitor. Wax does have negative qualities. It is difficult to remove from stone,[174] and metal.[175] Wax on surfaces collects and holds dust, and can stain porous materials. Although there is some information in the conservation literature on the chemistry of waxes, there is little published research on properties like aging and off-gassing that are so important for conservation materials. Research data analogous to what is routinely published on modern synthetic materials is largely absent. Thus decisions on the use of wax rely mainly on a) personal experience and b) anecdotal evidence. Given the long history of use, however, there is plenty of both. SOURCES FOR TREATMENT MATERIALS Industrial materials[176] Industrial materials that fit conservation requirements are single materials without additives. Several of the most commonly used conservation materials – including the Class-A material Acryloid B-72 - are specific chemical substances manufactured by large chemical companies.[177] Proprietary mixtures, by contrast, will rarely be ideal; they are designed for end-users with concerns different from those of conservators. For materials intended for widespread use, ease of use is primary, and long-term aging in the time scale that conservators care about is seldom a consideration. Formulations make use of many kinds of additives including stabilizers and anti-oxidants, fillers and extenders, tackifiers and plasticizers. A great deal of secrecy is involved.[178] Both the numerous ingredients and the secrecy create problems for conservators. In the case of adhesives, for example, additives and their deterioration products remain in the dried film and are “a potential source of weakness and deterioration.”[179] Secrecy makes it impossible for

conservators to understand the chemistry of such materials and to predict their long-term behavior. White glues (aqueous/resin adhesives), for example, have problems that make them inappropriate for many conservation uses. A common problem is the difficulty of removing dried films from porous surfaces. Conservators of necessity use materials manufactured for non-conservation purposes, but the use of proprietary formulations should be limited to situations where no other material has yet been shown to be suitable. In many cases, however, materials more appropriate for conservation can be formulated using chemically stable ingredients. As described above, additives like fumed silica, powdered cellulose, or micro-balloons can change viscosity and other properties. Alcohol can be used as a wetting agent or fungicide. Emulsions can be created with only one or two additives, because they do not need an infinite shelf life for conservation purposes. Another indication of a steady trend away from proprietary mixtures can be seen with aqueous cleaning agents. Single materials like citric acid (ammonium citrate) have become more common, allowing conservators to limit their use of household cleaners like Soilax. A cleaning mixture created from known components to suit a particular problem is certainly preferable to a consumer product designed for housecleaning. Artists’ and craft materials Materials formulated for artists and craftspeople are a major resource for conservators. Many non-industrial materials are prepared from natural materials or manufactured by artists’ suppliers. The increasing availability of a variety of archival products, like acid-free paper and labels, is also a boon to conservators. Standards for paper and artists' colors have given conservators increased control when these materials are used in treatments. Labeling standards for paint requiring standardized pigment names and categorizing lightfastness have allowed conservators to use prepared acrylics, gouache, and water colors in an informed way. Natural adhesives used for centuries, like starch paste and animal glues, are commonly used conservation materials. Their long history of use usually assures that their long-term behavior is predictable, if not perfect. However,

availability and consistency of product can be a problem. The properties of animal and fish glues, for example, vary among the animals used, organs chosen, and even the time of year the animal is taken.[180] Such properties include color, adhesive strength, purity, solubility, and flexibility. Even more-subtle properties are relevant at the point of use – including viscosity, wetting ability, stickiness, and bond strength. Precise control over treatment results is difficult when sources are not consistent and reliable. Conservators’ access to natural materials, of course, will depend on both the continuity of the crafts in which they are traditionally used and the continuing availability of the animals and plants involved. Sturgeon glue is a good example. Textiles and threads as treatment materials present a different set of issues. Some firms produce textiles to strict conservation specifications, but colors and textures are limited. As a result, fabrics of a desired color, weight, and texture must often be found among commercial sewing fabrics. Dying to order is a possibility, but can be expensive, and few people have the necessary expertise. Also at issue are characteristics like off-gassing, strength retention, sensitivity to changes in relative humidity and light, and behavior under tension. Other questions include the relative merits of cotton fabric and polyester/cotton blends, and preparation for conservation use to reduce additives that may contribute to off-gassing. Questions about textiles as conservation materials extend beyond the treatment of textiles to other areas, such as the treatment of paintings on canvas. Some conservators have shifted from linen canvas to polyester sailcloth as a routine lining material because high-quality linen canvas is time-consuming to prepare and, of course, very responsive to relative humidity changes. Polyester has a number of desirable properties, including the consistency that comes from its being a synthetic material. However, textiles used as treatment materials have not been subject to the kinds of thorough testing that conservators expect with adhesives and consolidants. *** The search for ideal treatment materials has two major aims: safety and efficacy. Conservators avoid materials that may result in damage to the

object, while choosing materials with properties that will support the dual treatment goals of preservation and interpretation. Both goals are strongly influenced by the chemical stability of treatment materials. The difference between an adequate and an optimal treatment may only be seen well into the future, and to a great degree depends on chemically stable materials. Feller’s categorization scheme based on chemical stability is therefore a vital tool for improving overall treatment quality. Science is vital to material choice in identifying conservation-grade materials that conservators can choose from. It cannot, however, prescribe the perfect material for a particular treatment problem, because material choice involves working properties and functions that may be impossible to quantify. Choosing or formulating materials that contribute to treatment success is not a science, but the result of creativity informed by a wealth of knowledge and experience. As noted in the beginning of this chapter, treatments are not defined by materials alone. The next chapter, on the choice of treatment method, will discuss criteria for treatment quality, including reversibility and efficacy. Because damage to objects as a result of treatment is so important to conservators, a major section of the chapter deals further with defining and assessing damage.

Chapter Twelve – Choice of Treatment Methods The steps of the methodology to this point provide a solid basis for treatment decision-making. The starting point is information from the characterization, particularly the right-hand – non-material – side. The timeline and values analysis of Chapter Seven give us the ideal state. The choice of ideal state, in turn, gives us a potential treatment endpoint and the basic outline for treatment. The treatment goal is modified based on what it seems that treatment can realistically achieve (Chapter Eight). Setting a goal related to preservation and protection, as described in Chapter Nine, assures that the proposed treatment accounts for the physical demands of the object’s future. Chapter Eleven sets criteria for the choice of materials. Armed with a carefully defined treatment goal and a preference for Class-A materials, we can get more specific about what it is that treatment is expected to accomplish, and we can put the tasks in order. Loosely speaking, we will (1) remove unwanted material, (2) repair and strengthen what is left, and (3) add whatever is necessary to create the desired appearance. A treatment plan will usually specify what will be removed and how, the structural work that will be carried out, and the general nature of compensation. This is the level of detail that normally appears in a treatment proposal. For example, (1) dirt and existing repairs will be removed; (2) paper will be deacidified, or the object will be reconstructed from fragments, or rips will be repaired; (3) holes will be filled and inpainted, or a new ear will be made to replace the missing one. This level of detail emerges directly from the choice of ideal state and the realistic goal based on it. A second level of detail consists of treatment steps that have a substantial effect on treatment efficacy – what will best accomplish the task and last the longest. This includes choice of adhesives, solvents, coatings, and inpainting media as well as support materials and mechanical means of cleaning. For

each material and application method chosen, additional choices, like the percentage of solutions or immersion times, must be made. These choices are often standardized within a laboratory, based on what we have been taught, modified on the basis of published research, personal experience, or discussions with colleagues. This is the level of detail most often addressed in the conservation literature, and the one that typically appears in final treatment reports. A third level of detail lies in the procedures used to get the job done efficiently, safely, and neatly. If, for example, we are immersing an object in liquid, do we put the object in first and pour liquid over it or do we lower it into the liquid? Do we employ any special techniques to minimize the amount of liquid needed, to prevent evaporation, or to deal with potential toxicity? Published articles rarely describe this level of detail, but it represents much of conservators’ skills, and is clearly vital to treatment success. A small number of articles from a 1990 IIC conference illustrate the vital minutiae involved in doing treatments. For cleaning of surfaces, for example, they describe how large an area was worked at a time, how a cleaning solution was applied, how long it was left on the surface, how the liquid was removed, and how the residue was rinsed off. Different uses of swabs and brushes are discussed, as well as the process of cleaning through Japanese tissue or other kinds of paper. Scalpel technique is described in great detail. Other matters include the level of magnification to work under, the level of concentration required from the conservator, and a need for working only for short periods of time. This kind of information appearing in print is of extraordinary value to the profession.[181] As crucial as this kind of information is, this book is not the place for it, and we will concentrate on choice of method in the larger sense, which relates to the planning, rather than execution, of treatments. (A short final chapter in the book, however, addresses some issues that arise from actually doing treatments.) As with the previous chapter on the choice of materials, this chapter addresses criteria that define treatment quality, primarily reversibility, efficacy, and issues related to possible damage from treatments. TREATMENT CRITERIA

Reversibility Reversibility is vital for the future of objects and is a consideration in the choice of both materials and methods. An optimal treatment allows future conservators to identify added materials, remove them safely, and carry out another treatment without restraint. Here, specifically, is the description of reversibility from The Murray Pease Report of 1964: The conservator is guided by and endeavors to apply the 'principle of reversibility' in his treatments. He should avoid the use of materials which may become so intractable that their future removal could endanger the physical safety of the object. He should also avoid the use of techniques the results of which cannot be undone if that should become desirable.[182] Reversibility is important for the long term because we have no way of knowing what will happen to an object in the fullness of time. Further damage and/or deterioration will undoubtedly make future treatment necessary unless the object is totally destroyed first. In addition, when the values of an object change, changes in the treatment may be desirable, and should be possible without undue difficulty. The capability to undo selected portions of a conservation treatment without undoing the whole treatment is another benefit of a well-designed and reversible treatment. Many conservators believe that treatments should be reversible because so many past treatments have turned out badly. Unfortunately, bad treatments, by definition, are often not reversible. The imperative of reversibility will not protect objects from someone who decides that sandpaper is the tool of choice to flatten cupped and lifting paint or ceramic sherds that don’t fit together. There are plenty of other reasons for reversibility. Any conservator who has treated an object that has been treated before knows how important it is. A rather large and fragile painting treated at Appelbaum and Himmelstein, for example, had more than a dozen rips that had been patched on the reverse. About half of the patches had been adhered with a wax mixture; the other half were adhered with white glue. There was no question about which set of patches was going to be the easier to remove.

That this basic criterion for treatment is admittedly unattainable in the absolute is sometimes used as a justification for ignoring it altogether.[183] This is logically indefensible; a treatment that is made as reversible as possible can only benefit the object and conservators who encounter it in the future. Reversibility is particularly important for compensation, for a number of reasons. Materials may become available that make it possible to do a more invisible job. New information may provide a more accurate template for compensation that was based on supposition. A change in ownership may change the objet’s values, and therefore its ideal state. Tastes on the desirable degree of compensation may change. Easy reversibility can also be important for objects assembled from fragments, so that any later-found fragments can be added. Reversibility is the attribute of a process, not of a material. Confusion on this point can lead to the mistaken idea that the reversibility of a treatment is solely dependent on the solubility or aging characteristics of the treatment materials. Insoluble materials can often be removable from an object, while soluble materials may or may not be safely removable depending on their location on, or in, an object, the sensitivity of the substrate, etc.[184] For example, a water-soluble filling material like gesso is not safely removable from a water-sensitive substrate like mud or plaster. A good example of reversibility not dependent on solubility is the filling of deep voids in wood. Materials like archival foams can be laid into the void to avoid introducing solid materials that would be locked in by the shape of the space to be filled. Epoxy or polyester resins can be cast in situ but with a barrier between the object and the filling. The filling is removed when set and secured in place using an easily soluble adhesive.[185] Another example of a reversible treatment method is repair of baskets with paper fibers wet with dilute emulsion adhesive. Although emulsions are difficult to remove from porous surfaces, the paper fibers increase bond strength, allowing strong repairs with a minimum of adhesive, and the fibers enhance wetting and subsequent removal of adhesive residues. Choice of treatment materials has clear consequences for the degree of reversibility of a treatment. Although even soluble impregnants can never be

completely purged from porous materials,[186] the removal of soluble resins from, for example, corroded bronzes, is much more feasible than the removal of waxes.[187] Impregnation undoubtedly puts treatment materials in places from which they cannot be removed, but often also leaves material on or near the object’s surface, where later removal could be important for retreatment. Heat-seal and hot-melt adhesive linings are easier to remove from paintings on canvas than linings using starch paste or animal glue. A complication is that reversal of a treatment may be technically undemanding but impractical. For example, a common textile treatment involves mounting onto a backing or lining fabric of similar color, to compensate for loss while providing needed support. This is, at the same time, a structural treatment, compensation for loss, and a decorative finish around the edges of the textile, analogous to a mat surrounding a work on paper. As time goes on, a change in display or a dated look to the color or texture of the mounting fabric might make it desirable to change the decorative part. But cutting and pulling out stitches can be hazardous to the textile and incredibly time-consuming. Redoing the whole treatment may be prohibitive. Despite all these ways that reversibility affects treatment choice, there is widespread confusion about its meaning and purpose. As noted above, a reversible treatment is simply one that allows future conservators to remove added materials to the point where other materials can be used for the next treatment. Conservators’ responsibility is to the future, not the past. Reversibility is not about putting objects into their exact pre-treatment state and does not require the removal of every trace of an added treatment material from an object. The next conservator’s ability to treat an object is not impeded by microscopic remnants of a conservation-grade material. Similarly, the fact that a cleaned object cannot be returned to its pre-cleaning state does not make cleaning inadvisable. If some material was mistakenly removed from an object, the problem is not reversibility but poor technique or bad judgement. There is also confusion about the relationships between reversibility and other conservation concerns such as permanence, damage to objects, durability, and minimal intervention, as well as solubility, discussed above. A 1999 conference at the British Museum, entitled “Reversibility - Does It

Exist?”[188] encouraged conservators to examine their reservations on the subject.[189] Permanence of treatment materials is related to reversibility, but they are not the same. Reversibility is tied to the chemical stability of added materials only to the extent that the properties that allow removal remain unchanged, but actual removability depends on a variety of other factors. Many treatment materials are removing by dissolution, but some are removed in other ways. The mechanical removal of gesso fillings, for example, can be preferable because dissolving it off creates a messy puddle of liquid that can be difficult to remove. Conversely, chemical stability is not required for dissolution. Dammar resin is not a chemically stable material, but remains soluble enough over several hundred years that solvent removal remains feasible. Reversibility of a treatment does not safeguard against damage; damage to an object by an applied material has no relation to its removability except in cases where a conservator tries to get it off to prevent more damage and cannot. An example is the encapsulation of paper in films that off-gas. The harmful materials can be easily removed, but they cause deterioration in the meantime. Reversibility and durability are sometimes mistakenly treated as opposites. An article on pressure-sensitive adhesives used for lining paintings, for example, states: “The weakening of adhesion observed in assemblies of the MAS type [mylar/adhesive/steel] contributes in the long term to the reversibility of this kind of lining.”[190] Another publication on the lining of paintings correlates peel strength with reversibility: if the bond is too weak, the lining will come apart. If it is too strong, the bond will be irreversible.[191] Glue linings are sometimes described as being reversible, but can be removed easily only when the adhesive bonds have failed. Adhesive failure is not reversibility. Treatments are expected to hold themselves together until a conservator decides to undo them. Treatments may be reversible to varying degrees, but reversibility remains a fundamental principle of conservation that is a consideration in the planning of every treatment. The core of reversibility is retreatability.[192] Although the term is awkward, the idea clarifies much about why reversibility is important.

Efficacy Efficacy measures the degree to which a treatment procedure accomplishes what it was intended for. For conservation this includes a measure of how long the effects will last. Efficacy is the most objective criterion of all, since it compares treatment results to a stated goal. Efficacy can therefore be studied scientifically as long as there is a measurable goal. Research can compare methods for treating bronze disease, consolidating powdery stone, or flattening distortions in a basket. Typically, prepared samples are treated with different methods and materials, and, along with untreated controls, are artificially aging. The results are evaluated using a pre-set protocol that produces quantitative data. In reality, however, few common treatments are based on scientific research, and judgements on efficacy come, rather, from the accumulated experience of conservators and their observations of treated objects over time. Elegance Treatments ordinarily include more than one process. Different methods are chosen for cleaning, strengthening of the object, compensation, and some kind of finish, and each method is carried out using specific techniques that the conservator has chosen. Yet a treatment is more than the sum of its parts. A treatment is elegant when each step dovetails seamlessly with the next in time and space. Each step in an elegant treatment accomplishes a specific and well-defined task and at the same time serves as preparation for the next step. A treatment design is elegant when the plan seems simple, smooth, and inevitable, and actually works out that way. It is not labored, awkward, contrived, or unnecessarily complicated. If it proceeds as expected, small steps taken at the beginning show their usefulness at the end, and the last steps in treatment fall into place without stress or strain, on the conservator or the object. Classic elegant conservation treatments are those in which well-studied materials and methods are adapted in innovative ways. An elegant treatment design can entail a great deal of thought and ingenuity, as illustrated by a number of published treatments of upholstered furniture that reflect sensitivity to values, innovative approaches to reversibility, the maximum preservation of information, and the use of chemically stable

materials.[193] These treatments produce objects that appear indistinguishable from furniture upholstered in traditional ways, but the actual means of attachment does not include any nails or staples that pierce the wood. Velcro makes it possible to examine the carcass of the furniture without undoing any part of the treatment. When furniture is treated using these techniques, stuffing is typically replaced by ethafoam carved to the appropriate shape. The resulting object has a seat that looks like the original one, but is not “sittable.” Some people would describe the resulting object as not really a chair but a simulacrum of one, entirely suitable for museum exhibition. Elegance of a treatment is no mere nicety. The lack of agony that is the hallmark of an elegant treatment is good for both the object and the conservator. Treatments can be difficult, but when a treatment design entails more than a modicum of frustration, risk, and angst, this should set off signals that a treatment might benefit from a complete rethinking. Mental models as planning tool A mental model is a tactic for understanding the fundamental problems the object presents and for “trying out” treatments. Creating a mental model involves paring the object down to its underlying structure so that scientific data can be applied to its behavior. For example, a wooden object can be envisioned as a part of the structure of a tree, like a diagram in a textbook, with little arrows indicating different degrees of dimensional change in its three directions. The model can be enhanced as treatments are considered, by envisioning the behavior of the whole and all its parts during radical changes in temperature, moisture content, during transport, or with added loads. Creation of a mental model allows the conservator to carry out a virtual runthrough of a proposed treatment. Careful construction of a mental model will also reveal points of uncertainty that can be cleared up with further testing or research. Mental models also act as a guide while treatment is being carried out. Decisions on solvent choice based on evaporation rate, for example, are based on the conservator's mental image of dispersal of the liquid into the solid that is to be dissolved.

Treatments described in the literature often show the use of mental models. In one, the aesthetics of a building are analyzed in terms of its history, and a model is constructed based on a number of sources, including behavior of the stone reported from the geological literature and from other structures; a range of analytical studies of samples from the building; general knowledge of the deterioration of limestone; and published studies of water and stain movement through stone. Removal of paint layers revealed the locations of staining to be where the authors expected.[194] Preparation for treatment in this case connected details of proposed treatment techniques to historic, aesthetic, and scientific issues, leaving the reader with the impression that all relevant questions had been discussed and all possible choices of treatment considered. Although the resources available and the number of people involved in large-scale projects like this one may force the conservator to be more explicit in the process leading up to the preparation of a treatment plan, the process in which observations, testing or analysis, reference to the technical literature, and field experience are interwoven is, or should be, a familiar one for conservators. ASSESSING DAMAGE As illustrated in Chapter Eleven with disputes about material choice,[195] damage avoidance is a major preoccupation for conservators and plays a major role in all treatment decisions. It brings our burden of responsibility for the well-being of objects to its most intense and sometimes nightmarish form. Judging damage by its effect on values, as suggested above,[196] will never by itself clear our over-burdened consciences. We therefore need to look deeper at the concept – for it is a concept, not a physical fact. Damage is not an observation but a conclusion, and exists in varying degrees, probabilities, and levels of significance. It’s a balance Damage could be defined as any physical change that is not the intended result of treatment. Such an all-encompassing definition reflects the belief that changing the “essential nature” of an object is unethical. This restricts treatments severely, as it defines as damage both invisible changes and

visible ones that would seem benign to a “normal” observer. The notion of damage needs a closer look. Specifically, treatment decisions should involve a balance between the predicted benefits of proposed treatments and their potential downside. On one side is the known efficacy of the treatment in achieving its goal preventing corrosion, or reshaping an area of distortion. Weighing in on the other side are the treatment’s possible undesirable consequences – changing the appearance of a metal surface, or breaking brittle fibers. Defining those side-effects as damage requires both that they are undesirable and that their magnitude is significant. In addition, the difficult issue of probability is a major factor: how common are the side-effects, and can their likelihood be reduced. Any number of factors influences the seriousness of potential changes to an object and their appropriate influence on treatment decisions. These include the nature, timing, and scale of changes, their magnitude and probability, the portion of the original that they affect, their reversibility, and, of course, their effect on values. Some treatment side-effects are even beneficial, while the significance of other changes is unclear. Some paper treatments, for example, have the side-effect of killing mold spores and thereby making the paper less susceptible to mold growth. The leaching of paint films during solvent application seems on balance to be better avoided if possible, but its long-term significance is unknown.[197] If we give too much weight to potential downsides, objects that would benefit from treatment will not receive it, or will get treatment too superficial to fulfill their physical needs. Making distinctions among the various types of downside risk should help us separate the really harmful from the not-so-bad, improve the reliability of these particularly painful decisions, and help us to sleep easier. Judgements about damage during treatment are situational, not absolute. By definition, a treatment method or material that causes meaningful damage in all cases would not stay in the repertoire of trained professionals. Most treatments are not so harmful as to be self-evidently stupid, but potent enough so that there is some potential for damage.

An example of the balance between the benefits and hazards of treatment is the use of heat in the structural treatment of paintings. V. R. Mehra rejects the use of heat in lining because of the possibility of damage. He writes that “We consider heat in lining undesirable and dangerous” and that wax-lined paintings “behave in a physically different way from when they are not,”[198] and adds that any change in behavior is a contraindication. On the other hand, heat treatments, in combination with wax or moisture, have significant benefits in correcting distortions in paint films. Plasticizing paint so that distortions can be corrected without cracking brittle layers would seem to require some change in properties, and a long-term plasticizing effect would seem to be beneficial, preventing further cracking and planar distortion. There is no magic way to help us decide on the correct balance between potential damage and potential benefit. Knowledge from reading and from discussions with colleagues helps. But conservators also need to resolve their concerns and move ahead. Many conservators are too isolated; working alone is a breeding ground for needless worry. The bottom line is risk assessment. As in business, the job of a professional is not risk avoidance but risk management. Strategies to lessen the probability of damage cannot be successful unless risk is acknowledged and identified. The concept that a treatment should not alter the essential, true, or fundamental nature of an object would make sense if there were such a thing, if it could be measured, and if we ignore that fact that treatments are carried out when something about an object “needs” to be changed. Treatments change objects. That is their purpose. The conservator’s job is to assure that the changes that occur are judged by everyone involved to be either beneficial or neutral. Judgements about the exact nature and the significance of physical changes that are either the intentional consequence of treatment or its side-effects are an unavoidable part of the conservator’s professional life. Types of changes The idea that we must weigh the magnitude and seriousness of any treatment-induced change to an object before it can properly be called

“damage” can be further understood by considering a number of phenomena with the potential to be labeled as damage. Each has its own boundaries between permissibility and bad practice. 1. Change that is a purposeful part of treatment: Purposeful intrusion into, or removal of, original material as a planned part of treatment is acceptable, if not exactly desirable, when it improves treatment outcome. This judgement is routinely made in sanding the reverse of canvas supports for paintings before lining, cutting hanging threads from textiles, or removing wood fibers from a broken edge. The availability of alternate treatment choices may affect whether these procedures are really necessary, but the sacrifice of original material can be a legitimate part of treatment. Since these are purposeful acts by the conservator, their consequences are immediate, controllable, and time-limited, and compensation can deal with their effects when necessary. Undesirable alterations can be minimized with skill and special techniques. Small holes, for example, may have to be punched in the paint layers of panel paintings so that consolidants can be injected beneath. The magnitude of such alterations can be minimized by using facings to protect the paint layer and by careful planning to make holes as few as possible. Once the treatment is finished, the holes will have no further effect on the object. 2. Change that is an unfortunate treatment outcome: This category probably engenders most of the debates about the advisability – or inadvisability – of certain treatments. It covers difficult issues like small-scale changes that research has shown may inevitably accompany certain treatments. It also covers common phenomena like damage to surfaces during cleaning. Expert technique can minimize some problems, if not avoid them completely. Judgement calls about whether the treatment under consideration should be performed at all depend on the monetary value of the object, the acceptability of the object’s current state, the magnitude of potential change, and the conservator’s tolerance for risk. 3. Potential future change: The third type of change to objects during treatment – a potential for future change - is particularly ominous. Undesirable change that may occur after the treatment is complete is more insidious than what may occur while we are looking. If it is not clear exactly what changes may happen, if they cannot be monitored, or if no one notices

them, treatment may not occur in time to prevent loss of value. This type of change can undoubtedly have an induction phase,[199] in which small changes go unnoticed but ultimately accumulate to a point where relatively sudden damage or deterioration appear. For all these reasons, possible future change, like physical stresses from brittle materials used on objects that move with humidity changes, or chemical changes produced by off-gassing from unstable treatment materials, can have significant negative consequences. When treatment options are weighed, the potential for future damage should be judged as more threatening to an object than changes that occurs as an immediate side-effect of the treatment process. 4. Accidental change: Addressing potential damage to an object from accidents during treatment is a matter of risk management. Certain treatment procedures, like backing removals and the cleaning of fragile objects, have an inherent risk of associated minor damage that can be minimized but not eliminated. Decisions about undertaking procedures like these involve weighing the risks against the benefits of treatment. 5. Loss of original material: The loss of material from extremely fragile objects occurs with objects like salt-riddled stone or ceramics, old newsprint, and weighted silk. The risk is present before treatment begins – even with the process of examination. Minimizing that risk is part of the conservator’s technical skills. Since the risk to this kind of object is as self-evident as the benefits of treatment, both to the custodian and the conservator, it is not ordinarily a contraindication for treatment. 6. Loss of information: Loss of information through alteration of original material is most serious when the object as a whole is altered. Conservators are ordinarily very careful to protect the kinds of information contained in small parts of any object, like inscriptions, toolmarks, and underdrawings, and commonly document them as well. But, for example, annealing a metal object or using electrolytic and electrochemical treatments in which the object is immersed changes the whole object. Such changes can totally erase microstructure that supplies evidence of the object’s creation.[200] Heating can also invalidate thermoluminescence dating. But these considerations are of lesser concern if the object’s history is well known, if it is one of a common type, or if, for other reasons, it has no research value. Procedures that change a fundamental property of a whole object, however, may have long-term effects we cannot predict. Making those changes is only justifiable if it

substantially enhances values or longevity. Particularly difficult preservation problems, like cannons from deep-sea sites, are an example. Again: damage is not an observation but a conclusion. There is no line in the sand to ease decision-making. The possibility of damage always needs to be balanced against the benefits of treatment and the risks of not treating an object. Evaluating published information on potential damage As seen in the previous chapter, reports in the literature on particular treatment methods often report on potentially undesirable side-effects. Such reports must be evaluated to determine whether a) the phenomena they discuss will affect the particular object we have before us and b) whether any such changes will be so detrimental, on balance, as to constitute damage and to therefore to make the treatment contra-indicated. For example, two publications describing microscopic examination of treated paper describe small-scale but pervasive changes after solvent and water immersion. These changes include possible loss of coatings, microfissures, and changes in gloss.[201] The findings are jarring, both because, if they can be shown to be common occurrences, they have the potential for accelerating other kinds of deterioration, and because they potentially encompass so many common treatment procedures. Certain questions are appropriate before the findings are to be applied to treatment options. Have others reported the same results? It is inadvisable to change treatment protocols based on a single research result. In the case above, the publication of two papers side by side makes the results much more convincing. Do the same effects occur on the second immersion? This is relevant because so many paper objects have been immersed in the past, and changes have already occurred. What do the results tell us about minimizing possible problems? If longer soaking times are shown to increase the magnitude of the changes, for example, then the conservator clearly should be devising treatments that minimize exposure. If drying conditions affect the outcome, then treatments should be adjusted as well. As has been shown with textile fibers, gradual humidification before immersion in water minimizes undesirable changes to fibers; this may be true of paper fibers as well.

Another question is the significance of the changes. Does change in gloss as seen on a micro scale change the appearance of the object? Do structural changes make the object more susceptible to deterioration in the future? While we would rather see no changes in an object as a side-effect of treatment, real decisions have to be made, and answers to questions of significance are needed in order to do a kind of cost/benefit analysis of a proposed treatment. Another example of small-scale changes from treatment is the ultrasonic cleaning of feathers, which results in the microscopic disarrangement of barbules. In principle, those changes are undesirable, but they may not be more pronounced than those from other, possibly less effective, cleaning techniques, and adjustments in technique could possible minimize them. Questions remain as to whether the changes affect the appearance of the feathers, their research value, or their aging properties. In this case, the researchers are, appropriately, moderate about weighing the downside risk of the treatment against its advantages.[202] It is far from clear that such changes represent “damage” to the object. As conservators get more access to sophisticated analytical equipment, the discovery of small-scale, even microscopic, treatment side-effects may become more common. As we learn more about smaller-scale changes in objects, it may become necessary to adopt the position that, beyond some unspecified point, such changes are not significant enough to be called damage. Otherwise, many common treatment methods that have proved over decades to aid the preservation of cultural property will be abandoned. One factor that may cause a conservator to forego treatment is the possibility that less harmful treatments will be developed in the future. In rare cases of extremely valuable objects that can be preserved without invasive treatment, this may be a viable choice. However, the small percentage of the world's cultural property under the care of conservators makes it vital that most objects in the hands of a qualified conservator be treated when the opportunity presents itself. The price of putting an object aside can be continuing deterioration. Delay of treatment can also mean many years of loss of use, which, in turn, can lead to further neglect. In order to resolve - or even clarify - differences of opinion on the use of any maligned treatment method, critical review of relevant scientific research,

the purposes of the procedure, and its range of applications are needed. Variations in the ways the treatment is carried out should be considered, and the study of objects treated using the method would be advisable as well. The existing literature can be downright unhelpful. It is not difficult to find articles with completely conflicting opinions, neither of which acknowledge the opposing point of view.[203] What guidance can conservators take away from such reports? For many treatment methods, little in the literature of either an anecdotal or scientific nature answers our questions of fact, and even if we have factual information, it will not decide judgement calls. In treatment of archaeological bronzes, for example, "some metal is lost to solution when using alkaline dithionate; however, the loss is minimal in comparison to the overall success rate for treating ancient bronze artifacts."[204] If it were possible to quantify such a loss, how much would be acceptable? Similarly unhelpful is a common recommendation in response to reports of possible damage from a treatment method: the treatment should not be carried out if it is “not necessary. “ Unnecessary treatments are unethical by definition. Admonitions to “be careful” are similarly meaningless. It is only possible to be careful when one knows what to be careful of, and when mitigation measures are available. For example, in describing a synthetic resin used for consolidation of ancient wood, an author reports that severe accelerated aging caused test samples to become brittle and insoluble and that the resin contains from 18-20% polyvinyl alcohol, "which can cross-link and cause yellowing of resins, but may also cross-link with cellulose molecules.” The author’s conclusion was that “care should be taken when using this polymer, especially on wooden artifacts."[205] According to another author, writing about a different technique: “this latter method has been found to be unreliable unless used with great care."[206] The reader is left wondering what kind of “care” would prevent the development of cross-linking, decreased solubility, and yellowing, and increase the reliability of treatment outcomes. Being careful is no substitute for sound decision-making. The conservator’s psyche

One of the biggest difficulties in assessing potential damage, or perhaps, more precisely, "unwanted side-effects," is the emotions of the conservator. Judging one kind of "damage" as not as bad as another is blood-chilling and sounds like a self-serving rationalization. Conservators undoubtedly fear that open discussion of an “acceptable” level of damage may create mistrust of conservators by custodians of cultural property. Both potential mistrust and the fear itself need to be discussed, as painful as such a discussion may be. As seen in Chapters Ten and Eleven, and in the preceding section, we can use values, preservation concerns, and established treatment goals to judge whether possible side-effects of treatment constitute meaningful damage. We can use our knowledge of chemistry to find cases where such change might occur, and we can look at the conservation literature to find out if they really do. We can think about the degree to which they rise to a level we would call damage, and then question whether they outweigh the benefits that treatment might confer and the negatives involved with not treating the object. But there is precious little here to assuage our fears of criticism. Conservators surely err on the side of caution. Our middle-of-the-night fears of destroying objects are exaggeration. Ashley-Smith comments on “the almost religious obsession for preserving every minute scrap of original material,” adding that [t]he chances are extremely small that one tiny fragment of the bulk material contains unique information. The amount of time involved in reintegrating tiny splinters of wood or ceramic may be out of all proportion to the change in value or utility of the mended piece.[207] In some cases, the appearance of an area reconstructed from tiny bits is actually more of a visual distraction than compensation. Yet discard of any original material is disturbing. What conservator would talk about throwing stuff out? Keeping the little bits in a jar may assuage consciences but hardly makes a difference. Microscopic changes, the discard of a teaspoon of crumbs, or an additional half-inch of rip, are hardly tantamount to destroying an object. The question of judging damage is, without a doubt, more than a technical, or even theoretical, question. It is not even solely related to the methodology of conservation treatment. It is a deeply personal matter for practicing conservators. Both the fear of criticism from others and the fear of a

treatment that “goes wrong” may prevent conservators from carrying out treatments that are, on balance, demonstrably beneficial. Fear of any kind does not enhance the quality of decision-making. In fact, conservators may get more upset about damage to objects during treatment than some of the objects’ custodians. More than one conservator tells the story of having informed a client of such an occurrence, only to find that the only reaction was a request for reassurance that the conservator would treat the added problem without a change in the treatment cost. If a textile has a three-inch rip before treatment, which grows during treatment to four inches, the conservator might have nightmares, but the client may not feel put out at all. The dialectic on the meaning of damage – the back-and-forth argument with its octopus-load of “on-the-one-hand, on-the-other-hand,” is typical of conservation decision-making. There is always something else to be considered—some remote eventuality—that can turn an argument on its head. Underlying the intellectual sparring is an obsessive drive to protect the object from even the slightest or most improbable injury. We conservators, it would seem, go to extraordinary lengths to protect the object from none other than ourselves. *** When our drive to protect objects rules out treatments that could enhance an object’s values or longevity, we have gone too far. An overemphasis on avoidance of short-term risk can increase long-term risk. Conservators should not allow fear of criticism, fear of changing something in an object that might prove important in the future, or horror at damage caused in the past, to forestall worthwhile treatments. The dynamics of the conservation profession and the predilections of its practitioners make caution a strong guiding principle of conservation work. Caution may protect an object from a bad treatment, but does not guarantee a good one. Over-reliance on caution can also produce a culture in which work that would benefit an object is avoided or put off because of a fear of doing damage. Once the methods for a treatment have been chosen, down to the (almost) last detail, it is time to move ahead and do the job. Although this book is not

an instructional manual, the next chapter addresses some issues that arise during treatment execution. One is the persistent question about the limitations of science in eliminating uncertainty. Another is the constant interplay between knowledge and skill.

Introduction to Section IV – Documentation and Treatment This section covers the last three steps in the methodology: pre-treatment documentation, execution of the treatment, and post-treatment documentation. Documentation of both kinds is covered first. The documentation discussed here consists of before- and after-treatment reports only, not technical reports on examination or reports written for other purposes. Chapters Thirteen and Fourteen follow the documentation recommendations common to a number of national codes of ethics. The terms “treatment proposal,” or “proposal” describe the pre-treatment documentation that ordinarily goes to the custodian for approval. It generally includes an examination report and a proposal for treatment, along with treatment costs and other relevant information. “Treatment report” refers to post-treatment documentation. This is normally accompanied by photographs or drawings that illustrate the object’s state before and after treatment, and an “actual state” image that shows the object after cleaning and structural work, but before compensation. In many institutions with permanent conservation staff, documentation is not circulated but is simply added to departmental files. Although this kind of documentation is widely accepted by professionals, there is wide variation in practice. These include variations in form (narrative writing in normal paragraphs vs. check-off forms), in length (one short page and up), and in content (including, sometimes, detailed descriptions of the object, technical analysis of materials, and art historical information). As with other matters in the methodology, wide variety is expected, but the final choice must suit the circumstances. The creation and permanent preservation of conservation treatment documentation, both textual and graphic, are hallmarks of the modern conservation profession. These are self-imposed requirements; like reversibility, documentation is primarily discussed by conservators with

conservators, because it is of relatively minor interest to the other people involved in treatments or dealing with treated objects. Conservators nonetheless generally believe that those “other” people should be more interested in the contents of treatment documentation. This is clearly one of the major issues of report-writing: getting people to read them. Reports that target exactly what different readers want to know using language no more technical than necessary would undoubtedly help. Even museum professionals may understand less than we think they do. As with other parts of the methodology, this section starts with establishing goals. Chapter Thirteen will look at the parties who might find documentation useful and the kinds of information of interest to each group. These parties include: the conservator carrying out the treatment, the current custodian, material culture specialists studying the object, future conservators examining the object or contemplating its re-treatment, conservators studying the treatment, and conservation students and teachers. In addition, documentation benefits the object itself, the society that is intended to benefit by its continued existence and good health, and the conservation profession as a whole. Chapter Fourteen addresses the creation of documentation that serves the purposes addressed in Chapter Thirteen. Ideally, terminology should be appropriate to the reader, which limits its technical content and terminology, but technical language is necessary to convey certain kinds of information. A treatment report form is proposed that provides information for custodians tailored to what the conservator thinks they should know, described in nontechnical terms. A separate section includes the technical information that future conservators will need. The terminology and explicit decision-making processes of the methodology promotes clarity for all readers by describing the goals of treatment in common English and specifying the issues critical to decision-making. For documentation to fulfill any purposes at all, it must first be created and then preserved in some permanent form. It must also be retrievable. The idea that conservation documentation must accompany treated objects has wide acceptance among professional conservators worldwide. But there is still protest from some quarters that, with low-cost treatments in particular,

the added effort is untenable. This may rest on assumptions about the kinds of information that should be included and the resulting length of reports.[208] Clarity about what does not need to be in reports may be as important as what does. Retention and retrievability are vital. There is no point in expending effort on documentation if, in the future, no one can find it. This book will not address technical issues related to the media on which graphic and textual records are kept, but will discuss some issues of retention and retrievability. Requirements for usable documentation are not as onerous as they sometimes seem. The discussion in Chapter Thirteen about the needs of potential users helps to clarify both the contents of optimal documentation and recommended levels of technical detail. Chapter Fourteen demonstrates the structure and terminology of the methodology that help to produce text that is relatively easy to write - and to read. Documentation involves some profession-wide issues. How do we learn to create documentation, and how do we judge our own efforts? How do we keep up with accepted practice? Conservation students write reports largely for the eyes of their teachers. This means including a lot that is designed to impress, rather than edify, that particular sub-group of users. When we become employed, we adjust our documentation to our employer’s long-standing practices without, usually, any explicit recognition of the reasons they were adopted. And in our continuing professional lives, we see even less of other conservators’ documentation than we see of their treatments.[209] In addition, we almost never get feedback from custodians on their reactions to documentation. Some are undoubtedly surprised to get it at all, although many seem grateful. Some undoubtedly save it, but many do not. The author cannot recall, however, even one instance in over thirty years of private practice when a client commented on the content of a treatment report, or asked questions about it. In view of this almost total lack of feedback about our documentation, an opportunity to read a variety of other conservators’ reports would undoubtedly improve documentation immediately. All examples, good and bad alike, would clarify issues of content and clarity and would illustrate

helpful practices developed by others. We could make adjustments suitable to our own practices without the kinds of complex discussions that would otherwise be required. Unfortunately, it is difficult to imagine how to accomplish this, in light of conservators’ concerns about confidentiality and their reticence about showing their work. It is, in short, not going to happen. The reader will have to live with somewhat less convenient coverage of the topic, as presented in Chapters Thirteen and Fourteen. Chapter Fifteen is a short discussion of the dynamics of carrying out a conservation treatment and a summary of life as a conservator.

Chapter Thirteen – The Purposes of Treatment Documentation Conservation treatment documentation, including treatment proposals and reports, photographs, and other graphic material, serves many functions: business contract, scientific report, justification for payment or salary earned, memory aid, teaching tool, and, at times, public relations. Just like the treatments it accompanies, conservation documentation is appropriately different in different situations. Form, style, length of reports, and the extent or form of graphic documentation vary widely. Content, however, is a more fundamental issue. The categories of information included in treatment documentation should be determined by the needs of its readers. Once the purposes of documentation are clear, we can look at ways to fulfill them, which we will do in Chapter Fourteen. Let us look, one at a time, at the groups of people who use conservation documentation. The conservator carrying out the treatment Both the proposal and the treatment report serve important functions for the conservator. A primary function of a treatment proposal is to elicit the custodian’s consent, presumably his “informed” consent, for the conservator to carry out the treatment. But the proposal records many other areas of agreement as well. It confirms in writing information supplied orally by the custodian. It indicates the custodian’s acceptance of other information including examination findings that may contradict his earlier understanding of the object and its pre-treatment state. (Other areas of agreement in treatment proposals include the attribution and dating of the object, the custodian’s future use of the object and its environment, and business matters like insurance and shipping. These matters will be discussed further in Chapter Fourteen.)

Unfortunately, a signed proposal does not guarantee informed consent, since many people will sign documents without understanding, or even reading, them. This is not ideal. Proposals should be crafted to encourage custodians to read them and ask questions about things they do not understand. Technical matters that the custodian is not likely to understand should be described in ways that clarify their contribution to treatment goals, something that the custodian is capable of giving informed consent to. Requirements for a treatment proposal serves the conservator by restraining an urge to start treatment too quickly, without due consideration of exactly what should be done. When custodians give conservators carte blanche to go ahead immediately with whatever treatment the conservator favors, important time for reflection can be lost, and the door is open for actions that may cause future regret. There has been a great deal of discussion about the enforceability of the kinds of written contracts that conservators typically use, but very few occasions where such contracts have been put to a legal test. Conservators who have consulted attorneys have sometimes found that recommended additions would create very long documents with clauses that would make the conservator uncomfortable and put off many clients. In any case, lawyers’ opinions on what should be included in treatment contracts are not consistent, and change with new business laws and court decisions. Most conservators have forms that they feel suit their practices and, for the most part, undoubtedly they do. Aside from acting as a contract to indicate the custodian and conservator’s areas of agreement, a well-drafted proposal is a vehicle for convincing the custodian that the proposed treatment is justified. For private or contract conservators, some of the language serves specifically to justify the cost or time to be allotted. Certain details, like the number of ceramic fragments or the length of rips, for example, are often included in proposals to emphasize the magnitude of the treatment and explain its cost. A well-written proposal also conveys an impression of professional competence. Some proposals include a stipulation that the treatment will be carried out in accordance with a particular code of ethics. (In the United States, many government contracts and conservation grant programs require this.) Conservators should consider whether such a statement would be

beneficial in their own practices. It might, for example, impress custodians as to the conservator’s seriousness of purpose, and may lead to discussions that would better acquaint custodians with the modern profession. A potential downside is that custodians who are focused on cost-reduction may be put off by high-minded talk. It is easy to imagine such a client asking if the price would be lower without this stipulation, the way some ask if they could forego treatment documentation in return for a lower cost. Later, as treatment proceeds, the proposal is a permanent reminder of agreements made with the custodian and the reasoning behind treatment decision-making. The time lapse between proposal and treatment may be substantial, and memories are regrettably short. Pre-treatment documentation, particularly photographs, also answers the alltoo-common question, "Was that there before?" When conservators examine an object, they see many things that non-conservators do not. The opposite is undoubtedly true as well. Only when the aspects of the object that conservation treatment addresses have been dealt with do other details come to our attention. Careful inspection of "before treatment" photographs may then become necessary. The problem is caused not so much by a lapse of memory as a redirection of attention. Drawings or diagrams may document objects better than photographs for some purposes, but this is not usually one of them. Final treatment documentation serves as a record that the proposed treatment was carried out. It is available for reference by the conservator when a similar object or similar treatment is being considered. It can help the conservator answer questions from the same custodian or from a different person who may later own the object or have responsibility for its care, particularly when the object’s condition may have changed. Treatment documentation can serve other purposes for the conservator. Review of previous proposals and treatment reports can help a private conservator refine cost estimates for other work. Photographs are often useful as teaching tools illustrating specific aspects of deterioration or treatment, and as examples of deterioration to illustrate the effects of poor environmental conditions. Photographs of completed treatments can encourage custodians of similar objects to agree to treatment, as well as illustrate the conservator's expertise.

Some of the uses of documentation are transitory, so it is not necessary that all documentation be of archival quality. Color slides are useful for giving talks, despite their fugitive colors. The increasing use of scanners and digital storage, properly combined with archival paper media, however, may make this less of an issue. The custodian The primary purpose of a treatment proposal for the custodian is that it tells him what he is consenting to and what the conservator is committed to. Because the proposal is a contract, the custodian should be encouraged to keep a copy. Once the treatment is complete, the proposal can serve as a checklist to assure that the treatment was carried out as promised. It may also be necessary for insurance reimbursement. An owner’s copy of the proposal can also be invaluable if the owner dies during the course of treatment, when the object is still in the conservator’s hands. Although rare, this does occur, and a copy of the treatment proposal among the deceased's papers may be the only way an executor can locate the object. Treatment reports often contain information other than a description of the treatment. Probably most common is guidance on future care. Whatever advice is included – guidelines for archival framing materials, recommendations for light exposure, or periodic inspection of the object – must be detailed, easily understood, practical, and realistic. Treatment documentation has other functions for custodians. “Aftertreatment” photographs may be the only record an owner has for insurance claims or appraisals in case of loss or damage. The information in a treatment report can minimize the difficulty of future treatment, and therefore its cost. Information on materials, construction, and history can make the object more interesting. In addition, the letterhead on the report may be the custodian’s only record of the conservator, and how to locate her in the future. Material culture specialists studying the object Scholars studying an object often consult treatment documentation. (Object files in museums include copies as a matter of routine.) Of particular importance is "actual state" (before compensation) photographs, so that

interpretation is not mistakenly based on areas of restoration. This is crucial for scientists taking samples. Information on changes in the object through its history may also be of interest. Documentation should include evidence uncovered during treatment related to intentional alterations in the size of a painting or print; inscriptions in places that are difficult to reach (e.g., inside sculptures) or covered as a result of treatment; construction details only evident during examination; and old labels. Color photographs of unfaded areas, like the reverse of silk embroideries, are additional examples of documentation helpful to material cultural specialists. Scholars should be able to see not only the results of analysis, but also its method and the raw data. This becomes important when new techniques for interpreting and analyzing data are developed. The analysis needs to be recorded in sufficient detail that any permanent changes in the object from radiation or chemical exposure can be quantified. Moreover, the basis for a report’s material description should be stated explicitly. For example, when a type of stone is named as a component of the object, documentation should make clear whether the source of the information was the conservator's eyeball judgement, collection records, petrographic analysis, or just a guess based on similar objects. This matter is further discussed in Chapter Fourteen. Future conservators examining the object or contemplating its re-treatment There is a wealth of information that would benefit anyone contemplating another treatment of the same object. Probably first on the list is the identification of all treatment materials remaining on the object. The chemical composition and manufacturer of those materials is probably necessary to report only for a material not common in the current professional literature, but a glossary accompanying reports could easily include that information.[210] Information on reversibility is also important for an unusual or complex treatment. Examples are the removal of an object from a complex mount, or the identity of a solvent that will remove a coating without affecting compensation. A future practitioner would also benefit from recommendations for future treatment if a problem recurs, including whether the conservator recommends more of the same treatment methods and materials or a different, perhaps more interventive, alternative. As with

scientific papers, the information should be sufficiently detailed that the next conservator could replicate the treatment. This means, primarily, describing methods of application of conservation materials as well as their identity. Materials or methods that were tested but did not work is an example of potentially useful information that is not commonly included in reports. Notes on unsuccessful trials of cleaning or bleaching materials, or flattening methods, for example, could be of great value. Unexpected sensitivity to certain solvents, or heat, should also be noted. Lacquer, for example, is notable for differences in sensitivity to solvents and moisture depending on its history of light exposure; different areas of an object may behave quite differently. After-treatment photographs from a previous treatment serve as benchmarks to evaluate any possible changes since that time, although they seldom include the kinds of detail that would allow evaluation of subtle changes like discoloration of coatings or cupping of paint. Methods of documentation that would be necessary for such evaluations could be devised: reshaped objects could, for example, be photographed against some kind of outline included in the documentation so that the process could be repeated; raking light photographs with measuring devices can also be re-taken at a later date to assess changes in surface conformation. The question is not so much what can be done but how much of this kind of labor-intensive documentation is worth doing. “Actual-state” photographs are necessary to determine the accuracy of major compensation or reconstruction and can be useful in helping a future conservator judge whether removal and re-treatment would be beneficial. In addition to documenting their own work, conservators should also document discussions with artists, as this can contribute to an understanding of the artist’s work. Conservators’ unique point of view sometimes moves such discussions in different directions from those with art historians or art critics. Documentation of discussions with artists is particularly important when preferences of the artist result in the conservator’s not doing something that would otherwise have been done. The usefulness of treatment reports to future conservators depends as much on explanations of decision-making as it does on information about what was actually done. Although the reasoning behind a treatment is

immediately at hand and can be described in few words, it is seldom recorded. A common decisive factor in treatments, for example, is a shortage of time or money – a matter perhaps too embarrassing to be written down comfortably. This need not sound obnoxious: "The owner decided not to have the textile washed before mounting," for example, or "The work was done quickly in preparation for an exhibition" are perfectly sufficient. In many cases, the most important resource for a future conservator is the previous one. The name of the person who carried out the treatment, not just the laboratory where it was carried out, should therefore appear in treatment reports. Conservators studying the treatment Every treatment is a potential source of information for research on the efficacy of treatments and their long-term effects, as well as the aging of treatment materials. Any details that might affect the longevity or efficacy of treatments could be the subject of future conservation research. However, treatment outcomes in many cases could depend on factors like the temperature reached at the surface when a tacking iron is used, or the amount of moisture in a damp blotter, both of which would be difficult to measure. Measuring them does not make sense until they are identified as relevant variables. In current practice, outcomes of actual treatments are probably not a fruitful avenue for research except in very broad ways. Research on aging of treatment materials is, however, a likely exception. Since environmental exposures for objects in museums can be calculated, the aging of treatment materials and the materials of objects in real time could represent an important check on the results of artificial aging tests. All that this requires from conservators is accurate reporting of the materials used. Conservation students and teachers Documentation carried out by conservation students has a unique function as a tool for teaching and for student evaluation. As such, those reports differ substantially from “real” ones. Students try to show how much they know, and tend to write down everything they can think of to report. Copious amounts of photographs and diagrams are also produced. This experience, unfortunately, imprints students with the notion that the more “information”

in a report, the better. In real-life settings, relevance- and brevity – are virtues. The object, and the society that benefits by its continued existence and good health All of the considerations discussed in this chapter could be said to benefit objects and therefore the society that values them. But because there are so few detailed written reports of repair and restoration before the last few decades, it is difficult to predict the influence that documentation from the present day will have in the future. If all goes according to plan, conservators well into the future will use our documentation to plan new treatments. Contemplating this fact should encourage us to be as clear as possible about both what we did and why. The conservation profession as a whole Useful documentation should, in the long term, be a public relations coup for the conservation profession. In order for this to happen, it has to be preserved and kept accessible. Records of conservators’ collaboration with artists, as recorded in treatment documentation, could be particularly useful to art historians. Informative documentation rightly positions conservators as important members of the community of material culture specialists that enrich the meaning of objects for society. *** Many stakeholders can benefit from treatment documentation that is informative and remains accessible over time. Not the least of these are conservators themselves, both individually and as a group. More important than any major expenditure of time or effort, documentation is useful attention when it is responsive to the needs of its readers. Creating such documentation is the subject of the next chapter.

Chapter Fourteen – Creating Treatment Documentation The previous chapter describes the purposes that conservation treatment documentation serves for its various users. This chapter focuses on the creation of such documentation. It sometimes seems that there is no point in putting a great deal of effort into the drafting of reports because “nobody reads them anyway.” But this is a chicken-and-egg problem. A major reason that non-conservators do not read our reports is that they do not understand the language that we use – including language that to us seems completely non-technical. To serve its intended purpose – communication - writing must suit the reader in its content, form, and style. No one expects great literature or a graceful turn of a phrase. In fact, the report genre allows us to violate some of the norms of good writing, with, for example, strings of parallel sentences in passive voice— “Surface dirt was removed…. Rips were repaired….” But still, conservators cannot ignore the virtues of brevity, precision, clarity, and readability, even if we concede that elegant style is, perhaps, beyond us. Too often conservation documentation ignores even the basics of effective organization and readability. Treatment documentation, like any writing, stands little chance of being read, let alone understood, unless it conveys information that the reader wants to know, is organized in a comprehensible format, and explains the meaning of any arcane terminology. Reading reports should not be laborious. Most of this chapter is devoted to a model format for proposals and treatment reports. The proposed form is not radically new. The major suggested changes address two common problems. One big problem is technical content. Non-conservators do not understand it, and when they see it, read no further. The new format puts non-technical information first, in its own section, where treatments are described in terms of values and goals. Technical information about the treatment is entered separately, below, so that conservator-readers can easily find what they need to know.

Another problem is that, for many conservators, report-writing takes too much time. Focussing on the purposes that documentation serves actually eliminates some of the types of information that conservators feel should be in reports, reducing the time it takes to write them. Two new documents are proposed as additions to conservation documentation. One is a master report for laboratories to record information about customary treatment methods and materials more detailed than what appears in documentation of individual treatments. The other is a standardized glossary that can be given to custodians as an adjunct to reports. Each of these documents increases the impact of documentation while reducing its routine burden. A final topic of the chapter is documentation retention and retrievability. TREATMENT DOCUMENTATION FOR INDIVIDUAL OBJECTS In this section we look at a suggested format for treatment documentation for individual objects—treatment proposals and final treatment reports. The suggested format presents most of the information as a narrative in ordinary language, with technical details listed separately. This serves the dual purposes of readability and quick access to specific information. An added section is a brief statement of the treatment goal and rationale, which highlights the object’s non-material aspects, information familiar to custodians. The main alternative to narrative reports is check-off forms. These can be useful for efficient documentation of a number of similar objects, but do not provide the reader easy access to the most important information. Typical check-off forms do not provide any data on the non-material aspects of objects. The suggested format offers a number of benefits. It gives rise to reports that are no longer than they have to be, while serving the needs of a variety of readers. The reason for the treatment is clear, so readers will understand the context in which it is to be, or was, carried out. Non-conservators can find out about the treatment and its results without having to wade through technical details.An example of this format is shown below. It is a treatment proposal for the Paul Revere teapot discussed in Chapter Seven. The final

treatment report will be essentially the same with only minor changes, such as changing the tense of verbs, changing the heading “Proposed treatment” to “Treatment,” and eliminating the space for the custodian’s signature. The format should, of course, be modified to suit the circumstances, including the amount and complexity of the information to be presented. Short sections need not have headings and may be combined. The order of presentation may vary depending on the nature of the information that needs to be conveyed. Some of the suggested sections can be eliminated if not useful for the situation at hand.

Following are descriptions of the major sections of the report. Title After the letterhead, reports should say: “Conservation Treatment Proposal” or “Conservation Treatment Report” and the date, and, if it seems appropriate, “Please retain for your records.” Without a title, reports can be more difficult to find among other papers, and their identity may not be obvious. Object identification Identifying information normally includes some combination of artist and title, culture of origin, date, object type, dimensions, and primary materials. Much of this information comes from existing sources and is straightforward. However, problems can arise when attributions or dating

supplied by the custodian seem dubious to the conservator. Even though the conservator has no obligation to confirm the truth of information offered by the custodian, using it in documentation lends it credence that it may be inappropriate. One solution is to add a parenthetical phrase indicating that the information was “supplied by owner.” Possibly inauthentic inscriptions or signatures can be reported without claiming that the work is actually by the named artist. Material identification can present more complicated problems. Materials are most often identified by simple visual examination rather than by technical analysis, which means that they are mostly - but not always accurate. For example, oil paint is cited routinely, even though, for early twentieth century material, casein medium is a possibility. Optimal practice would be to indicate how materials were identified. Conservators have no standard phrase for data that is only assumed to be correct. “(Est.,)” to mean “presumed” is a possibility, but awkward. Most objects appear to be what we expect them to be, so we report material identification without comment. Metal objects, for example, are often identified visually as brass or bronze based on color alone. Many other materials, including types of stone, textile fibers, and leather, are often named in reports because the object seems to conform to type, and we apply the terms used elsewhere for the same type of object. This is generally accepted practice, and seldom causes problems. At times, however, problems can arise, particularly when material choice might provide clues to attribution or dating or when previous assumptions about a group of objects turn out to be mistaken. Best practice is to use the most general terms possible, particularly when more detailed identification does not affect treatment. The use of technical terms implies technical means of identification. For example, referring to rust in a report as a mixture of “ferrous oxide (Fe +2) and ferric oxide (Fe +3)” implies that an analysis was done, or that the identification is somehow unusual or significant. The use of a geological term instead of “coarsegrained gray stone” does not add value to a report, and may imply things we do not mean. Using technical terminology to make the examination seem more scientific than it was can backfire.

Standard phrases to describe the basis for material identification would be helpful. Some possibilities: carved sandstone (identified by visual examination); painted ivory (confirmed under 3X magnification); cotton fiber (identified under microscope); information supplied by owner (Bob Smith); information from catalogue (Museum XYZ, with citation). In cases where the material identification is difficult, or crucial for curatorial reasons, citations can be given to published protocols or reference material used for identification. Uncertainty can result from terms that are themselves not clearly defined. For example, “canvas” implies a linen fabric with a certain range of thread counts. There are times when a textile support for paint might not properly be categorized as canvas. Some paintings on fabric are, instead, “painted textiles.” Setting some kind of laboratory standard for the meaning of “canvas” and other terms makes sense.[211] The phrase “oil on canvas” also implies the presence of a stretcher, which is, of course, ordinarily true. It is probably better to refer to the stretcher explicitly, e.g., “oil on stretched canvas” or “drying oil on stretched canvas.” Reason for treatment An introductory sentence or two stating what doctors call the “presenting complaint” establishes a context for the treatment by describing the circumstances that motivated the custodian to have the object treated. Such a statement assures that the major factors guiding the treatment do not get lost in verbiage. A benefit of this practice is that opening reports with information familiar to custodians encourages them to keep reading. An understanding of why the object was treated will also help later readers. Some examples: The sculpture was brought to the laboratory for treatment in preparation for a traveling exhibition;

The owner inherited the painting recently, felt that it had been neglected, and wanted to do a better job in taking care of it; The vase was broken into about a dozen small fragments; The doll’s hands had been crudely restored in the past, and the owner wanted to know if their appearance could be improved. Current state This section is what is usually called “Condition,” or “Condition before treatment,” and reports the findings of the conservator’s examination. There is no reason for the section to include much technical conservation terminology, but even so, many words used to describe the parts of objects are too technical for non-conservators. Many non-conservators, after all, habitually refer to stretchers as frames. Terms like recto and verso, mortises and dovetails, text blocks and headers, are not common language. Describing the state of an object without using such words can be difficult, but if we really want custodians to read reports and understand what we are doing to their objects, we need to use non-technical terms wherever possible. We may need to explain the meaning of those whose use is unavoidable. Diagrams may help, but a custodian should not have to work to understand a description of his own object. A possible exception to the avoidance of technical terminology is documentation of specialty collections like flags, coins, or musical instruments. Custodians of such collections are apt to have expertise in the subject area. A stand-alone glossary that defines and illustrates selected terms and that could be appended to reports would help all custodians. It would give them the information they need without the conservator having to decide which terms need explanation. Custodians who think they should know what certain words mean, but have only a vague idea, would be glad to get the information without having to ask for it. Conservators individually could develop such a tool for their own use, although a group effort would make the process easier. Group-developed glossaries have, in the past, proved extremely difficult to write because of a lack of agreement on precisely what terms mean. Word-processing

capabilities, however, make it easy for conservators to use whatever they want from a master list and make their own additions. Whatever decisions are made about which words to use, the “Current state of the object” establishes the terms that will be used later in the report. Decisions have to be made even for common words. For example, the author consistently uses "textile" and "fabric" in reports to refer to the original textile and the mounting fabric, respectively. Ceramic or glass vessels often have damage around the “edge” of the opening – or is it the "rim," or "lip?" One term needs to be used throughout. Choices also need to be made between "obverse/reverse" and "front/back," "exterior/interior" and "outside/inside." People other than museum professionals use their own viewpoint to determine which are the right and left sides of a painting, while art historians and conservators use “proper” left and right. This is another potential source of confusion. Whatever it takes – a glossary, diagrams or overleafs on photographs terminology must be clear. Otherwise, the custodian will glance at the report and then stop reading. Treatment goal(s) and rationale This is the place for a description of the realistic treatment goal and why it was chosen, as discussed in Chapters Eight and Nine. Sometimes the goal is a natural conclusion from the initial statement and may not require comment: the head fell off; put it back. Sometimes, however, the realistic goal may fall short of what the custodian envisions for the treated object. For example, it may not be possible to make a repair totally invisible. A statement of realistic goal assures that the custodian is aware of what the treatment can and cannot accomplish. The statement of the treatment goal also provides the conservator with a benchmark for technical choices as the treatment proceeds. The treatment goal and rationale should be written in non-technical language to the maximum extent possible, and with clear reference to the non-material aspects of the object. This is important for several reasons. Custodians cannot realistically give their informed consent to a treatment described in technical terms that they don’t understand. They cannot, for example, affirm the suitability of Acryloid B-72 over another material, but

they can appreciate that the conservator is going to use a material that will not discolor in the future. They can also understand the description of a treatment goal based on their future use of the object. Some examples of treatment goals: to bring the object as close as possible to its original appearance by removing surface dirt and reducing staining; to remove the cigarette smoke and discolored varnish that obscure the colors and textures of the artist’s paint, and reinstate the original flatness of the canvas; to make the object safe for ongoing loan exhibitions; to strengthen the object for safe handling without disguising any signs of prior use; to prevent recurrence of crystal growth (efflorescence) even in fluctuating relative humidity levels while altering the object’s current appearance as little as possible. Although treatment goals will ordinarily be responsive to the presenting complaint, the preservation-related goals of durability and permanence are important parts of treatments. They should be included in this section, as is shown in the last three entries of the above list. Conservators may take this part of their professional responsibilities for granted, but custodians are seldom aware of it. In addition, issues about what environmental challenges the treatment protects the objects from and which ones it does not can be important for the object’s future. Parameters should be stated, particularly when treatment is based on reported levels of environmental control. Objects benefit when custodians understood the effects of treatment on the sensitivity of objects and the limitations of the protection they offer. A statement on the rationale for the treatment goal is also important. It confirms that the values important to the custodian are honored. Just as importantly, a values-based statement of the treatment goal rationale provides future readers with an explanation for technical and interpretational choices. After the fact, treatment reports from other laboratories (and sometimes even our own!) can be difficult for conservators to understand.

Unanswered questions typically relate not so much to what was done as to why. An explicit statement of treatment goal and its rationale could help to avoid a great deal of future speculation, unnecessary testing, and perhaps even unnecessary treatment. In the case of the Paul Revere teapot, for example, the rationale for treatment answers the inevitable question, “Why didn’t they flatten out that dent?” A full values analysis that led to the stated goal will seldom be needed, but a short statement is often appropriate. For example: The value of the linens to the custodian rests in their usability in maximum numbers; The iridescence of the glass is not an original part of the object, but has substantial aesthetic value, so the treatment is designed to leave it unaltered. We would like to work with the curator to write an exhibition label explaining it; Examination indicates that the yellow color in the painting [the fictional Van Gogh] is not historically accurate (see report), but restoring the original color would mean covering a large area of the painting with new paint and may be inadvisable because of a perceived loss of authenticity. The change in the color of the background over time is not, as far as we are aware, public information. Making it public, with full explanations including a computer “restoration” of the painting with a green background is a possibility and should be discussed. Proposed treatment/treatment This section is a narrative describing the treatment that will be, or was, carried out, written for non-conservators. Technical details are not included in this section. They are seldom of interest to custodians, and chemical names and formulas interrupt narrative writing. They are included in a separate section. Conservation treatment terminology—words like inpainting, lining, and impregnation—are unfamiliar to most custodians. As with terminology for the parts of objects, discussed above, they should either be avoided or explained. Technical terms can sometimes be replaced with language that is

easier for custodians to understand, while normal conservation language can be used in the technical section. Some examples: The first step in the treatment was to apply an easily removable adhesive to the areas of loose paint to prevent flaking during the next treatment steps [consolidation]; A new fabric was adhered to the reverse of the painting to support the original canvas [lining]; Areas where paint was lost were painted to match the surrounding colors without covering any original surface [inpainting]. In addition to what reports ordinarily tell custodians that they may not understand, a lot that we would like them to know often remains unsaid. This is a lost opportunity. We want custodians to understand how hard conservators work to protect the values of objects. It may be helpful to report on the more routine aspects of conservation rather than just the particulars of the treatment at hand. For example, conservators try not to cover original surface with new paint; this is a surprise for the many custodians who think that conservation is primarily done with a paintbrush. The idea that conservators use special materials that do not change color as they age and that can be removed later without damaging the object is also apt to be new information. Some examples: The material chosen for the coating does not discolor and is easy to remove in the future if that becomes necessary. It also allows dust to be removed easily; A rigid backing was attached to the reverse to prevent physical damage and to retard deterioration by protecting against air pollution and buffering changes in relative humidity; The drawing was framed behind ultraviolet-filtering Plexiglas, which slows fading from sunlight to some degree, but does not protect it from bright light. Because it could not be dissolved, the old adhesive was removed by scraping with a sharp scalpel. This was a slow process because of the

care required to assure both complete removal of the adhesive and the safety of the object. Simple phrases like “…in order to prevent further damage,” “…in order to hold the rips flat,” or “…in order to protect the object from changes in relative humidity” contribute a great deal when custodians are unfamiliar with both the terminology and the procedures of conservation treatment. Technical details This section, for both proposals and final reports, records the technical details of treatment not contained in the previous section. These primarily consist of treatment methods and materials. Analytical results can also be included here. The section is usually short and can simply comprise a bullet list that footnotes the text above. It is expected to be of interest primarily to conservators. Some examples: Consolidant: 30% Acryloid B-72 in xylene applied from a syringe; Washing solution: de-ionized water at room temperature, soaking for 20 minutes; Sewing threads: mercerized cotton; Humidification between moist blotters under weighted glass. Recommendations for care Recommendations for future care should be tailored to the specific environment of the object and the resources of the owner. Instructions should be as specific as possible, with, for example, names of suppliers for soft dusting brushes, archival boxes, or whatever else is mentioned in the instructions. For example, recommendations for inspection of objects with ongoing physical problems should describe when, how often, and how it should be done, what exactly to look for, and what to do based on the results. For a painted wooden object the report might recommend annual examination in the late fall after the start of the heating season; that the piece be looked at with light from a bright window at the side; and that any raised flakes be

poked gently with the point of a needle to see if they move. The report might also recommend that floors or other areas below the object be checked for flakes, and that anyone dusting around the object be instructed to report the fact rather than simply removing and discard the debris. The same types of recommendations should be made for outdoor sculpture and other objects for which periodic maintenance is required. Custodians have every reason to want to maintain the post-treatment state of an object, but may benefit from reminders. Although conservators are typically reticent in these situations, it is preferable to make contact periodically to follow up on written recommendations rather than waiting to be called. Recommendations on appropriate environments for treated objects often appear in treatment reports, but recommending specific relative humidity or light levels is unrealistic. Nothing will be gained by telling a small historical society or private owner that a treated object will “need” a relative humidity of 50% unless the owner already has humidity control. (Even in that rare case, the “need” for 50% is almost never factually correct.) If there are feasible ways to improve the object’s environment, the conservator should discuss them with the custodian in detail and suggest monitoring methods as well. In most cases, treatments have to be tailored to the needs of the object in its future environment, not the other way around. Likewise, there is no point in telling owners to limit light exposure without discussing how to do it. Suggesting that custodians simply turn down the lights is unlikely to work. The installation of opaque window shades at times when rooms are unoccupied is often a better suggestion. If light exposure is crucial for preservation, the conservator can refer the custodian to a consultant experienced in museum-style lighting. Estimated treatment time Some conservators prefer not to predict finish dates because of a tendency toward over-optimism that leads to custodian disappointment. The information should be in writing, however, when a custodian needs the object for an exhibition or a dinner party. Practical arrangements Matters of insurance and sub-contracting for shipping, frames, or mounts should be addressed at the end of reports. When the work is to be done in an

unusual place, like a museum gallery, an owner's residence, or outdoors, the report should also address arrangements for safety and security, for lighting, water access, trash disposal, etc. What should not be in treatment reports Some types of information commonly found in treatment reports do not serve any useful purpose and are best left out. Some examples: Art historical background (style and iconography) or artistic judgements unless they are relevant to treatment decisions; Descriptions of the subject matter or structure of an object, e.g., toolmarks, grain or particle size, color comparison with standards, with the same exception; Measurements (often accompanied by little arrows) used to locate specific parts of the object. Photographs serve this purpose better, and exact locations are seldom useful information. The word "carefully," as in “the layer of grime was removed carefully” unless the intent is to compare this process with some other aspect of the treatment which will be reported as being done "sloppily" or "imprudently.” Voluminous boilerplate on care and maintenance. Retention The combined conservation records of collections-holding institutions represent a major cultural asset and should be preserved and protected in the same ways as accession records. Institutions with in-house conservators do this routinely. Yet, as much as conservators encourage other custodians to maintain records, it is the copies retained by conservators that are more likely to stay accessible over time. Institutional and private owners have a mixed history of record retention, and when ownership changes, there is a strong likelihood that documentation will not go along. Conservators therefore have an obligation to retain an archival-quality paper copy of reports and to organize them so that they can be retrieved. Electronic records are not permanent. Compact disks will be supplanted over time, and it will ultimately be difficult, if not impossible, to find hardware capable of reading them. History has proven the durability of high quality paper.

Retrievability When conservators are the long-term custodians of their records, someone looking for a treatment report needs to find the conservator first. Some objects can be marked with the conservator’s name on frames or mounts. Queries on an on-line bulletin board or in a professional newsletter often yield information that can help to locate conservators. But these are clearly not optimal solutions. Another problem for retrievability is the preservation and accessibility of the records of private conservators after their retirement. A number of conservators’ records have already been placed in professionally run archives, where they can be retrieved by any qualified researcher. This is a workable and long-term solution to the problem. Organized archives of conservation records are already important resources for information on objects that are to be re-treated. They will undoubtedly also become important for retrospective research on treatments and for work in the history of conservation. Still, finding the archives with records on a particular object requires knowing the conservator’s name. The huge increase in the number of practicing conservators will make that even more difficult with time. It is unlikely that many conservators will go to the trouble of placing their records in permanent repositories. Our heirs definitely will not. If conservators as a group do not deal with this issue, much of the effort we put into documentation will be wasted, and a great deal of interesting information will disappear. LABORATORY MASTER REPORTS Conservators carry a great deal of treatment information in their heads, much of which is never written down. The conservation treatment literature is largely devoted to new methods of treatment devised for particularly difficult problems or unusual objects. Really useful information relates to common treatment methods that have been used successfully for decades. These, typically, go unrecorded. A related problem of documentation is the level of detail about familiar materials that should be included in reports. Sooner or later, many of these materials will no longer be so familiar. There may be no reason to include

manufacturers’ names or chemical formulas of materials in treatment documentation, but the information should be recorded somewhere. If techniques and materials that conservators use routinely are not described in the conservation literature or in individual treatment records, how will we learn about them? A suggested new form of conservation documentation, the laboratory master report, would solve the problem. Such a report would describe a laboratory’s customary treatment methods and materials as they have developed over time. It would include information that does not appear in reports at all, including the way certain treatments are carried out. Suppliers’ names, chemical information, prices, material safety data sheets, the ways that solutions are prepared, and other matters that everyone in the lab supposedly “knows” would be included. The factors that determine choice of treatment, like size, fragility, or weight of the object are also important data, as are business practices. A laboratory might have a rule, for example, that objects over a certain weight have to be handled by a rigger, or that proposals are always to be read by a second person before they are shown to a custodian. A laboratory master report would also summarize the whys and wherefores of changes in treatment practice. Shifts from household products or natural products to synthetic ones have occurred in many labs. They should be documented in general terms, along with the reasons the change was made. The rollout version of a laboratory’s master report would describe historical practices, while later updates, perhaps every five or ten years, would add more recent ones. An easily accessible notebook and/or electronic file for this information would be available for reference, and notes could be added under certain set conditions. Some sample entries: The most common cleaning solution for removal of greasy dirt through the 1990’s was 2% Soilax (first, with phosphates, and later, without). In the late 1990’s we started using 3-4% citric acid in some cases, with pH’s…. As we learned more about adjusting the solutions, we used Soilax only if…. (Append instructions for choosing and controlling pH and indications for different concentrations.);

In 2001, we started blotter-washing rather than soaking for some objects and now use it for ….; Based on new toxicity information (citation), we stopped using xxx and removed it from the laboratory; With the availability of Acryloid-B72 in tubes, we started using it routinely for ceramic repairs rather than …; We ordinarily follow the protocol for mold-stain removal published in…. with the exception of …. A laboratory master report would be an invaluable teaching tool for young conservators as well as a resource for experienced practitioners who are new to a particular lab. Experienced conservators would have an opportunity to review and record their own practices. The document would serve as both a manual for current practice and a record for the future, and would provide background information to support individual reports. The laboratory master report would be primarily a tool for the laboratory itself. However, the master reports of a number of laboratories could achieve wider use. The prospect of being able to contribute to a compendium of well-considered and time-proven techniques might encourage conservators to “go public” with the treatment techniques that are the core of their practices and the fruit of decades of experience, to the benefit of all. *** Documentation is one of the defining features of our profession and is as much a part of our legacy to the future as our treatments. Treatment documentation can serve all of the purposes outlined in Chapter Thirteen without making it terribly onerous for the conservator. The goals of providing enough technical information for future conservators and writing reports non-technical enough for custodians are not irreconcilable. The report format described here involves relatively minor adjustments to current practice, but provides a substantial improvement in both readability and technical content. Information about the non-material aspects of objects improves understanding of the treatment by both the custodian and future conservators. The laboratory master report recommended here is a new form of documentation intended to summarize a laboratory’s practices over time. Its

description of common treatment methods and materials would fill a longstanding gap in the recorded information of the conservation profession.

Chapter Fifteen – Doing Treatments The methodology brings a rational process to conservation decision-making. Its steps provide an explicit framework within which information is compiled and shared, questions are asked and answered, discussions are held, and decisions are made. The methodology assures that all relevant issues have been considered, and that the values of objects are protected. In a sense, the methodology is a formula: follow directions, turn the crank, and there’s the treatment plan. Put the object into another machine, turn the crank, and out pops the treated object. This is very much not the way conservation goes. In real life, carrying out a treatment is a struggle for control in the face of unavoidable uncertainty. We ease the object along, walking a fine line between “too much” and “too little,” hoping that we have every nugget of technical information needed for the treatment, and wondering if someone else could do the job better. We try to anticipate the worst disasters so they can be avoided. We put solvent jars on a tray so that if we knock them over, they will not spill on the object. We cover things up when we are not working on them and put big signs on the covers: OBJECT BENEATH. We pad everything, label everything, worry about everything, and run through treatment procedures in our heads a dozen times before we do them. We are relentlessly careful. Even so, not everything can be predicted. A colleague of the author, for example, was removing foreign material from a piece of paper using acetone. A substantial number of repetitions proceeded without incident, and then one further swipe turned the paper lavender. The author once tested a consolidant on the surface of a leather object. Its application and removal in an inobtrusive area created no problems, but that test proved to be an inaccurate predictor of what was to come. Such episodes are the stuff of conservation nightmares. In actuality, of course, disasters are rare, but it does not take more than one really bad episode to plant the possibility permanently in the back of our minds. And - it should be noted - conservators’ idea of a “really bad one”

may be something that anyone other than the conservator would barely notice. Science has a vital place in enhancing our powers of prediction when we plan treatments, but doing conservation treatment still entails substantial and irreduceable uncertainty. Let us look at one more factor that limits the ways that science can help conservators to be more confident of treatment results – the incredible variety of the objects we treat. There is virtually infinite variation in the materials and construction of the cultural production of all humanity throughout history. The lavender discoloration that the author’s colleague faced was probably a result of a brightener added to the paper during its manufacture, but most treatment “surprises” remain inexplicable. The number of variables in the objects we treat means that science cannot – ever – explain the potential effects of them on treatment. Conservators, in turn, can never detect them. Scientific research requires the elimination of irrelevant variables so that the small number of significant ones can be tested. But without a large body of preliminary study, we do not know which variables are relevant for many object types, and without the relevant variables, research results might not be predictive. For example, research about the effects of impregnation of canvas paintings on their response to relative humidity – a crucial matter in their aging - would require creating samples for testing. These would presumably have to include canvas, sizing, ground, and paint layers, which add up to a huge number of variables already. The ones that are suspected of being relevant include the amount of sizing, the binder of the ground layer, and the weave of the canvas. Other relevant variables could be things we aren’t even aware of. Even simpler treatment situations, like corroded copper alloys, become complex when real objects are involved. It is possible, for example, that corrosion inhibitors work differently on different alloys, something that would require a great deal of research to investigate. Or perhaps something about burial conditions or foundry patination determines whether certain treatments give rise to undesirable changes in the appearance of surfaces. Despite its limitations, science is probably the only source for certain information crucial to conservators, most specifically, information on the long-term efficacy of treatments. Many areas of research would produce

helpful data if they were pursued. But science has a limitation that cannot be breached: even the best scientific research cannot “tell” conservators what they “should” do. Treatment decisions are judgment calls, and judgment calls come from values. In fact, much of what makes conservation treatments work is not science at all, but shared experience and the often unacknowledged level of skill that conservators possess. When starch paste is applied to a piece of paper, for example, the experienced conservator does not have to sit down and figure out how to do it. Almost without noticing, decisions are made about the composition and consistency of the paste, the brush to be used, the speed, pattern, and pressure of application, and the amount to be applied per unit area of the paper and per brushstroke, all taking into account the unique characteristics of the object at hand. Every treatment involves dozens of details like that. If we are washing a textile or piece of paper, will the object be immersed, floated, washed between damp blotters, or laid on a glass while water is dripped past? How do we protect it from distortion or other damage while it is wet? How do we dry it quickly and avoid brown lines? There are a huge number of possible methods to choose from. The depth of conservators’ knowledge and skill is extraordinary. And knowledge and mechanical dexterity are just the half of it. Optimal treatments depend on the conservator's ability to respond to subtle details of the behavior and appearance of an object as work proceeds. Treating objects often involves a state of heightened attention that is described in the Zen literature and, more currently, in the sports world, as being "in the zone." This promotes a multi-sensory sensitivity to how the process is working and how the object is being affected. Visual input is the primary tool, but conservators also use sound, touch, and sometimes smell, to monitor the progress of a treatment. This attentiveness allows for subtle adjustments in technique and warns of any indication that something is not working according to prediction. A large repertoire of possible alternatives assures that methods can be adjusted. Consider, for example, how many different ways there are to hold a scalpel!

On good days, a certain rhythm takes over, alternating between thinking and doing. That rhythm often includes periods of rest, although it is sometimes not clear whether these are more important to the object or the conservator. Objects may need time for solvents to evaporate completely, and for coatings to dry thoroughly. And the conservator, for her part, needs time to allow unconscious processes to work. These involve judgements about whether the state of the object after a particular treatment procedure is satisfactory or not, exactly how to tackle the next stage of treatment, and enough review of the possible difficulties of the next step to provide the confidence needed to proceed. A conservation treatment, no matter how well planned, is not a straight-line path but more like a decision tree with nodes at which the course of treatment can be altered. The application of a coating and compensation are examples of treatment processes before which it is important for the conservator to pause and reassess the quality of what has been completed. She can then judge whether the planned next step is the best one. These things take time. When a conservator walks into work one morning and says to a colleague, “You know, I have been thinking about… and I think we should…,” something important has happened, and there is no way to make that important thing happen in a hurry. Conservators who treat a narrow range of objects may see less of this than those who treat a wider variety, but for all of us, being rushed to carry out a treatment is a very bad thing, and a major contributor to post-treatment regret. Our intellectual engagement with the treatment process and the object continues right up to the end, when we must answer a classic conservation question: Are we done? The question involves several separate judgments: What is the probability of making the object look worse while trying to make it better? How much change of appearance will its final lighting and positioning make over the harsh lighting of the laboratory? Are the conservator's restorations less prominent than the object’s own irregularities? Have the expectations of the custodian been met? This brings us back to the overarching theme of this book—the equally central role of thinking and doing in conservation treatment. The uniquely human integration of mind and hand was noted by Immanuel Kant in his observation that the characterization of the human being as a rational animal

is found even in the shape and organization of his hand, his fingers and the tips of his fingers. It is through their build and tender sensitivity that nature has equipped him… for the employment of reason and thereby designated the technical capacity of his species as that of a rational animal…[H]uman beings think primarily and most effectively by means of what the senses explore and contact.[212] The conservator’s engagement with objects on both sensory and intellectual levels leads to a deeper understanding of them, and to optimal treatments. Using a combination of science and handwork to enhance the value of objects is, in fact, one of the great pleasures of being a conservator.

Selected Readings Ames, Kenneth L. Death in the Dining Room and Other Tales of Victorian Culture. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1992. Ames, Michael M. Museums, the Public, and Anthropology: A Study in the Anthropology of Anthropology. Vancouver: University of British Columbia, 1986. Arnheim, Rudolph. Art and Visual Perception: a Psychology of the Creative Eye. The New Version. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1974. (?) Barnes, Barry and David Edge, eds. Science in Context: Readings in the Sociology of Science. Milton Keynes, England: The Open University Press, 1982. Belk, Russell W. Collecting in a Consumer Society. London: Routledge, 1995. Bradsher, James Gregory, ed. Managing Archives and Archival Institutions. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988. Bronner, Simon J. Grasping Things: Folk Material Culture and Mass Society in America. Lexington, Ky.: The University Press of Kentucky, 1986. Carrier, David. Principles of Art History Writing. University Park, Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1991. Case, Mary, ed. Registrars on Record: Essays on Museum Collections Management. Washington: The Registrars Committee of the American Association of Museums, 1988. Clifford, James. The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth-Century Ethnography, Literature, and Art. Cambridge: Harvard University Press,1988. Cohen, Jack and Ian Stewart. The Collapse of Chaos: Discovering Simplicity in a Complex World. New York: Penguin Books USA Inc., 1994.

Danto, Arthur C. The Transfiguration of the Commonplace: a Philosophy of Art. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1981. Duncan, Carol. Civilizing Rituals: Inside Public Art Museums. London: Routledge, 1995. Errington, Shelley. The Death of Authentic Primitive Art and Other Tales of Progress. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998. Grampp, William D. Pricing the Priceless: Art, Artists, and Economics. New York: Basic Books, 1989. Hall, Patricia and Charlie Seemann, eds. Folklife and Museums: Selected Readings. Nashville: The American Association for State and Local History, 1987. Hauser, Arnold. The Philosophy of Art History. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1985. Hooper-Greenhill, Eilean. Museums and the Shaping of Knowledge. London: Routledge, 1992. Jackson, Margaret Talbot. The Museum: A Manual of the Housing and Care of Art Collections. New York: Longmans, Green and Co., 1917. Johnson, Paul. The Birth of the Modern: World Society,1815-1830. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1991. Kubler, George. The Shape of Time: Remarks on the History of Things. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1962. Larkin, Jack. The Reshaping of Everyday Life, 1790-1840. New York: HarperPerennial, 1988. Levy, Matthys and Mario Salvadori, Why Buildings Fall Down. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1992. Livingstone, Margaret. Vision and Art: The Biology of Seeing. New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 2002. Lubar, Steven and W. David Kingery. History from Things: Essays on Material Culture. Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1993.

André Malraux. The Voices of Silence. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978. Maquet, Jacques. The Aesthetic Experience: An Anthropologist Looks at the Visual Arts. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986. Otten, Charlotte M. ed. Anthropology and Art: Readings in Cross-Cultural Aesthetics. Garden City, N. Y.: The Natural History Press, 1971. Michael Quinn Patton, Qualitative Evaluation and Research Methods. Newbury Park, California: Sage Publications, 1990. Piatelli-Palmarini, Massimo. Inevitable Illusions: How Mistakes of Reason Rule Our Minds. New York: John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 1994. Pearce, Susan M. Museums, Objects, and Collections: a Cultural Study. Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992. Philipson, Morris and Paul J. Gudel, eds. Aesthetics Today. New York: New American Library, 1980. Price, Nicholas Stanley, M. Kirby Talley Jr., and Alessandra Melucco Vaccaro, eds. Historical and Philosphical Issues in the Conservation of Cultural Heritage. Los Angeles: The Getty Conservation Institute, 1996. Pye, David. The Nature and Art of Workmanship. (Bethel, CT: Cambium Press, 1998). Schlereth, Thomas J. Artifacts and the American Past. Nashville: The American Association for State and Local History, 1980. Schlereth, Thomas J., ed. Material Culture Studies in America. Nashville: The American Association for State and Local History, 1982. Schama, Simon. Landscape and Memory. New York: Vintage Books, 1996. Smyth, Craig Hugh and Peter M. Lukehart, eds. The Early Years of Art History in the United States: Notes and Essays on Departments, Teaching, and Scholars. Princeton, New Jersey: Department of Art and Archaeology, Princeton University, 1993. Stankowicz, Tom and Marie Jackson. The Museum of Bad Art: Art Too Bad to be Ignored. Kansas City: Andrews and McMeel, 1996.

Waldrop, M. Mitchell. Complexity: The Emerging Science at the Edge of Order and Chaos. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1992. Weil, Stephen E. A Cabinet of Curiosities: Inquiries into Museums and Their Prospects. Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1995. Wilson, E. Bright, Jr. An Introduction to Scientific Research. 1952. Reprint, New York: Dover Publications, Inc., 1980.

Footnotes [1]

See “Selected Readings” for a list of books, largely outside of conservation, that are relevant to conservation concerns. [2]

For example, Nancy Odegaard, "Artists' Intent: Material Culture Studies and the Conservator," JAIC 34 (1995): 187-93, would appear by its title to address a broad topic of potential relevance to a wide variety of objects but only cites Native American ethnography. In the same vein, in Mary Peever, "Characterization of Alterations to Artifacts," in Symposium 86: The Care and Preservation of Ethnological Materials (Ottawa: Canadian Conservation Institute, 1988), 142-46, the first sentences is: "Examination of an ethnographic object requires characterization of all alterations," as though this is only true when the object is an ethnographic one. [3]

Robert Proctor, personal communication, 1 June 2001.

[4]

“Preamble” to “Code of Ethics and Guidelines for Practice of the American Institute for Conservation of Historic and Artistic Works,” www.aic-faic.org. [5]

William D. Grampp, Pricing the Priceless: Art, Artists, and Economics. (New York: Basic Books, Inc., Publishers) 1989, 16-17, 35. [6]

This is not a common sentiment. At the 2006 AIC Annual Meeting, where the topic was “Using Artifacts: Is Conservation Compromised?” several presenters answered the question in the negative, but some were begrudging about it. They seemed to be yielding to the inevitability of losing the eternal argument and the political correctness of enhanced accessibility for collections. No speaker disagreed that there was a conflict, and none expressed the idea that use and conservation are mutually supportive. [7]

L. A. Lelekov, "Theoretical Aspects of Restoration," in Preprints, ICOM Committee for Conservation, 6th Triennial Meeting, Ottawa, 1981, 81/11/5. [8]

Carol E. Snow and Terry Drayman Weisser, "The Examination and Treatment of Ivory and Related Materials," in Adhesives and Consolidants, Preprints of the Contributions to the Paris Congress, 2-8 September 1984, eds. N. S. Brommelle, Elizabeth M. Pye, Perry Smith, and Garry Thomson (London: The International Institute for Conservation of Historic and Artistic Works, 1984), 143. [9]

Susan Sontag, “On Style,” in Against Interpretation (New York: Dell Publishing Co., 1969) as quoted in Stephen E. Weil, “Publicly-Chosen Art: What Standards Apply?” in A Cabinet of Curiosities: Inquiries into Museums and their Prospects (Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1990), 58. [10]

“Commentary 23” of “Guidelines for Practice of the American Institute for Conservation of Historic & Artistic Works,” www.aic-faic.org. The introduction to the section on “Compensation for Loss” reads: “This guideline refers to physical loss to the material of a cultural property or loss of original appearance through chemical change. Loss may have a structural and/or visual effect. The

baseline for determining the nature and extent of loss is the point at which the cultural property was generally accepted as completed, although compensation need not return the cultural property to this state.” The 1979 version of the Code used the phrase “damage and loss” without definition in sections entitled “Limitations on Esthetic Reintegration.” [11]

Corfield 88 as quoted in Mary Brooks, Caroline Clark, Dinah Eastop, and Carla Petschek, "Restoration and Conservation - Issues for Conservators: A Textile Conservation Perspective,” in Restoration: Is it Acceptable? ed. Andrew Oddy (London: British Museum Department of Conservation, 1994), 103. [12]

Section II.A. in "The Murray Pease Report," SIC 9 (1964): 116-21. This was the first version of what later became the IIC-AG, and then the AIC, Code of Ethics and Standards for Practice. “Standards” was later changed to “Guidelines.” [13]

Section II in “Code of Ethics of the American Institute for Conservation of Historic & Artistic Works,” www.aic-faic.org. [14]

Requirements for admission to the American training programs include courses in art history and other object-based courses such as anthropology, but no other liberal arts courses, in religion or sociology, for example, are included. The Qualifications Task Force of AIC (draft dated 2001) set forth eighteen areas of expertise, but general cultural knowledge was not one of them. [15]

M. Kirby Talley Jr., "Conservation Science and Art: Plum Puddings, Towels and Some Steam," MMC15 (1996): 275. [16]

Arthur C. Danto, The Transfiguration of the Commonplace: A Philosophy of Art (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1981), 124-25. [17]

Jacques Maquet, The Aesthetic Experience: An Anthropologist Looks at the Visual Arts (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986), 25-33. [18]

Max J. Friedländer, "On Art and Connoisseurship," in Historical and Philosophical Issues in the Conservation of Cultural Heritage, eds. Nicholas Stanley Price, M. Kirby Talley Jr., and Alessandro Melucco Vaccaro (Los Angeles: The Getty Conservation Institution, 1996), 152. [19]

Michael Quinn Patton, Qualitative Evaluation and Research Methods (Newbury Park, California: Sage Publications, 1990), 409. [20]

Michael Quinn Patton, Qualitative Evaluation and Research Methods (Newbury Park, California: Sage Publications, 1990), 201. [21]

Nelson Goodman, "Art and Inquiry," in Aesthetics Today, eds. Morris Philipson and Paul J. Gudel (New York: New American Library, 1980), 313. [22]

Heinrich Wölfflin, Kunstgeschichtliche Grundbegriffe, 248 as quoted in Arnold Hauser, The Philosophy of Art History (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1985), 128. [23]

One common example of this is referring to an object as “needing” some particular kind of treatment, as in: “Well, it obviously needs cleaning.”

[24]

Such articles include Eric F. Hansen, Rosa Lowinger, and Eileen Sadoff, "Consolidation of Porous Paint in a Vapor-saturated Atmosphere: a Technique for Minimizing Changes in the Appearance of Powdering, Matte Paint,” JAIC 32 (1993): 1-14; Robert L. Feller and Noel Kunz, "The Effect of Pigment Volume Concentration on the Lightness or Darkness of Porous Paints," in The American Institute for Conservation of Historic and Artistic Works, Preprints of Papers Presented at the Ninth Annual Meeting, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 27-31 May 1981 (Washington: The American Institute for Conservation of Historic and Artistic Works, 1981), 6674; and Glenn Wharton, Susan Lansing Maish, and William S. Ginell, "A Comparative Study of Silver Cleaning Abrasives," JAIC 29 (1990): 13-32. The last-cited article offers a particularly well-integrated view of the chemical and physical phenomena associated with age and use of decorative arts silver and their effects on the appearance of the objects both new and used. [25]

U. Scheissl, "Konservierungstechnische beobachtungen zur festigung wassrig gebundener, kreidender malschichten auf holz," Zeitschrift fur Kunsttechnologie und Konservierung (1989): 293-320 as cited in Eric F. Hansen, Rosa Lowinger, and Eileen Sadoff, "Consolidation of Porous Paint in a Vapor-saturated Atmosphere: a Technique for Minimizing Changes in the Appearance of Powdering, Matte Paint," JAIC 32 (1993): 1-14; and J. K. Hutchins, "Water-stained Cellulosics: a Literature Review," JAIC 22 (1983): 57-61. [26]

Massimo Piatelli-Palmarini, Inevitable Illusions: How Mistakes of Reason Rule our Minds (New York: John Wiley &Sons, Inc., 1994), 123. [27]

Professor of Object Conservation, The Art Conservation Department, Buffalo State College.

[28]

Robert L. Feller, Accelerated Aging: Photochemical and Thermal Aspects (Marina del Rey: Getty Conservation Institute, 1994), 33. The material aging graph as used in this book is upside-down relative to the original Feller graph because it is more natural for conservators to think of the aging of objects as a down-trend. [29]

In this case, the term deterioration is used purposely to indicate that the changes discussed are undesirable ones. [30]

Martha Goodway, “Fiber Identification in Practice,” JAIC 26 (1987): 27-44.

[31]

Julia Fenn, "The Cellulose Nitrate Time Bomb: Using Sulphonephthalein Indicators to Evaluate Storage Strategies," in From Marble to Chocolate: The Conservation of Modern Sculpture: Tate Gallery Conference, 18-20 September, 1995, ed. Jackie Heuman (London: Archetype Publications Ltd., 1995), 87-92 and M. Derrick, D. Stulik, E. Ordonez, "Deterioration of Cellulose Nitrate Sculptures Made by Gabo and Pevsner," in Saving the Twentieth Century: The Conservation of Modern Materials, ed. D. Grattan (Ottawa: Canadian Conservation Institute, 1993),169-82. [32]

R. L. Feller, M. Wilt, Evaluation of Cellulose Ethers for Conservation (Marina del Rey: Getty Conservation Institute, 1990), 73-78. [33]

Robert L. Feller, Accelerated Aging: Photochemical and Thermal Aspects (Marina del Rey: Getty Conservation Institute, 1994), 167. [34]

This is not to say that faded textiles, basketry, or works on paper can therefore be safely exposed to light. Conservators may need to remind custodians that light-induced deterioration of paper, textiles, basketry, and other organic substrates continues, and light-induced discoloration can still produce visual changes in the objects.

[35]

The author suspects that virtually every conservator-reader will at this point insert the truism that we cannot prevent deterioration, only slow it down. As much as this is true in some cosmic sense, many treatments do in fact prevent certain types of deterioration from recurring well into the foreseeable future, and if the objects continue to be under a conservator’s care, many kinds of deterioration will never occur. That conservators take on responsibility for preserving objects until the universe self-destructs may mean that the cultural heritage of mankind could vaporize before minor modes of deterioration kill it. [36]

Although conservators often refer to private owners as “collectors,” many owners are not collectors in the usual sense (as discussed in Chapter Five). Many objects are simply the stuff that normal people have, and are therefore not part of a collection per se. The motivations behind ownership by collectors and other kinds of owners may diverge sharply. [37]

United States Code, Title 17, Sect. 106A.

[38]

United States Code, Title 25, Chap. 32.

[39]

The author does not wish to dismiss the difficulties that can arise here, but she has chosen to exclude conservation politics as a step in the methodology. She has noted, however, that many people in negotiations will go along with decisions that they do not agree with if only other people will let them have their say first. [40]

If any reader can do this, he or she is asked to contact the author privately.

[41]

It has been pointed out to the author that terms like “inpainting” or “stretcher” are technical terms that most non-conservators are unfamiliar with. Readers will often stop reading when they encounter unfamiliar words. The problem of technical terminology in reports is discussed in Chapters Thirteen and Fourteen. [42]

The author early in her career carried out a major treatment of a painting for a well-to-do client. After she helped the owner replace the painting on the apartment wall and explained the treatment process, including cleaning, lining, and restretching, the client politely asked, “And tell me, dear, did you have to take it out of the frame?” [43]

The terms “meaning,” “importance,” and “significance” are other words sometimes used to describe the non-material aspects of objects, but “values” is used here because it seems more neutral and more comprehensive. [44]

Shelly Errington, The Death of Primitive Art and Other Tales of Progress (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 78. [45]

Stanley Cavell, “Music Discomposed,” in Aesthetics Today, eds. Morris Philipson and Paul J. Gudel (New York: New American Library, 1980), 553. [46]

Andre Malraux, The Voices of Silence, trans. Stuart Gilbert (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978), 607, 640. [47]

Alois Riegl, "The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Essence and Development," in Historical and Philosophical Issues in the Conservation of Cultural Heritage, eds. Nicholas Stanley Price, M. Kirby Talley Jr., and Alessandra Melucco Vaccaro (Los Angeles: The Getty Conservation Institute, 1996), 75. Because of translation issues, the title is cited differently in different texts.

[48]

Chandra Reedy, “The Opening of Consecrated Tibetan Bronzes with Interior Contents: Scholarly, Conservation, and Ethical Considerations,” JAIC 30 (1991) 13-34. [49]

Section VI, “Code of Ethics of the American Institute for Conservation of Historic & Artistic Works,” www.aic-faic.org. [50]

Alois Riegl, "The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Essence and Development," in Historical and Philosophical Issues in the Conservation of Cultural Heritage, eds. Nicholas Stanley Price, M. Kirby Talley Jr., and Alessandra Melucco Vaccaro (Los Angeles: The Getty Conservation Institute, 1996), 72-3. Because of translation issues, the title is cited differently in different texts. [51]

Stephen Greenblatt, “Resonance and Wonder,” in Ivan Karp and Steven D. Lavine, Exhibiting Cultures: The Poetics and Politics of Museum Display (Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991), 44. [52]

Alois Riegl, "The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Essence and Development," in Historical and Philosophical Issues in the Conservation of Cultural Heritage, eds. Nicholas Stanley Price, M. Kirby Talley Jr., and Alessandra Melucco Vaccaro (Los Angeles: The Getty Conservation Institute, 1996), 78. [53]

This term encompasses art historians, anthropologists, and other professionals who study tangible cultural property. [54]

An example of this approach is Michael Quinn Patton, Qualitative Evaluation and Research Methods (California: Sage Publications, Inc., 1990). [55]

Stephen P. Mellor, "The Exhibition and Conservation of African Objects," JAIC 31 (1992): 10.

[56]

Steven W. Dykstra, “The Artist’s Intention and the International Fallacy in Fine Arts Conservation,” JAIC 35 (1996): 213. [57]

British Archaeological Bibliography , abstract of Scribes and Illuminators , by Christopher de Hamel, (London: British Museum Publications Ltd., 1992), AATA 33-808. [58]

Evidence of many hands at work has been gathered in regard to a range of artists including Gerard David (Author’s abstract of “Gerard David’s St. Anne Altarpiece: Evidence for Workshop Participation,” by Catherine A. Metzger and Barbara H. Berrie, in Historical Painting Techniques, Materials, and Studio Practices: Preprints of a Symposium, University of Leiden, the Netherlands, 2629 June 1995, eds. Arie Wallert, Erma Hermens, and Marja Peek (The Netherlands: 1995), AATA 33932.) and the LeNain brothers (Joyce H. Townsend, abstract of “Three Le Nain Paintings Reexamined,” by Aviva Burnstock et al., The Burlington Magazine 135 (1993): 678-687, AATA no. 311573. Even with technical analyses of the paintings, the authors were unable to differentiate among the artists.) English 18th century painters hired "auxiliaries" to paint portions of pictures using the same palettes as the artist, and landscape painters hired other artists to add figures or animals. (Ian S. Hodkinson and Deborah M. Child, "An 18th-century Artist-applied Lining: Joseph Wright of Derby's Cut Through the Rock at Cromford,” JAIC 34 (1995): 36.) The Rembrandt project, in its second published volume, came to the conclusion that in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the modern notion of the single artist as lone creator did not exist, and that artists of the time "did not have overstrict ideas about whether products sold under their names were autograph or not." The whole project, in other words, is the manifestation of an historically inaccurate notion of artistic creativity. (J. Bruyn, B. Haak, S. H. Levie, P. J. van Thiel, and E. van deWetering, A Corpus of Rembrandt Paintings, vol. 2

(Amsterdam: Martinus Nijhoff, 1986), 60-61 as quoted in David Phillips, Exhibiting Authenticity (Manchester University Press: Manchester, 1997), 103.). [59]

See, for example, Simon Schama, Landscape and Memory (New York: Vintage Books, 1996). Chapters discuss different ways that works of art, including paintings and outdoor decorative schemes, relate to the politics, religion, and philosophical schemes of their periods. [60]

Susan M. Pearce, Museums, Objects, and Collections: a Cultural Study (Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992), 89. [61]

The terminology adopted in this text – the wall-to-wall use of the term “object” meets its first major difficulty here. It seems to stretch the bounds of common use to refer, for example, to a sample of a kind of seaweed on a microscope slide or a dead fish in a bottle as an “object.” [62]

Kenneth L. Ames, Death in the Dining Room and Other Tales of Victorian Culture (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1992). [63]

Kenneth L. Ames, Death in the Dining Room and Other Tales of Victorian Culture (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1992), 44-96. [64]

Barbara Niemeyer, abstract of Die Kleider des Pharaos: die Verwendung von Stoffen im Alten Agypyten, by Gillian Vogelsang-Eastwood et al., (Leiden: Kestner-Museum , 1995). English edition published as Pharaonic Egyptian Clothing (New York: E.J. Brill, 1993) AATA 33-2660. [65]

The number of late nineteenth-century paintings created per year by professional French artists has been calculated as 20,000; this would imply huge losses that could not be accounted for by accidents or carelessness. William D. Grampp, Pricing the Priceless: Art, Artists, and Economics (New York: Basic Books, Inc., 1989) 61. [66]

Adrian A. Gerbrands, "Art as an Element of Culture in Africa,” in Anthropology and Art: Readings in Cross-cultural Aesthetics , ed. Charlotte M. Otten (New York: The Natural History Press, 1971), 379. [67]

Mary A. Becker et al., “Chemical and Physical Properties of Old Silk Fabrics,” SIC 42 (1997):27-

37. [68]

A large number of articles address this topic. A particularly interesting one is a study of lipids from ceramic vessels; different levels were found in different parts of the vessels, indicating a possibility that this kind of analysis might indicate details of use. Author’s abstract of “Interpreting Lipid Residues in Archaeological Ceramics: Preliminary Results from Laboratory Simulations of Vessel Use and Burial,” by Richard P. Evershed, Stephanie Charters, and Anita Quye, in Material Issues in Art and Archaeology IV: Symposium Held May 16-21, 1994, Cancun, Mexico, ed. Pamela B. Vandiver et al. (1995), AATA 33-2822. [69]

Paul Himmelstein and Barbara Appelbaum, "The Paradox of Artificial Lighting in Historic Structures," in The Conservation of Heritage Interiors (Ottawa: Canadian Conservation Institute, 2000), 157-60. [70]

Christopher J. Brooke, abstract of “No Carpet Baggers Please: Some Thoughts on Church Acoustics,” by John Norman, Churchscape 12 (1993): 9-10, AATA 31-1425.

[71]

Peter Robert Mann, "Working Exhibits and the Destruction of Evidence in the Science Museum," IJMMC 8 (1989): 369-387. [72]

Jack Finney, Time and Again (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1970), 78.

[73]

See, for example, Cary Karp, "Musical Instruments in Museums," IJMMC 4 (1985): 179-82.

[74]

Christopher J. Brooke, abstract of “Bells and Bellframes, the Present Position Regarding Conservation,” by Mary Bliss, Churchscape 12 (1993): 15-18, AATA 31-1851. [75]

This description of collectors comes from Russell W. Belk, Collecting in a Consumer Society (London: Routledge, 1995), 65-68. [76]

The ease with which people shift their expectations based on context is described in Erving Goffman, Frame Analysis: an Essay on the Organization of Experience (New York: Harper & Row, 1974). [77]

Tiamat Molina and Marie Pincemin, “Restoration: Acceptable to Whom?” in Restoration: Is it Acceptable? ed. Andrew Oddy (London: British Museum Department of Conservation, 1994), 77-83. [78]

Ivan Karp and Steven D. Lavine, Exhibiting Cultures: the Poetics and Politics of Museum Display (Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991), 316-17. [79]

Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, “American Jewish Life: Ethnographic Approaches to Collection, Presentation, and Interpretation in Museums," Folklife and Museums: Selected Readings, eds. Patricia Hall and Charlie Seemann (Nashville: The American Association for State and Local History, 1982), 157. [80]

Charlotte M. Porter, "The Rise of Parnassus: Henry Fairfield Osborn and the Hall of the Age of Man,” Museum Studies Journal 1 (1983): 37. [81]

Lizabeth A. Cohen, “Embellishing a Life of Labor: An Interpretation of the Material Culture of American Working-Class Homes, 1885-1915” in Thomas J. Schlereth, ed., Material Culture Studies in America (Nashville: The American Association for State and Local History, 1982), 289-305. [82]

Francis M. P. Howie, "Materials Used for Conserving Fossil Specimens Since 1930: A Review," in IIC Preprints of the Contributions to the Paris Congress, 2-8 September 1984: Adhesives and Consolidants, ed. N. S. Brommelle, 92-97. [83]

Lisa Goldberg, "A History of Pest Control Measures in the Anthropology Collections, National Museum of Natural History," JAIC 35 (1996): 23 –43. [84]

The author has observed, and heard description of, examples of this in more than one major institution. Hard evidence is, however, difficult to find, since, by definition, this kind of work is sub rosa. Some historical societies, but probably few art museums, still have repair work done by nonconservator volunteers. [85]

Peter J. Fowler, The Past in Contemporary Society: Then, Now (London: Routledge, 1992), 107.

[86]

See http://www.cr.nps.gov/nagpra/

[87]

Susan M. Pearce, Museums, Objects, and Collections: a Cultural Study (Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992), 208. [88]

This is an interesting topic with many ramifications: preferences about the gloss of past varnishes, for example, could be linked with ambient lighting conditions, and an argument could also be made that paintings that are hung together should have uniform surfaces. [89]

Leslie Carlyle, “British Nineteenth-Century Oil Painting Instruction Books: A Survey Of Their Recommendations For Vehicles, Varnishes And Methods Of Paint Application,” In IIC Preprints Of The Contributions to the Brussels Congress, 3-7 September 1990: Cleaning, Retouching and Coatings: Technology and Practice for Easel Paintings and Polychrome Sculpture (London: IIC, 1990), 79. [90]

Early photographs depicting contemporary interiors illustrate the degree to which the appearance of objects is influenced by their surroundings and therefore altered when they are seen in isolation. Victorian interiors are particularly astounding in this regard. [91]

Andrew Oddy, ed., The Art of the Conservator (Washington, Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992), 8-9. [92]

See Chapter Three.

[93]

See, generally, Restoration: Is it Acceptable? ed. Andrew Oddy (London: British Museum Department of Conservation, 1994), 46, 52, 68, 85; Johan Lodewijks and Jentina E. Leene, “Restoration and Conservation,” in Textile Conservation, ed. Jentina E. Leene (London: Butterworths, 1972), 138. [94]

See 1999 revision of the Australia ICOMOS Charter for the Conservation of Places of Cultural Significance (“Burra Charter”), http://www.icomos.org/australia/burra.html. The introduction cites the previous versions as “archival documents … not authorized” for use. [95]

Gerald George, Visiting History: Arguments over Museums and Historic Sites (Washington: American Association of Museums, 1990), 16. [96]

Note that the practical difficulty of producing the desired appearance is not part of this discussion. The methodology allows us – more accurately, forces us - to consider that in a separate step. [97]

The term “preservation-worthy” is not in common use, yet the idea is often evoked by private owners who bring objects to conservators for treatment and ask: “Do you think it’s worth it?” Although the question may refer to monetary value, it seems to refer just as much to something much harder to define. [98]

The author is unclear about why it is always Rembrandt, but it is.

[99]

The author was once asked to treat a Civil War snare drum that was completely disassembled, and had no heads. Her first reaction was, “Whatever I am going to do, I am not going to make new heads.” That was, of course, silly, and totally impractical. The parts of a drum cannot be assembled without the tension of the heads, and a drum with no top or bottom will never look like a drum. [100]

“Guideline 22 – materials and methods,” in “Guidelines for Practice of the American Institute for Conservation of Historic & Artistic Works,” www.aic-faic.org.

[101]

Andreas Gruber, Sascha Höchtl, Markus Klasz, and Karin Troschke, "Barocke Landkarten aus der Burg Forchtenstein," in Zum Thema Papier und Graphik, ed. Manfred Koller and Rainer Prandstetten (Viennaz: Mayer & Comp., Druck- und Verlags gmbH, 1994). [102]

Two examples are Carina Holm and Per Olin, "The Bronze Age Lady from Borum Eshøj, Denmark," Archaeological Textiles Newsletter 20 (1995): 21-3 and Deborah Stratford, "'Archaeosynthesis' and the Thera Frescoes," Apollo 138 (1993): 13-4. [103]

M. Kirby Talley Jr., "The Eye's Caress: Looking, Appreciation, and Connoisseurship" in Historical and Philosophical Issues in the Conservation of Cultural Heritage, eds. Nicholas Stanley Price, M. Kirby Talley Jr., and Alessandra Melucco Vaccaro (Los Angeles: The Getty Conservation Institute, 1996), 7. [104]

See, for example, Valerie Reich, "Conservation of a French Nineteenth Century 'Monkey Drummer' Automaton" (Abstract), AIC Preprints of Papers Presented at the Fourteenth Annual Meeting, Chicago, Illinois, 21-25 May 1986: 146. [105]

Raymond H. Lafontaine, "Seeing Through a Yellow Varnish: a Compensating Illumination System," SIC 3 (1986): 97-102. [106]

Joseph Godla and Gordon Hanlon, “Some Applications of Adobe Photoshop for the Documentation of Furniture Conservation,” JAIC 34 (1995): 171. [107]

Preamble of “Code of Ethics and Guidelines for Practice of the American Institute for Conservation of Historic & Artistic Works,” www.aic-faic.org. [108]

Since the Feller graph is completely material-based, we were careful in Chapter Three to avoid making value judgements about the meaning of physical changes. Having looked at the full life of objects and the use of values to determine which changes are undesirable, we can now use the term deterioration in a meaningful way. [109]

The engineering concepts and terminology of load come from “Appendix A” of Matthys Levy and Mario Salvadori, Why Buildings Fall Down: How Structures Fail (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1992), 269-76. [110]

Section II.C. in "The Murray Pease Report," SIC 9 (1964): 116-121.

[111]

“Section V., Code of Ethics of the American Institute for Conservation of Historic & Artistic Works:” “While circumstances may limit the resources allocated to a particular situation, the quality of work that the conservation professional performs shall not be compromised,” www.aic-faic.org. [112]

Report of the AIC Book and Paper Group, Abbey Newsletter 9 (1985).

[113]

The stipulation that a person carrying out a treatment be trained well enough to apply ethical standards may be the most crucial standard of all. Damage to objects caused by a lack of training may be the most difficult type to prevent. [114]

Some amusing examples of this genre can be found in Tom Stankowicz and Marie Jackson, The Museum of Bad Art: Art Too Bad to be Ignored (Kansas City: Andrews and McMeel, 1996).

[115]

“Section VI,” in “Code of Ethics of the American Institute for Conservation of Historic & Artistic Works:” “The conservation professional must strive to select methods and materials that, to the best of current knowledge, do not adversely affect cultural property or its future examination, scientific investigation, treatment, or function,” www.aic-faic.org. [116]

This is obviously important, but as a judgement would appear to negate the emphasis conservators place on the abstract criteria discussed in this chapter. [117]

The term “damage” is used routinely in this book rather than “harm,” for the sake of consistency.

[118]

Author's abstract of Higeo Aoki, Takeo Kadokura, Ihoe Saito, Masahiro Suzuki, and Toshio Kinoshita, "Durability of Decorative Metal Fittings on Buildings, Hozon Kagaku 31 (1992): 9-68, AATA 31-657. [119]

Patsy Orlofsky and Deborah Lee Trupin, “The Role of Connoisseurship in Determining the Textile Conservator’s Treatment Options,” JAIC 32 (1993): 112. [120]

Suzanne Keene, “Objects as Systems: a New Challenge for Conservators,” in Restoration: is it Acceptable? ed. Andrew Oddy (London: British Museum Department of Conservation, 1994 ), 19-25. [121]

Joanna M. Koseh, “Restoration of Paper in the West: a Consideration of Changing Attitudes and Values,” in Restoration: is it Acceptable? ed. Andrew Oddy (London: British Museum Department of Conservation, 1994), 41-50. [122]

Julia Fenn, “Some Practical Aspects in the Choice of Synthetic Resins for the Repair of Ethnographic Skin and Gut,:" in IIC Preprints of the Contributions to the Paris Congress, 2-8 September 1984:Adhesives and Consolidants, ed. N. S. Brommelle, 138-140. [123]

Joanna M. Koseh, “Restoration of Paper in the West: a Consideration of Changing Attitudes and Values,” in Restoration: is it Acceptable? ed. Andrew Oddy (London: British Museum Department of Conservation, 1994). [124]

Mary Brooks, Caroline Clark, Dinah Eastop, and Carla Petschek, "Restoration and Conservation Issues for Conservators: a Textile Conservation Perspective,” in Restoration: Is it Acceptable? ed. Andrew Oddy (London: British Museum Department of Conservation, 1994), 102. [125]

The term “conservation materials” is commonly used to describe all materials used by conservators including those used for temporary support, containerization, and handling of objects; this wide category will not be discussed in toto here. The focus will, instead, be on materials that are applied directly to the object and remain on the object or in contact with it when the work is complete. [126]

J. A. Brewer, “Effect of Selected Coatings on Moisture Sorption of Selected Wood Test Panels with Regard to Common Panel Painting Supports,” SIC 36 (1991): 9-23. [127]

Two particularly useful examples of scientific fact related to the handling of materials are: Eric F. Hansen, Michele R. Derrick, Michael R. Schilling, and Raphael Garcia, “The Effects of Solution Application on Some Mechanical and Physical Properties of Thermoplastic Amorphous Polymers Use in Conservation: Poly(vinyl acetate)s,” JAIC 30 (1991): 203-13; Michael R. Schilling, “The Glass Transition of Materials Used in Conservation,” SIC 34 (1989): 11-16. [128]

Ted Stanley, “The Fraktur: its History and a Conservation Case Study,” JAIC 33 (1994): 33-45.

[129]

“Mastic has been the varnish of choice at the Getty Museum in recent years.” Mark Leonard, “Some Observations on the Use and Appearance of Two New Synthetic Resins for Picture Varnishes,” in IIC Preprints of the Contributions to the Brussels Congress, 3-7 September 1990: Cleaning, Retouching and Coatings: Technology and Practice for Easel Paintings and Polychrome Sculpture (London: IIC, 1990), 174. A kind of revisionist backlash appears occasionally in the conservation literature. For example, authors cite a "recent trend that questions the exclusive use of so-called modern materials in restoration, considering the damage they have caused when used indiscriminately, without taking into account their compatibility with traditional materials." AATA 33-2247, Abstract by author and Michele Buchholz of Segarra Lagunes and María Margarita, “Sistemas tradicionales de consolidación en México” (“Traditional consolidation systems in Mexico”), in Congreso internacional: rehabilitación del patrimonio arquitectónico y edificación, Canarias del 13 al 18 Julio '92: ponencias tomo 1 (Mexico: Nueva Grafica S.A.L., 1992), 184-190. [130]

Physical changes not linked to chemical ones can also occur. Over time, for example, resin layers harden and compact, possibly due to the delayed release of solvents. Many of these changes are, however, generally minor in terms of their effects on the treated objects. [131]

Robert L. Feller, Accelerated Aging: Photochemical and Thermal Aspects (The J. Paul Getty Trust: Los Angeles, 1994), 7. [132]

The ISO R105 Blue wool fading standards could be used to determine stability class. Personal communication with Robert L. Feller, 14 January 2007. [133]

Robert L. Feller, Accelerated Aging: Photochemical and Thermal Aspects (The J. Paul Getty Trust: Los Angeles, 1994). Chapters Five to Ten address these topics individually. [134]

Ordinary window glass filters out ultraviolet between 280 and 315 nm, so susceptibility to this range is not considered relevant to museum use. For this reason, it may be that laboratory research on conservation materials does not test at this wavelength. Robert L. Feller, Accelerated Aging: Photochemical and Thermal Aspects (The J. Paul Getty Trust: Los Angeles, 1994), 89. [135]

Robert L. Feller, Accelerated Aging: Photochemical and Thermal Aspects (The J. Paul Getty Trust: Los Angeles, 1994), 56-60: "Depth of penetration of light into coatings." [136]

Chandra L. Reedy; Deborah L. Long, Richard A. Corbett, Robert E. Tatnall, and Bradley K. Krantz, “Evaluation of three protective coatings for indoor artifacts,” AIC Objects Group Postprints 6 (1999): 41-69. [137]

Y. Shashoua, S. M. Bradley, and V. D. Daniels, “Degradation of Cellulose Nitrate Adhesive,” SIC 37 (1992): 113-19. [138]

Stephen P. Koob, “The Instability of Cellulose Nitrate Adhesives,” The Conservator 6 (1982): 3134; Stephen P. Koob, “The Continued Use of Shellac as an Adhesive – Why?” in IIC Preprints of the Contributions to the Paris Congress, 2-8 September 1984: Adhesives and Consolidants, ed. N. S. Brommelle,103; Jens Glastrup and Tim Padfield, “The Thermal Degradation of Tetraethylene Glycol, a Model Molecule for Polyethylene Glycol,” in Preprints, ICOM Committee for Conservation, 10th Triennial Meeting, Washington, DC, 1993, 251-6; Catherine Sease, "The Case Against Using Soluble Nylon in Conservation Work," SIC 26 (1981): 102-10; E. De Witte, "Soluble Nylon as Consolidation Agent for Stone," SIC 20 (1975): 30-34; Ralph A. Gustafson, Ingrid R. Modaresi, Georgia V. Hampton, Ronald J. Chepesiuk, and Gloria A. Kelley, “Fungicidal Efficacy of Selected Chemicals in Thymol Cabinets,” JAIC 29 (1990): 153-168.

[139]

“However, although polyvinyl butyral has been shown to have a good resistance to natural aging. . ., test samples have become brittle, yellow and insoluble in severe accelerated aging. . . ." R. Payton, “The Conservation of an Eighth Century B.C. Table from Gordion,” in IIC Preprints of the Contributions to the Paris Congress, 2-8 September 1984: Adhesives and Consolidants, ed. N. S. Brommelle, 136. [140]

For example, the use of polyvinyl alcohol to mount silk flags was published in Studies in Conservation, a widely circulated periodical. The article stated the authors' firm belief that the material would remain easily soluble indefinitely. ( R. Sieders, J. W. H. Uytenbogaart, J. E. Leene, "The Restoration and Preservation of Old Fabrics: A New Method of Mounting on a Rigid Backing," SIC 2 (1956): 161-9). Later reports to the contrary were, on the other hand, published in a much more limited fashion (for example, A. Geijer, "Dangerous Materials for the Conservation of Textiles," Bulletin de Liaison du Centre Internationale d'Etudes des Textiles Anciens 13 (1961)). [141]

Seamus Hanna and Mark Norman, “The Cleaning and Removal of Surface Coatings from a Seventh Century BC Sandstone Shrine from Nubia,” in Preprints of the Contributions to the Brussels Congress, 3-7 September 1990: Cleaning, Retouching and Coatings: Technology and Practice for Easel Paintings and Polychrome Sculpture, ed. John S. Mills and Perry Smith, 24. [142]

This has been the policy of the Art Conservation Research Center, Carnegie Mellon University, which has, as a result, been uniquely successful in producing a large body of reliable information on the behavior of conservation materials. Research projects in a number of laboratories on aqueous/resin adhesives published starting in 1975, in seeming violation of this principle, have not fared as well, producing no consensus even on the meaning of the terms “emulsion” and “dispersion,” and no agreed-upon recommendations for individual products. [143]

Robert L. Feller, Accelerated Aging: Photochemical and Thermal Aspects (The J. Paul Getty Trust: Los Angeles, 1994), 89. [144]

Jane L. Down, Maureen MacDonald, Jean Tétreault, and R. Scott Williams, “Adhesive Testing at the Canadian Conservation Institute – An Evaluation of Selected Poly(vinyl Acetate) and Acrylic Adhesives,” SIC 41 (1996): 19-44. [145]

See, for example, Norbert S. Baer, Norman Indictor, T. I. Schwartzman, and I. L. Rosenberg, “Chemical and Physical Properties of Poly(vinyl acetate) Copolymer Emulsions,” in ICOMCommittee for Conservation, 4th Triennial Meeting, Venice, 13-18 October 1975. Preprints, unpaginated. Many conservators made a choice of emulsions based on the results of color change tests reported in this article, long before other research showed that less color change is associated with worse aging properties. Jade-403 still seems to have a good reputation among conservators. [146]

Robert B. Faltermeier, “A Corrosion Inhibitor Test for Copper-based Artifacts,” SIC 44 (1999): 121-28. [147]

For example: R. Ellis, The Principles of Archive Repair, London College of Printing, London, 1951: The first principle: "As far as possible, to replace missing material with new material of the same kind." [148]

Peter Hill, “Conservation and the Stonemason,” Journal of Architectural Conservation 1 (1995): 7-20.

[149]

Christian Segebade,“Wie kann man das Material von Kunstobjekten prüfen? Zerstörungsfreie Analyseverfahren und wie sie angewendet werden” (“How can one test the art object's materials? Nondestructive analytical methods and their application”), Restauro: Zeitschrift für Kunsttechniken, Restaurierung und Museumsfragen 101 (1995): 410-416. [150]

See, for example, R. Barclay and C. Mathias, "An epoxy/microballoon mixture for gap filling in wooden objects" JAIC 28 (1989): 31 and Michael S. Podmaniczky, “Structural fills for large wood objects: contrasting and complementary approaches,” JAIC 37 (1998): 111-116. [151]

Michael R. Schilling and William S. Ginell, “The Effects of relative humidity changes on Dead Sea Scrolls parchment samples,” Preprints, ICOM Committee for Conservation, 10th Triennial Meeting, Washington, DC, 1993, 50-56. [152]

See, for example: John Griswold and Sari Uricheck, “Loss compensation methods for stone,” JAIC 37 (1998): 89-110. The authors list a number of requirements for materials used for compensation of stone buildings that would not be applicable to materials indoors: water absorption (both liquid and vapor), moisture exchange (as controlled by porosity and permeability), coefficient of thermal and hygric expansion, compressive and tensile strength, and modulus of elasticity. [153]

See, for example, Eric F. Hansen and Paula Volent, “Solvent sensitivity testing of objects for treatment in a vapor-saturated atmosphere,” JAIC 33 (1994) 315-316. [154]

Paul Wills, “The Manufacture and Use of Japanese Wheat Starch Adhesives in the Treatment of Far Eastern Pictorial Art,” in IIC Preprints of the Contributions to the Paris Congress, 2-8 September 1984: Adhesives and Consolidants, ed. N. S. Brommelle, 123-126. [155]

It is not always clear, however, whether the plasticizing aspect of treatment is expected to be temporary or not. [156]

Anne MacKay, "Treatment of a Painted Plaster sculpture: The Bard by Emanuel Hahn," Journal, IIC-CG 22 (1997): 33. [157]

Sandra Lougheed, Janet Mason, and Jan Vuori, "Repair of Tears in Fur Skin Garments," Journal, IIC-CG 8&9 (1983/4): 16, 22. [158]

Colleen Day, "A Technical Note on the Treatment of Tin Plate: The Five Percent Solution," Journal, IIC-CG 22 (1997): 77-80. [159]

Colin Johnson, Kjerry Head, and Lorna Green, “The Conservation of a Polychrome Egyptian Coffin, “ SIC 40 (1995): 76. [160]

Gregory S. Byrne, “Adhesive Formulations Manipulated by the Addition of Fumed Colloidal Silica,” in IIC Preprints of the Contributions to the Paris Congress, 2-8 September 1984:Adhesives and Consolidants, ed. N. S. Brommelle, 78-80. Carol E. Snow and Terry Drayman Weisser, “The Examination and Treatment of Ivory and Related Materials,” in IIC Preprints of the Contributions to the Paris Congress, 2-8 September 1984:Adhesives and Consolidants, ed. N. S. Brommelle,141-145 describes the treatment of a group of ivories using a small number of adhesives, some with additives (B-72, B48N, and AYAF, acrylic dowels, and crepeline, dry pigments and Cabo-sil). [161]

Stephen P. Koob, “The Use of Paraloid B-72 as an Adhesive: its Application for Archaeological Ceramics and Other Materials,” IIC 31 (1986): 7-14.

[162]

Bruce F. Miller and William Root, “Long-term Storage of Wheatstarch Paste,” SIC 36 (1991): 85-

92. [163]

Seamus Hanna and Mark Norman, “The Cleaning and Removal of surface Coatings from a Seventh Century BC Sandstone Shrine from Nubia,” in IIC Preprints of the Contributions to the Brussels Congress, 3-7 September 1990: Cleaning, Retouching and Coatings: Technology and Practice for Easel Paintings and Polychrome Sculpture, ed. John S, Mills and Perry Smith (London: IIC, 1990, 26. [164]

Stefan Michalski, Carole Dignard, Lori Van Handel, and Arnold, David, “The ultrasonic mister: applications in the consolidation of powdery paint on wooden artifacts,” in Painted wood: history and conservation, eds. Valerie Dorge and Carey F. Howlett (Los Angeles: The Getty Conservation Institute, 1998), 498-513. [165]

Eric F. Hansen, Rosa Lowinger, and Eileen Sadoff, “Consolidation of porous paint in a vaporsaturated atmosphere: a technique for minimizing changes in the appearance of powdering matte paint,”JAIC 32 (1993), 1-14. [166]

Elisabeth Krebs, “Ergänzungen an einem stark beschädigten Perlmuttkreuz” (Reintegrating a badly damaged mother-of-pearl cross), Arbeitsblätter für Restauratoren 25 (1992): 213-216. [167]

Kent Severson, personal communication, July 20, 2000.

[168]

Christina Krumrine and Lisa Kronthal, “What a Relief! A Practical Inexpensive Approach to the Conservation of a Large XIX Dynasty Sandstone Stela,” AIC Objects Group Postprints 3 (1995): 2138; Pamela Hatchfield, “Note on a fill material for water sensitive objects,” JAIC 25 (1986): 93-96. [169]

R. Barclay and C. Mathias, "An Epoxy/microballoon Mixture for Gap Filling in Wooden Objects," JAIC 28 (1989): 31-42. [170]

D. W. Grattan and R. L. Barclay, "A Study of Gap-fillers for Wooden Objects," SIC 33 (1988): 71-86. [171]

To keep the discussion manageable, we will exclude water-soluble waxes like polyethylene glycol but will lump together the most common conservation waxes – beeswax and microcrystalline waxes. [172]

John S. Mills and Raymond White, The Organic Chemistry of Museum Objects (Oxford: Butterworth Heinemann, 2006), 49. [173]

See, for example, Christina Young and Paul Ackroyd, “The Mechanical Behaviour and Environmental Response of Paintings to Three Types of Lining Treatment,” National Gallery Technical Bulletin 22 (2001): 85-104. [174]

Rosemarie Johnson, “The Removal of Microcrystalline Wax from Archaeological Stonework,” in IIC Preprints of the Contributions to the Paris Congress, 2-8 September 1984:Adhesives and Consolidants, ed. N. S. Brommelle, 107-9. [175]

Dana L. Moffett, “Wax Coatings on Ethnographic Metal Objects: Justifications for Allowing a Tradition to Wane,” JAIC 35 (1998): 1-7.

[176]

This term is used to describe materials – most often synthetic polymers – manufactured, usually by large companies, for use by other manufacturers. The research and facilities involved make is impractical for this kind of material to be made specifically for conservation. [177]

From a technical point of view, copolymers could be considered not to be single materials, but the opposing category here is mixtures with many additives. [178]

K. W. Allen, "Adhesion and Adhesives - Some Fundamentals," in IIC Preprints of the Contributions to the Paris Congress, 2-8 September 1984:Adhesives and Consolidants, ed. N. S. Brommelle, 5-12. [179]

John S. Mills and Raymond White, The Organic Chemistry of Museum Objects (Oxford: Butterworth Heinemann, 2006), 131. [180]

Tatyana Petukhova and Stephen D. Bonadies, “Sturgeon Glue for Painting Consolidation in Russia,” JAIC 32 (1993): 23-31. [181]

See, for example, Richard and Helena Jaeschke, “The Cleaning and Consolidation of Egyptian mummy portraits,” Zdravko Barov, “Removal of Inorganic Deposits fom Egyptian painted wooden objects,” and Seamus Hanna and Mark Norman, “The Cleaning and removal of surface coatings from a seventh-century BC sandstone shrine from Nubia,” in Preprints of the Contributions to the Brussels Congress, 3-7 September 1990: Cleaning, Retouching and Coatings, eds. John S. Mills and Perry Smith (London: IIC, 1990), 16-18, 19-22, 23-27. [182]

Section II.E. in "The Murray Pease Report," SIC 9 (1964): 116-121.

[183]

This viewpoint was expressed orally by at least two speakers during the conference "Reversibility - Does it Exist?, " in the fall of 1999, but the written papers more carefully describe reversibility as an important, if Utopian, goal, or as an illusion. See, for example, Hiltrud Schinzel, "Restoration - a Kaleidoscope Through History," and Nigel J. Seeley, "Reversibility - Achievable Goal or Illusion," in Reversibility - Does It Exist?, ed. Andrew Oddy and Sara Carroll (London: The British Museum, 1999), 43-6, 161-8. [184]

Barbara Appelbaum, "Criteria for Treatment: Reversibility," JAIC 26 (1987): 65.

[185]

R. Barclay, C. Mathias, “An Epoxy/microballoon Mixture for Gap Filling in Wooden Objects,” JAIC 28 (1989): 31-42. [186]

See, for example, C. V. Horie, "Reversibility of Polymer Treatments," in Resins in Conservation, ed. J. O. Tate, N. H. Tennent and J. H. Townsend (Edinburgh: Scottish Society for Conservation and Restoration, 1983), 3-1 - 3-5. [187]

Dana L. Moffett, "Wax Coatings on Ethnographic Metal Objects: Justification for Allowing a Tradition to Wane," JAIC 35 (1996): 1-7. [188]

Andrew Oddy and Sara Carroll, eds., Reversibility - Does it Exist? (London: British Museum, 1999). [189]

In general, the published papers were more measured in tone than the oral presentations. The author attended the meeting partly because of her interest in the topic and repeated references by the presenters to her 1987 paper, and was quite surprised.

[190]

Alain Roche, “Pressure-sensitive Adhesives for the Attachment of Reinforcing Canvases to the Back of Paintings,” SIC 41 (1996): 45-54. [191]

Michael C. Duffy, “A Study of Acrylic Dispersions Used in the Treatment of Paintings,” JAIC 28 (1989): 67-77. [192]

The difficulty of the term lies partly with the difference between “re-treatability” and “retreat-ability, although one could claim that they have similar meanings!” [193]

See, for example,Mark J. Anderson, "A Non-damaging Upholstery System Applied to an 18 Century Easy Chair," Papers Presented at the Wooden Artifacts Group Specialty Session: June 5, 1988, AIC Annual Meeting, New Orleans, Louisiana (Washington: AIC, 1988). th

[194]

Frank G. Matero and Alberto A. Tagle, "Cleaning, Iron Stain Removal, and Surface Repair of Architectural Marble and Crystalline Limestone: the Metropolitan Club," JAIC 34 (1995): 49-68. (p. 285). [195]

See “Evaluating potential damage from non-Class-A materials.”

[196]

See Chapter Ten, “Defining damage.”

[197]

Nathan Stolow, "Solvent Action: Some Fundamental Researches into the Picture-Cleaning Problem," in Robert L. Feller, Nathan Stolow, and Elizabeth H. Jones, On Picture Varnishes and Their Solvents (Cleveland: The Press of Case Western Reserve University, 1971), 60, 107. [198]

V. R. Mehra, “Dispersion as Lining Adhesive and its Scope,” in IIC Preprints of the Contributions to the Paris Congress, 2-8 September 1984: Adhesives and Consolidants, ed. N. S. Brommelle, 44-45. [199]

See “The Material aging graph” in Chapter Three.

[200]

Irina G. Ravich, “Annealing of Brittle Archeological Silver: Microstructural and Technological Study,” in Preprints, ICOM Committee for Conservation, 10th Triennial Meeting, Washington, DC, 1993, 792-5. [201]

Dianne van der Reyden, Erika Mosier, and Mary Baker, "Pigment-Coated Papers II: The Effects of Some Solvent Application Techniques on Selected Examples," in Preprints, ICOM Committee for Conservation, 10th Triennial Meeting, Washington, DC, 1993, 499-506; Ingrid R. Rose, Yvonne Efremov, and Mihai Lupu, "Microscopic Examination of Works of Art on Paper during Solvent Treatments in Order to Determine Their Effects on Fibers and Pigments - A Joint American-Romanian Research Project," in Preprints, ICOM Committee for Conservation, 10th Triennial Meeting, Washington, DC, 1993, 469-473. [202]

Gerry Barton and Sabine Weik, "Ultrasonic Cleaning of Ethnographic Featherwork in Aqueous Solutions," SIC 31 (1986): 125-32. [203]

Two articles on the use of paraffin injection for masonry are an example: "Thus, when skillfully applied, the proposed technique [of paraffin injection] constitutes an efficient means of keeping down dampness in brickwork." Author's abstract of L. Franke and H. Bentrup, "Paraffininjektionsverfahren zur Trockenlegung von Mauerwerk: Berteilung der Wirksamkeit," AATA 31-1416. Two pages later: "Given the conditions under these trials, ex-post injections of

paraffin had no noticeable desiccative effect on the treated waterlogged masonry. This result casts doubt on the practical value of such application." D. Hoffmann and H. Rooß, "Versuche zur Wirksamkeit von Paraffininjektionen für die nachträgliche Trockenlegung von Mauerwerk," AATA 31-1416. [204]

Author's abstract of Georgia L. Fox, "A Note on the Use of Alkaline Dithionate for Treating Ancient Bronze Artifacts," SIC 40 (1995): 139-42, AATA 33-1268. [205]

R. Payton, “The Conservation of an Eighth Century B.C. Table from Gordion,” in IIC Preprints of the Contributions to the Paris Congress, 2-8 September 1984: Adhesives and Consolidants, ed. N. S. Brommelle, 136. [206]

Annette K. Walker, M. G. Fitton, R. I. Vane-Wright, and D. J. Carter, "Insects and Other Invertebrates," in Care and Conservation of Natural History Collections, eds. David Carter and Annette K. Walker (Oxford: Butterworth-Heinemann, 1999), 55. [207]

Jonathan Ashley-Smith, Risk Assessment for Object Conservation (Oxford: ButterworthHeinemann, 1999), 307. [208]

One private conservator, for example, complained to the author that writing a report takes many hours away from his work-time. [209]

An AIC session on documentation in 1981 supplied attendees with a sampling of forms used in various laboratories, but none were filled out! A more recent session was held on using electronic media for documentation, but, likewise, did not deal with the content of reports. [210]

The compilation of a “master report,” a document detailing the materials and techniques commonly used in a laboratory over a number of years, and the use of a stand-alone glossary will be discussed in Chapter Fourteen. [211]

Adopting terminology standards for a laboratory as a whole is discussed further at the end of the chapter. [212]

Immanuel Kant, Anthropology, as quoted in Rudolf Arnheim, Toward a Psychology of Art: Collected Essays. (Berkeley: University of California, 1966) 358-9.