Extreme Collecting: Challenging Practices for 21st Century Museums 9780857453648

Table of contents :
Contents
List of Figures
Extreme Collecting: Dealing with Difficult Objects
Part I: Difficult Objects
1. The Material Culture of Persecution: Collecting for the Holocaust Exhibition at the Imperial War Museum
2. Lyricism and Offence in Egyptian Archaeology Collections
3. Contested Human Remains
4. Extreme or Commonplace: The Collecting of Unprovenanced Antiquities
5. Unfit for Society? The Case of the Galton Collection at University College London
Part II: Mass Produced
6. Knowing the New
7. The Global Scope of Extreme Collecting: Japanese Woodblock Prints on the Internet
8. Awkward Objects: Collecting, Deploying and Debating Relics
9. Great Expectations and Modest Transactions: Art, Commodity and Collecting
Part III: Extreme Matters
10. Extremes of Collecting at the Imperial War Museum 1917–2009: Struggles with the Large and the Ephemeral
11. Plastics – Why Not? A Perspective from the Museum of Design in Plastics
12. Time Capsules as Extreme Collecting
13. Canning Cans – a Brand New Way of Looking at History
Notes on Contributors
Index

Citation preview

Extreme Collecting

Extreme Collecting Challenging Practices for 21st Century Museums

Edited by

Graeme Were and J.C.H. King

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

Published in 2012 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com © 2012, 2014 Graeme Were and J.C.H. King First paperback published in 2014 All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Extreme collecting : challenging practices for 21st century museums / edited by Graeme Were and J.C.H. King. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-85745-363-1 (hardback) -- ISBN 978-1-78238-514-1 (paperback) -- ISBN 978-0-85745-364-8 (ebook) 1. Museums--Acquisitions--Moral and ethical aspects. 2. Museums-Collection management. I. Were, Graeme. II. King, J.C.H. (Jonathan C.H.) AM135.E87 2012 069’.4--dc23 2011044910 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Printed on acid-free paper

ISBN: 978-1-78238-514-1 paperback ISBN: 978-0-85745-364-8 ebook

• Contents

List of Figures Extreme Collecting: Dealing with Difficult Objects Graeme Were Part I: Difficult Objects 1. The Material Culture of Persecution: Collecting for the Holocaust Exhibition at the Imperial War Museum Suzanne Bardgett

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19

2. Lyricism and Offence in Egyptian Archaeology Collections Stephen Quirke

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3. Contested Human Remains Jack Lohman

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4. Extreme or Commonplace: The Collecting of Unprovenanced Antiquities Kathryn Walker Tubb

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5. Unfit for Society? The Case of the Galton Collection at University College London Natasha McEnroe

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Part II: Mass Produced 6. Knowing the New Susan Pearce 7. The Global Scope of Extreme Collecting: Japanese Woodblock Prints on the Internet Richard Wilk

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Contents

8. Awkward Objects: Collecting, Deploying and Debating Relics Jan Geisbusch

112

9. Great Expectations and Modest Transactions: Art, Commodity and Collecting Henrietta Lidchi

131

Part III: Extreme Matters 10. Extremes of Collecting at the Imperial War Museum 1917–2009: 157 Struggles with the Large and the Ephemeral Paul Cornish 11. Plastics – Why Not? A Perspective from the Museum of Design in Plastics Susan Lambert

168

12. Time Capsules as Extreme Collecting Brian Durrans

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13. Canning Cans – a Brand New Way of Looking at History Robert Opie in conversation with J.C.H. King

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Notes on Contributors

223

Index

225

•

List of Figures

1.1. The tefillin bag brought to London by Manfred Moses in August 1939 and given to the Imperial War Museum in 2008

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1.2. Showcase in the Holocaust Exhibition’s section ‘Inside the Camps’, which tells the story of slave labour

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1.3. View of the Holocaust Exhibition showing the showcase containing 800 shoes confiscated from deportees to Majdanek extermination camp

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1.4. A conservator places on display a Torah scroll, rescued from Germany at the end of the Second World War by Rev Isaac Levy, the British Army Jewish chaplain who officiated at mass burials at Bergen-Belsen

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1.5. Wooden hand-carved Nazi candlestick showing a farmer and his wife, the Swastika and SS runes

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1.6. ‘Trixie’ who accompanied her young owner – Ingrid Jacoby – when she left Vienna for Britain as one of the Kindertransport refugees in June 1939

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1.7. The shoes worn by Auschwitz survivor Gisele Friedman on a death march in 1945

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1.8. Cloth dolls in concentration camp uniforms made during occupational therapy classes at Bergen-Belsen

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2.1. Ali Suefi of al-Lahun, excavating and supervising the Egyptian team at the Royal Tombs near al-Araba al-Madfuna, Egypt, ad1900

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3.1. Human remains in museums

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3.2. Twenty-six skeletons were sensitively exhibited at the Wellcome Trust (London) in a joint exhibition with the Museum of London, 23 July–28 September 2008

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3.3. A skeleton from London is displayed in a darkened interior on dust-free mineral granules

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4.1. A looters’ pit at the site of Balkh (ancient Baktra) in northern Afghanistan

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4.2. Assemblage of images of the artefact types referred to in this chapter

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4.3. Aerial view of the devastation of the site of Isin, southern Iraq, in 2003

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4.4. Entrance to the Oriental Institute, University of Chicago, with banner advertising the Catastrophe! exhibition

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4.5. Central installation of the Catastrophe! exhibition with artefacts used to explain the importance of archaeological context

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4.6. Panel and photograph display showing design intention in rendering the Catastrophe! exhibition transferable

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5.1. Francis Galton, 1860

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5.2. The Anthropometric Laboratory at the International Health Exhibition, 1884

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5.3. Set of head callipers, c.1896

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5.4. University College bazaar and fete, July 1909

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5.5. Photographs of violent criminals

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5.6. Glass eyes. Late nineteenth century

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5.7. Composite photographs demonstrating family likeness, February 1882

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5.8. Photograph of patient at Bethlem Asylum, 1880s

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8.1. Theca with a bone relic (ex ossibus) of Blessed Francis Xavier Seelos (1819–1867, beatified in 2000)

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8.2. Holy card with a stitched-on contact relic of St Thérèse of Lisieux (1873–1897, canonized in 1925), a particle of cloth that has been touched to her remains

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9.1. Navajo jewellery stamp issued by the United States Postal Service in August 2004, part of an American design series and painted on the basis of a necklace dated 1940s–1950s in a private collection.

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9.2. Historic Route 66, Gallup, New Mexico showing shops and trading stores, February 2007

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List of Figures

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9.3. Gallup Inter-tribal Ceremonial mural, painted by Irving Bahe on 202 West Coal Avenue

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9.4. Coral, turquoise, glass, plastic and mother of pearl necklace purchased in Gallup for the British Museum, 1998. Zuni worn, Santo Domingo made

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9.5. Five pairs of jatl’oł of natural turquoise, shell and coral, showing the tapering quality of the turquoise and the more rounded and kernel-shaped ‘corn’

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9.6. Necklaces and brooches worn by dancer in Newatsa, a Zuni dance group, taken at the end of a performance at the Museum of Northern Arizona, Flagstaff

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9.7. ‘Turqualite’ shown in a Scottsdale gem shop, February 2007

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10.1. Wooden replica of an 18-inch naval gun arriving at the Crystal Palace, 1920

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10.2. British Army biscuit converted into a photograph frame

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11.1. ‘Edinburgh’-style collar, made in England, by British Xylonite, c.1890

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11.2. ‘Gaydon’ cups and saucers designed by A.H. ‘Woody’ Woodfull and made by British Industrial Plastics, Ltd.

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11.3. Fresh Fat Easy Chair, designed and made by Tom Dixon, first produced in 2003

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11.4. B&Q Recycled Plastic Loft insulation, 2009

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11.5. Rhoda Bag designed and made by Sarah Bayley, 2009

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11.6. Plastics from the carcass of a fledgling albatross, arranged by Dr Cynthia Vanderlip, Division of Forestry and Wildlife, Hawaii

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11.7. Jay, an articulated figurine of the character from the films by Kevin Smith, made for View Askew Prod. Inc., 1998

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11.8. Same figurine as in Figure 11.7, showing degradation which appeared within a year

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11.9. A selection of combs imitating pearl, jet, tortoiseshell and ivory, made in Europe from c.1900 to 1930; the pearl comb from the second half of the twentieth century

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12.1. The Crypt of Civilization, Oglethorpe University, Atlanta (GA), USA, shortly before it was sealed in 1940; it is due to be opened in 8113

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List of Figures

12.2. A twenty-year time capsule shortly before it was opened in 2007 on the fortieth anniversary of the National Star College, Cheltenham, held by Students’ Union President Rachel Bury (centre) in the company of past and present members of staff

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12.3. Paul Smith’s ‘Spray-on essences’, contributed to the UK Design Council’s Project 2045 time capsule (1995–2045)

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12.4. Burying an environmental time capsule at the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, June 1994, for 2044

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13.1. Robert Opie at work with his collection.

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13.2. Ubiquitous cereal packaging from the 1950s provides a shared experience for many visitors

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13.3. Brands from the 1970s

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13.4. Toiletries and cleaners from the 1970s, especially when delivered by aerosol, present particular problems in terms of preservation and display; powders and liquids, such as bleach or soap powders are intrinsically unstable and potentially dangerous

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13.5. Magazines, booklets and advertising images create the atmosphere of the Second World War sentiment and style

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13.6. Packaging from the era just before the First World War. Tins and tin cans and their history are significant, as the first modern form of industrialised packaging. Cans arrived almost 200 years ago, initially used by the British navy for expeditions

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13.7. Detergent use developed during the 1940s, giving rise to innovative and interesting design in 1950s packaging and marketing, exploited in commercial television ads in the UK from 1955

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Extreme Collecting

•

Dealing with Difficult Objects

Graeme Were

Sally Price’s lecture ‘Silences in the Museum’, presented at the 2008 William Fagg lecture at the British Museum, raised the issue of the muted voices of objects in ethnographic displays that had been stripped of their right to express their difficult histories. Drawing on her recent work Paris Primitive (Price, 2007) – an account of the formation of Chirac’s Musée du Quai Branly – she narrates how anthropologists presided over representations of objects in contestation with art dealers in terms of whether to portray ethnographic context or aesthetic judgements. Price goes on to suggest that museums can erase the question of the historicity of collections and past collecting practices by becoming closed shops or walled institutions, brushing aside the opportunity for the museum to act as a space for cultural dialogue. The result, Price says, is that Chirac’s new museum dream presents visitors with little knowledge about how collections come to be, or are imagined to be, due to political sensitivities. The reason why I begin this introductory chapter with Sally Price’s ‘behind the scenes’ exploration of the Quai Branly is because her work underlines how collecting truths are often masked in museum institutions. Her ethnography reveals the concerns echoed throughout this book and others (e.g. Vergo, 1989; Phillips, 2005) of the need to generate a critical museology, an engaged and informed dialogue reflecting on the process of collecting: the objects selected, how they are imagined and what they are intended to be. Such an approach emphasises not only how the act of collecting shapes cultural and historical representations to the museum public as well as forging a material archive for future generations to look back at, but the act of collecting is also a selective process which is as much about those objects brought forward as it is about those that are rejected. This volume – Extreme Collecting – seeks to combine both theoretical approaches to collecting alongside practical ones from the standpoint of

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those who deal with collections, in order to provide a series of fine-grained examinations of collecting practices that lie outside what is normally considered acceptable or mainstream museum practice. The impetus behind this project is to engage with two critical points that emerge from Sally Price’s work. The first is that Price’s work reveals the way the Musée du Quai Branly, like other museums, normalises collecting. From the birth of the public museum to the mega-museums of today, museums collect, store and display objects as a naturalised process. The amassing of encyclopaedic collections in colonial museums aimed to represent the world in totality – a material archive of a people’s material culture. Such an idea has many associations with scientific ambition and with totalising aspirations on the part of Western scholarly disciplines. The cultures of collecting, then, may appear inherently difficult for museums to broach today, especially so for ethnographic objects. A significant and expanding body of literature has delved into the cultures of collecting. Many focus on the history of European collecting, from the formation of the great Italian private collections, the Wunderkammer, and to the establishment of colonial museums (e.g. Elsner and Cardinal, 1994; Pearce, 1995; Pomian, 1990, to name just a few). While collecting histories have received most attention, the issue of contemporary collecting has received only some consideration, such as Knell’s analysis of the future of museum collecting (Knell, 2004); public collecting such as record collecting (Shuker, 2010); or Altshuler’s volume on collecting contemporary art (Altshuler, 2007). Other approaches examine collecting as a process, particularly towards exhibition or in the context of the art market. For example, O’Hanlon (1993) documents the kind of decisions and dilemmas he faced in the collecting of Wahgi shields for an exhibition on the New Guinea Highlands in the Museum of Mankind, London. Steiner (1995) reveals how collectors of African art face manipulation by middlemen who traffic artworks between West African makers and rich North American buyers. His ethnography reveals the different processes involved: hiding the provenance of many objects to play on Western preoccupations of authenticity; ageing the surfaces through chemical intervention; and presenting objects in ways to fool the collector into making a ‘discovery’. Other relevant perspectives focus on the psychology of collecting. Baudrillard (1994) sees the activity of collecting as world-making, the collector as god-like, imposing an imaginary order on systems of objects, a process which itself is bound up with notions of nostalgia, neurosis and completeness. Similarly, Muensterberger (1994) sees collecting as an uncontrolled desire, an emotional hunger in the pursuit of objects. While psychological approaches dwell on the individual collector, emphasising how the activity of collecting is risky, time-consuming and compulsive, a small body of work engages with marginalised objects or ‘offbeat’ collections. For example, Nicholson (2006) examines the activities of sex collectors, individuals who collect erotica, pornography and suchlike, while Rubin examines America’s offbeat museums, including

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Mr Ed’s Elephant Museum and the Museum of Questionable Medical Devices (Rubin, 2002). Martin (1999) argues, in his analysis of popular collection in the UK, that collecting by private individuals reveals changing moral and economic conditions that museum institutions ought to take note of. All of these studies highlight how the collecting passions of individuals often lie outside the area of mainstream collecting, especially of those of established museums. The question of what the ‘mainstream’ constitutes leads on to the second point that this book attempts to engage with: that is, the constitution of the silences within the museum that Sally Price discerns. For Price, the silences are analogous to musical interludes – the in-between-ness that marks out the beats of jazz music – the negative space that imbues the composition with substance. The absent spaces of contextual information accompanying the displays inside the Quai Branly leave a trail of empty utterances in place of the difficult histories of nineteenth-century collecting. While one could argue that museum silences may be the answer to dogmatic museology that eventually excludes alternative voices and narratives, it also raises the question whether this composition is simply of narrative form. One way to address this is to return to the collecting endeavours within Western museums: those that have thrived on collecting practices that perpetuate the encyclopaedic. Museums hold universal collections of material from across the world and from all periods of human culture and history. This encyclopaedic representation of the world through objects thrived on objects that could be seen, brought forward and retrieved through European collectors’ networks. Gosden and Larson’s book Knowing things (2007) – a history of the network of objects and collectors at the Pitt Rivers – typifies how collections were built up competitively around shared categories of objects and notions of completeness through interactions between curators and collectors who dispersed similar types of objects amongst different museums. This leads, as Brian Hayton says, to more of the same, an outcome of what he calls ‘safe collecting’ in which the same archetypal corpus of objects is represented in different museum collections (Hayton, 2007). Hayton’s comments come at a time of crisis within UK museums about questions of what to collect and, controversially, what to dispose of. Two recent reports, Collections for the Future published by the Museum Association (2005) and the Art Fund’s (2006) The Collecting Challenge, stress the need for museums to actively develop their collections with a renewed commitment to acquisition and disposal. The reports found that many museums do not have access to the curatorial expertise they need to develop their collections and that there is a general lack of support for active collecting. While both reports advocate for continued active collecting, neither points towards the type of collections that museums ought to be acquiring. This obviously raises the question as to whether museums should collect more of the same, given their commitment to sustain the continuum of collection up to the present day and into the future, or collect outside

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of their historical focus, beyond the mainstream, perhaps leaving behind notions of safe collecting, if this is possible at all. It was the desire to debate such questions that led my colleagues Jonathan King and Robert Storrie at the British Museum to meet with me, in 2007, for a discussion of how to open up a new dialogue on collecting that would challenge mainstream notions of museum collecting. Our response was ‘extreme collecting’ – a term used to denote those difficult objects that lie at the fringes of what is normally considered acceptable practice in museums. Funded under the auspices of the AHRC Research Workshops (Museums & Galleries) Scheme, we organised four monthly workshops at the British Museum from December 2007 to March 2008, debating those objects that resist being collected for reasons of their size, scale, materiality, ordinariness, mass production, or for their political, legal or ethical nature. The workshop series thus aimed to facilitate a critique towards the rigidity of museums in maintaining essentially nineteenth-century ideas to collecting and to move towards identifying priorities for collection policies in UK museums which are inclusive of acquiring ‘difficult’ objects. Effectively, the workshops delivered the first ever series of public debates around objects that are rarely collected by institutions and of which little is understood about policy and practice in the public domain. In doing so, this volume comprises mainly papers presented at the British Museum (with the exceptions of McEnroe, Tubb, and Geisbusch) and offers an insight into some of the key debates about extreme collecting as a way of thinking through the weighty silences in museums.

Difficult objects Some of the key debates generated throughout the Extreme Collecting series revolved around the notion of difficult objects in museum collections: what these objects constituted, how to deal with them, and what could or could not be understood as ‘extreme’ in the context of collecting. Stephen Quirke, curator of UCL’s Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology, explained how he saw Petrie’s own collection entirely in terms of their ethical difficulty. This had come to the fore more than ever after he designed a new exhibition space for the planned relocation of the existing museum to a new site in UCL’s proposed Institute of Cultural Heritage (now defunct). Petrie’s fieldwork was seen as heroic in the early days of archaeology even though it was carried out in the shadow of British military occupation in the nineteenth century (Quirke, 2007). While his collecting was not a politically neutral activity, Quirke adds that current narratives about Petrie leave out the people and the nationalist discourse current at the time, thus highlighting Price’s silences in the museum. Difficult objects not only relate to war, violence and colonial practice, but also include those that pose legal or ethical challenges. The collecting of illegally imported animal products through customs seizure is a good example

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of extreme collecting. Endangered species may be offered to natural history museums to fill gaps in collections or used in permanent displays (see Sewell, 1997). Thus, while natural history museums may actively campaign against the trade in rare or exotic animals, their collections may benefit from illicit activities as a consequence. Similarly, Steven Rubenstein takes up the issue of collecting human remains, concentrating on ethical debates about their display in Western museums and their reception by a socially mobile source community (Rubenstein, 2004, 2008). Examining a collecting of shrunken heads and contrasting approaches to their display, he alternates between a museum/Western perspective and the perspective of the descendants of the community that claims the heads as trophies. His work reveals how shrunken heads (tsantas) were originally valued by the Shuar owners as war trophies in the Ecuadorian Amazon. But they were desired in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century by visiting whites as ‘another precious commodity’ from the Amazon and eventually by museums as material evidence of Shuar culture. Rubenstein explores the difficulties that surround this particular class of human remains through his investigation of what the heads meant to the various parties who came to possess them. Rubenstein’s work reveals how listening to different communities reveals often opposing views on the ethical and political dilemmas around ‘difficult’ objects. Difficult questions about human remains, colonial science and display are addressed explicitly by several contributors in this volume.

Matter and substance of collecting If extreme collecting concentrates on difficult material, then it is also concerned with the difficulties that may arise in the very substance of the material collected and the mechanisms for dealing with this. Such forms of collecting include those contemporary art installations that dwell on the gigantic or merge with the museum space (such as Doris Salcedo’s Shibboleth exhibited in the Turbine Hall in the Tate Modern in 2007/08), making them near impossible to collect. While museums and galleries are responding to site-specific installations by drawing up service contracts between artists and curators to oversee the (re)installation of key artworks (Altshuler, 2007), little debate seems to address the extreme nature of objects that literally selfdestruct or become embedded in the fabric of the exhibition space. The often fragile nature of many objects means that they are not sustainable, such as foodstuffs, featherwork and even plastics. An extreme case of collecting and object destruction is the wonderful collection of contemporary food packaging and promotion by Robert Opie, avid collector and director of his own museum – the Museum of Brands, Packaging and Advertising – in west London, which he established in 1984. Opie has been collecting for the past forty years. He talks about the importance of saving the everyday things of society: ‘It is often the ordinary items of daily life that typify a culture and lifestyle, more than any extraordinary thing can ever do’

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(Opie, 2008). What is telling is Opie’s story of his collection of Heinz baked bean cans, a material history of iconic food packaging design over fifty years or so, and how the existence of his collection is now under threat from changing materialities due to environmental regulations. Whereas older food packaging is designed to last, contemporary aluminium cans begin to selfdestruct after two years; the contents oozing through the packaging as the metal rapidly decays. This points to how the ephemeral and unstable nature of many contemporary materials leave silences in the museum, unable to speak due to their inevitable self-destruction.

The mundane, the ordinary and the public For curators and collectors, the extreme may involve a fervent desire to amass large quantities of similar objects, a practice which may be tied into notions of completeness (e.g. Baudrillard, 1994). But the mass-produced, mundane, everyday and ordinary are a class of objects which connoisseurs and museum curators tend to avoid. In anthropology, much attention has focused on cultural readings of tourist art and the souvenir (e.g. Steiner, 1994; Phillips and Steiner, 1999) through the lens of authenticity. Extreme collecting intends to engage with debates about collecting large quantities of ordinary objects and to consider the implications of this as a material archive for future generations. Jack Lohman (2008) tackles this in the context of the collections at the Museum of London when he explores the mundane-ness of much of the material under his care. Yet he also points out that while this is largely true, much of the material was of a personal and affective nature, such as collections relating to the London Docklands area. The 1980s closure of the docks led to the collection of 50,000 items of port heritage, including thousands of hours of oral history. The pressure of managing such collections of extreme physical scale (both large and small, such as river barges and pieces of rope) forced the museum into initiating a rationalisation project for defining criteria of disposal. Anouska Komlosy (2008) stresses how important it is to collect the everyday. Like Lohman, who deals with masses of objects, Komlosy asks: what can collections of such material teach us and how should such material be collected? Drawing on her own experience of collecting for the British Museum, her answers lie in the analysis of a simple outfit, now a ‘collection’, that once belonged to a Tai female elder in Xishuangbanna, Yunnan. Understood within its ethnographic context, she argues how this small collection could tell us about Tai cosmological understandings, perceptions of gender and ethnicity, and about everyday economic transactions and societal change. Such collections, she says, provide a site of dialogue between source communities and those who want to understand those communities and encourage others to learn about them. In the stories they can tell they open a window through which to approach other ways of being and be

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inspired by them. Thus, the collecting of the ordinary and the mundane raises questions of a biographical nature, a focused approach to collecting selves as a mirror to represent society at large or those, such as the people of the London Docklands, who are marginalised. The collecting of the mundane, ordinary or mass-produced is especially interesting given the heightened mobility of objects and collectors. In particular, the dynamics of globally networked collectors connected through new technologies such as the Internet opens up extreme collecting practices in order to acquire objects distributed in different locations. Such technologies open up new possibilities for collecting, storing and display while destabilising our traditional understandings of the collected object. For example, French theorist André Gunthert explores the public photo sharing website Flickr and uses this to consider the relation between archive and collection. Flickr is extreme in the sense that thousands, if not millions of images can be uploaded onto the site and viewed by anyone. Gunthert suggests that two important points emerge in considering Flickr as an archive: firstly, the ephemeral nature of images, as photos can be changed and removed at any time; and secondly, the possibilities of searching for an image. He argues that it becomes problematic to consider Flickr as an archive in its traditional form because of its instability. What becomes apparent is that while such a system of archiving highlights the process of socialising images through tagging as well as the mapping of images through geo-tagging, these digital technologies allow for the materialisation of new forms of personhood as users’ images compete for unique tags in order to earn ‘fame’ on the worldwide web. Tagging not only attracts visitors to your photo site, but quality and content of your photographic images are like a hook (much in the same way as Gell’s (1996) hunting nets), guaranteeing sustained visitor numbers. Gunthert gives the example of the English photographer Miss Aniela whose archived images on Flickr led to her emergence into the mainstream through her online discovery and subsequent gallery exhibition in 2007. Here, the collection takes material form through access and retrieval from the digital archive. If public collecting of the everyday and mass-produced raises issues of scale and management as André Gunthert says, then it also raises important legal issues. Andrew Burnett, Keeper of Coins and Medals at the British Museum, addresses this through collections of last resort (Burnett, 2007). In drawing out the collecting history of coins and medals – of which the British Museum holds more than one million – he spells out how widespread public participation in collecting has led to the uncovering of a great amount of information about Britain that otherwise would be lost. His concern is to focus on the emergence of a dialogue between museums and users of metal detectors in the 1990s as a form of extreme collecting, which up until then had not existed. As a result, the British Museum now acquires from collectors who used their metal detectors to search at archaeological sites, paying compensation for archaeological material located in the UK. This

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form of collecting is outlined in the British Museum acquisition policy: There may be occasions when acquisition outside of the application of this policy is considered, as for example could occur if cultural or archaeological objects were otherwise under threat of destruction. The Museum may sometimes also act as a repository of last resort for antiquities, especially when it may reliably be inferred that the object(s) concerned originated within the United Kingdom, and where such payment as may be made to acquire the object(s) is not likely to encourage illicit excavation. (British Museum policy on acquisitions, approved 24 April 2007)

While this case may have positive results for the unearthing of knowledge of our past, for Burnett, collections of last resort are an extreme form of collecting that undoubtedly raises ethical questions about the role of museums in engaging with public collectors and the market at the fringes of what is normally considered acceptable.

Collecting from the perspective of indigenous people While much literature focuses on collecting from the perspective of Westerners, how do national museums and cultural centres outside the advantaged world of the West view collecting? There, institutions are under constant pressure to improve capacity and develop skills, often primarily for purposes of tourism. The preservation of archaeology and the past, and of natural history often takes precedence in this process. This may mean that systematic collecting of contemporary heritage, of the extraordinary as well as ordinary, is a low priority. Rich museums in the advantaged world may therefore continue to be the primary place of deposit for collections of ethnography and material culture from, for instance, Africa and Melanesia. But how do museums in these areas regard Western collections of their contemporary heritage? How can Western museums best serve source communities for a time beyond the twenty-first century? Salome Samou – a museum and cultural heritage expert from the Solomon Islands – describes how people have been engaging in extreme forms of removing cultural artefacts and heritage from the Pacific nation and taking it to outside buyers.  There is an economic rationale: due to poverty and people’s need for money and basic necessities, collecting is about what can be brought forward in certain contexts. Forms of collecting such as this – no matter how illicit they are – have led to the florescence of new markets in fake cultural artefacts, which are sold in craft shops in the nation’s capital Honiara. In this sense, the trading and selling of heirlooms, war relics and cultural treasures has led to the emergence of a public sense of their value and a flourishing new market economy in tourist art and authenticity. Similarly, Ghanaian archaeologist Kodzo Gavua explains how collecting in Africa has been dominated by Europeans over the years. Due in part to economic factors, and to the absence of concise collecting policies and plans, he explains how collecting is generally not normal business for museums

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in Africa. Rarely do private collectors donate their collections to African museums, nor do they establish private museums on the continent. Critical of the African art market for its reliance on authenticity and value, Gavua advocates that collecting in Africa must be guided by a new way of seeing; a new collecting paradigm that can guide the collecting and preservation or display of objects, which would inform and excite the public about positive aspects of the lives of Africans beyond the continent’s ‘mysterious’ past. A new collecting philosophy would thus be necessary, he suggests, as the way of seeing that has influenced much collecting in Africa is no longer tenable in a world of increasing interaction between peoples of different geographical, social and cultural background.

Book structure The contributions in this book are divided into three sections. The first section deals with difficult objects, those often recognised by museums that pose particular ethical problems due to associations with past events such as genocide, war, violence or death. Suzanne Bardgett focuses on the process of collecting for the Holocaust Exhibition at the Imperial War Museum that was created between 1996 and 2000. She describes how one of the biggest challenges facing the curatorial team was to amass sufficient original historical material to fill the showcases, given that a process of mass annihilation necessarily leaves little evidence behind. Her chapter examines how the Holocaust Exhibition Project Office set about finding such material, the kind of material acquired, how the related stories were gathered, and how relationships continue to be sustained today. Two chapters deal with the sensitive and emotive issue of human remains in museum collections. Stephen Quirke begins his chapter with the revelation by the archaeologist Petrie of the uncovering at an archaeological site of a human arm adorned with jewellery. Dwelling on the act of separating the arm and jewellery into their separate collections, Quirke uses this to comment on how one not just encounters acts of violence in the process of collecting, but also how the ‘anaesthetic of analysis’ is equally violent. He goes on to focus on the collections of the Petrie Museum and a range of ethical issues relating to human remains, colonial history and archives which he considers difficult. Jack Lohman’s chapter, like Quirke’s, deals with the issue of human remains in museum collections. While Quirke weighs up the justification for the display of ancient Egyptian human remains in the Petrie Museum, Lohman tackles the debates for and against repatriation of human remains in the United Kingdom. In recognising how current debates either support the scientific argument for the retention of remains or the religious and moral grounds for their return, he puts forward an alternative view modelled on the notion of healing in the context of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa. In conceding that we may not be able to return collections of human remains, he instead argues that

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through reconciliation and debate we may eventually accept the truth that there exists more than one [Western] worldview. This notion of restorative justice is taken up indirectly in Kathryn Walker Tubb’s chapter on the collecting of illicit antiquities by museums. Examining the thriving trade in illicit antiquities, she begins by stating that unless an artefact is uniquely identifiable, then recovery is extremely unlikely. Her paper focuses on a series of case studies in regions experiencing war, civil unrest and natural disaster, and exposes the legal contestations and claims to cultural property that has been illicitly acquired from Iran, Afghanistan and Iraq. While accepting that finds looted from archaeological sites are virtually untraceable and litigation extremely expensive, she hopes that museums can educate people into the harmful effects of the public’s casual acceptance of the market in antiquities. The final chapter in this section deals with eugenics material at University College London. Natasha McEnroe engages with a set of objects that have remained forgotten by the institution but now find themselves facing a fresh lease of life through the process of exhibition. Focusing on the collection of the UCL eugenicist Sir Francis Galton, she discusses how the collection is about legacies: of past collecting practices, of extreme views about race and civilisation, and of an institutional history that many want to forget. The controversial nature of this collection has implications for its curation today no more so than in the handling of the Galton archive and the protection of personal data. McEnroe states that the key issues are data protection and privacy: legally, museums and libraries may be permitted to place private information about nineteenth-century individuals in the public domain, but there are important ethical implications for doing so as it may cause distress to living descendants whose ancestors Galton documented in terms of their criminal habits and mental health. The second section of this volume comprises a series of contributions examining the collecting of ordinary, mundane or mass-produced objects. This is addressed with the knowledge that the size of many museum collections today now means that many objects will never be displayed. Instead, collections – for instance of archaeology – act as a future resource, a database never intended for exhibition. This is highly problematic for many museum professionals, but, conversely, any reluctance to collect also conflicts with the sense that museums have a duty to preserve material for future generations. The question is: if museums are to adopt a more strategic approach to collecting for the future, how best are they to develop collections of the everyday and record the mundane without turning museums into unmanageable time capsules? This issue seems even more critical today with widespread public participation in collecting. In an attempt to identify everyday collectors and to learn about what they are collecting and their collecting practices, Susan Pearce addresses public collecting in the United Kingdom. Tea towels, wrapping paper and other everyday ‘junk’ may be considered boring or

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trivial, and yet, she argues, it may have historical interest several decades from now. Drawing on Giddens’ notion of ontological security, she argues that people very much see their life in their collections. Affective collections thus give people the confidence to ‘go on being who they are’, but inevitably pose problems for the curator to deal with, echoing Lohman’s earlier sentiments about the Docklands collection at the Museum of London. The mobility of objects together with increasing access through the Internet poses particular problems not only over what to collect, but also how to organise such collections. These issues are addressed by the American anthropologist Richard Wilk – a collector of everyday Japanese eighteenthto twentieth-century mass-produced prints known as ukiyo-e. He argues that collecting can be seen as a way in which people simultaneously organise the differences among things and the differences among people. Using the framework of ‘common difference’, he concentrates on the ways collectors focus attention on particular forms of difference, which are organised through classifying practices. In the process, other forms of difference are ignored, suppressed and unauthorised. Acts of collecting also organise people into communities with recognisable and domesticated differences. He therefore argues that there are two distinct levels of selection in collecting: the first, among the various varieties defined by recognised dimensions of difference, and the second, the authorisation of which differences are legitimate and recognisable. Wilk asserts that the explosion of collecting through computer-mediated communications such as eBay has expanded and enriched the former form of selection, but is transforming the latter, by creating competition for legitimising authority, opening up the possibilities for more ‘extreme’ kinds of competition among collectors. By making it possible for anything and everything to be collected, the Internet also undercuts previous forms of curatorial selection. As a collector of ukiyo-e prints, Wilk describes how a new market exists in online trading, of which the largest is eBay. Collectors put their own ukiyo-e online for sale, resulting not just in the buying and selling of prints, but also in a new form of digital collecting, whereby communities of collectors trade and sell CD compilations of their collections of Japanese popular prints. These new digital economies have obvious implications for the way we collect in the future and for the status of the original print. The use of new technologies in collecting is dealt with in Geisbusch’s chapter in which he describes how people collect sacred artefacts through online auctions such as eBay. Such sites radically open up new modes of supply and collecting, much to the alarm of the Catholic Church which is trying to regulate and disrupt this new form of trading. While Geisbusch’s chapter takes the collection of objects from the perspective of a non-collector and non-connoisseur, Lidchi’s chapter is a highly personal account of collecting jewellery from the American Southwest for the British Museum. Her chapter draws out the multitude of considerations that arise when collecting is undertaken in an environment

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determined by the vigour and dynamism of the art market and a flourishing tourist trade. Bringing in different advocates and experts to view some turquoise jewellery, she describes some of the difficult decisions curators must engage with in the collecting process, especially when purchasing material from a pawnshop. The third section of the volume focuses on ‘extreme matters’ and deals with issues of scale: time, size and space. The chapters address the collecting of oversized objects, objects that are prone to decay, especially those that are not normally collected, as well as those that challenge the physical space of the museum itself. This section begins with the collections of the Imperial War Museum which houses many large objects and also many items of an ephemeral or potentially ephemeral nature. Cornish presents a compelling account of the problems of acquiring and displaying such objects from the moment of the Museum’s inception in 1917, and illustrates how extreme objects (size) relate to extreme events (warfare and mass destruction). He shows how the new institution’s ‘mission statement’ ensured that those responsible for collecting could not disregard ephemeral items which were redolent of the experience of servicemen or war workers. Likewise they could not ignore the military technology of the war. Susan Lambert demonstrates how twentieth-century collections of plastics pose extreme museological issues: are museums and plastics a contradiction in terms, the one to do with the old, the rare, the precious and the permanent, and the other with the new, the ubiquitous, the cheap and the ephemeral? She explores some of the reasons why museums like the Victoria & Albert Museum may have been slow to acquire plastics, and why, nowadays, museums, whatever their subject area, should and in fact cannot help but collect them. Her chapter examines the aspirations of the Museum of Design in Plastics within a wider framework of collecting, and discusses documentation in relation to the mass-produced and ephemeral, and within this context questions the object’s primacy and the value traditionally attached to ‘good condition’. Such issues of condition are germane to conservators of plastics as, like Opie’s baked bean cans, museum curators are fully aware of the unstable nature of plastic objects in collections. Brian Durrans takes up the collecting of the everyday by approaching the issue of time capsules. Speaking of the present to the future and of the imagined future to the present, he says that time capsules confront, tackle and alternatively embrace or evade the everyday. Time capsules are simultaneously expressive and instrumental, clichéd yet obscure, warmly domestic or coldly official, the business of committees and of eccentrics, homely or conniving, known to all, understood by none. Durrans reviews the field from the perspective of what these diverse endeavours make of the everyday in the conventional sense of normally overlooked experience, in terms of what one collects to put inside a time capsule that will ultimately be unearthed in the future as a representation of the past.

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The volume ends with an interview – conducted by J. C. H. King – with the extreme collector Robert Opie. The interview reveals how Opie collects, stores and sustains his collections of contemporary and historic advertising, as well as food packaging in a museum in London.

The extreme The collection of papers in this volume clearly points towards the extreme as it is slowly finding its place within mainstream museological discourse. For the art historian Rosalind Krauss, the extreme is not about physical objects and their collection, but the physical space of the museum and its relation to artworks on display. She argues that the late capitalist museum is characterised as a movement from diachronic to synchronic representations – from encyclopaedic to intensity, forged through the new emphasis placed on the museum space (Krauss, 1990). The museum is thus an extreme experience, in which the fabric of the museum intertwines with the substance of the objects on display. This is an important argument taken up by Ruth Phillips (2005) when she points out how grand new museum projects may be ‘primarily spectacles of architectural virtuosity’. But we must not let architectural spaces and aesthetics overshadow the difficult issues that objects carry. The debates emerging from this book suggest a move by museums towards incorporating difficult subjects into practice and policy, yet much more needs debating. We still know little about how objects at the fringes of acceptable collecting practice reconfigure cultural representations, generate multiplicities of meanings and value as well as put down new challenges to expertise, authority and collaboration. As we move into the ‘second age’ of museums, any added impetus behind transforming the museum space into a political space offers a fresh opportunity for museums to examine their own epistemological, historical and material structures. In an age of new technologies, new materialities and a changing language of political and ethical sensibilities, integrating the ‘extreme’ into practice and policy may well help us address the gravity of the silences in the museum.

References Altshuler, B. 2007. Collecting the New: Museums and Contemporary Art, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Baudrillard, J. 1994. ‘The System of Collecting’, in J. Elsner and R. Cardinal (eds), The Cultures of Collecting, London: Reaktion Books, pp. 7–24. Burnett, A. 2007. ‘Coins, Metal Detecting and Collectors of Last Resort’. Paper presented at the AHRC Extreme Collecting seminar series, workshop 1, 14 December, British Museum. Elsner, J. and Cardinal, R. (eds) 1994. The Cultures of Collecting, London: Reaktion Books.

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Gavua, K. 2008. ‘What to Collect in Africa Today’. Paper presented at the AHRC Extreme Collecting seminar series, workshop 4, 31 March, British Museum. Gell, A. 1996. ‘Vogel’s Net: Traps as Artworks and Artworks as Traps’, Journal of Material Culture 1(1): 15–38. Gosden, C. and Larson, F. 2007. Knowing Things: Exploring the Collections at the Pitt Rivers Museum 1884–1945, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gunthert, A. 2008. ‘Why Flickr is (not) an Archive’. Paper presented at the AHRC Extreme Collecting seminar series, workshop 3, 28 February, British Museum. Hayton, B. 2007. ‘Local Government Context and Industrial Collections’. Paper presented at the AHRC Extreme Collecting seminar series, workshop 1, 14 December, British Museum. Knell, S. (ed.) 2004. Museums and the Future of Collecting, 2nd edn, Aldershot: Ashgate. Komlosy, A. 2008. ‘From Rags to Riches: Cultural Knowledge and the Everyday’, Paper presented at the AHRC Extreme Collecting seminar series, workshop 2, 31 January, British Museum. Krauss, R. 1990. ‘The Cultural Logic of the Late Capitalist Museum’, October 54 (Autumn): 3–17. Lohman, J. 2008. ‘Managing the Mundane of the Museum of London’. Paper presented at the AHRC Extreme Collecting seminar series, workshop 2, 31 January, British Museum. Martin, P. 1999. Popular Collecting and the Everyday Self: the Reinvention of Museums?, Leicester: Leicester University Press. Muensterberger, W. 1994. Collecting: An Unruly Passion: Psychological Perspectives, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Nicholson, G. 2006. Sex Collectors: The Secret World of Consumers, Connoisseurs, Curators, Creators, Dealers, Bibliographers, and Accumulators of ‘Erotica’, New York: Simon & Schuster. O’Hanlon, M. 1993. Paradise: Portraying the New Guinea Highlands, London: British Museum Press. Opie, R. 2008. ‘The Everyday: Trash or Treasure?’. Paper presented at the AHRC Extreme Collecting seminar series, workshop 2, 31 January, British Museum. Pearce, S. 1995. On Collecting: An Investigation into Collecting in the European Tradition, London: Routledge. Phillips, R.B. 2005. ‘Re-placing Objects: Historical Practices for the Second Museum Age’, The Canadian Historical Review 86(1): 83–110. Phillips, R.B. and Steiner, C. 1999. Unpacking Culture: Art and Commodity in Colonial and Postcolonial Worlds, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Pomian, K. 1990. Collectors and Curiosities: Paris and Venice, 1500–1800, Cambridge: Polity Press.

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Price, S. 2007. Paris Primitive: Jacques Chirac’s Museum on the Quai Branly, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.   2008. ‘Silences in the Museum – Reflections on the European Exotic’. Presented at the William Fagg Lecture, 30 October, British Museum. Quirke, S. 2007. ‘Collecting Futures in the Trajectories of the Past’. Paper presented at the AHRC Extreme Collecting seminar series, workshop 1, 14 December, British Museum. Rubenstein, S. 2004. ‘Shuar Migrants and Shrunken Heads, Face to Face in a New York Museum’, Anthropology Today 20(3): 15–19.   2007. ‘Difficult Subjects’. Paper presented at the AHRC Extreme Collecting seminar series, workshop 1, 14 December, British Museum. Rubin, S. 2002. Offbeat Museums: A Guided Tour of America’s Weirdest and Wackiest Museums, New York: Black Dog and Leventhal Publishers. Samou, S. 2008. ‘Illicit Collecting in the Solomon Islands’. Paper presented at the AHRC Extreme Collecting seminar series, workshop 4, 31 March, British Museum. Sewell, D. 1997. ‘Illegal Entry: Endangered Animal Smuggling is Big Business at U.S. Ports’, E: Environmental Magazine 8(3): 14. Shuker, R. 2010. Wax Trash and Vinyl Treasures: Record-collecting as a Social Practice, Farnham: Ashgate. Steiner, C. 1994. African Art in Transit, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.   1995. ‘The Art of the Trade: On the Creation of Value and Authenticity in the African Art Market’, in G. Marcus and F. Myers (eds), The Traffic in Culture: Refiguring Art and Anthropology, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Vergo, P. (ed.) 1989. The New Museology, London: Reaktion Books.

Reports/Policies cited Art Fund. 2006. The Collecting Challenge: The Art Fund Museum Survey, London. British Museum, Policy on acquisitions, approved 24 April 2007. Downloaded from http://www.britishmuseum.org/pdf/Acquisitions.pdf Museums Association. 2005. Collections for the Future: Report of a Museums Association Inquiry, London.

Part I

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Difficult Objects

1 The Material Culture of Persecution

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Collecting for the Holocaust Exhibition at the Imperial War Museum

Suzanne Bardgett

The fragility of evidence In December 2008, the Department of Holocaust and Genocide History received a call from Dr Ivor Stilitz of Muswell Hill, London, offering the Museum a tefillin bag containing a set of phylacteries with leather straps, the boxes painted black, such as Jewish men wear during prayers (Figure 1.1). The bag and its contents had been in his possession for many years, having been left in his parents’ house in Stoke Newington by a young engineer, who had rented a room from them over fifty years before. The lodger – Michael Maynard – had come to Britain as a refugee from Nazi Germany and Dr Stilitz felt that such an item surely belonged in the Imperial War Museum’s Holocaust collection. We duly visited Dr Stilitz at his home and he showed us the phylacteries in their olive-brown velvet bag, intricately embroidered with bright yellow thread. It became clear that the Museum needed to track down their one-time owner, to be certain that he – Michael Maynard – was happy for them to be lodged here, and also to find out more about their history and why they had been left. A Google search fairly speedily produced quite a lot of information, for Mr Maynard – who had grown up in the town of Alsfeld, in Hesse – had taken part in the BBC’s People’s War online project, whereby people who had lived through the Second World War submitted their memoirs

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electronically. Five chapters gave an account of Michael Maynard’s war years. We read how as a so-called ‘enemy alien’ he had been interned in 1940 in Shropshire and later on the Isle of Man – a period of confinement infinitely less harsh than the time he had spent in Buchenwald concentration camp some eighteen months earlier, but nonetheless vexing. Like many others who had fled Nazism, Maynard had gone on to serve in the British Army, and he described how he had worked as a tool-maker – rising to Instrument Mechanic, and later Armament Officer – in the Royal Army Ordnance Corps, later known as REME (Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers). Later, after D-Day, he was among the Allied forces who moved up through Belgium and Holland, witnessing the crossing of the Rhine by hundreds of gliders towed by aircraft, escorted by fighter planes – an extraordinary experience for all who were there, but particularly poignant for someone who had fled the Nazi regime. In Part 2 of his online account Maynard wrote of how in July 1942 – by which time he was serving with the Northern Command workshops – he had learned from a Red Cross letter that his parents had been deported:

Figure 1.1. The tefillin bag brought to London by Manfred Moses in August 1939 and given to the Imperial War Museum in 2008

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When I went to the Leeds Synagogue for Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement), I simply could not come to terms with the many prayers containing the term ‘merciful God’ contrasting (with) the horrible reality, and walked out of the synagogue, never to return to one for prayers. (BBC, The People’s War)

The abandoned tefillin immediately acquired a deeper meaning. We wrote to Mr Maynard and received back a typed account of his early years. His German name had been Manfred Moses. As a teenager he had been devout – learning to speak Hebrew fluently and attending services first in the synagogue of Alsfeld and later, after the Kristallnacht pogrom meant that the wrecked synagogue could no longer be used, in the home of the Stern family. I now conducted the Sabbath services and read the weekly bible chapter from the easier-to-read printed bible, the scrolls having, alas, been destroyed during the arson of the synagogue. I even conducted a burial service of the only member of the congregation who died while I was still in Alsfeld. The official gravediggers were no longer allowed to dig graves for Jews: some of the fitter men, including my father, did the job. (Maynard, n.d.: 15; see also Jüdisches Museum Vogelsberg)

A visit to Mr Maynard produced yet more detail. The velvet bag had been embroidered by his mother for his Bar Mitzvah in September 1935. What would normally have been a lavish event had had to be scaled back because of restrictions brought in by the Nuremberg Laws, but Frau Moses had done the catering herself with help from friends. Wine and other alcohol had been easily supplied, for Herr Moses had been a wine-importer and maker of liqueurs. Maynard remembered regular deliveries of the raw spirit into the basement of their home by state-regulated suppliers, and his father mixing the liqueurs with essences bought from commercial travellers – an interesting glimpse of a bygone home-based industry. Manfred Moses was an only child, so that his parents had just one Bar Mitzvah to make special and memorable. Being the centre of attention must have been tiring – by eight o’clock the thirteen-year-old had fallen asleep. Back in this country and demobbed in 1947, Michael Maynard found lodgings in a terrace in Tottenham (where the Yiddish-speaking family made buttons for the rag-trade in their living room) and then later with the Stilitz family in Stoke Newington (where he is remembered taking an interest in young Ivor Stilitz’s schoolwork, lending him a special pen for his 11 Plus exam). In 1952, Michael Maynard married and embarked on a new phase of his life, leaving the Stoke Newington lodgings for a flat in Notting Hill. The tefillin bag and phylacteries – now a painful reminder of all that had been lost – stayed behind. Thanks to Ivor Stilitz’s thoughtfulness and Michael Maynard’s readiness to probe his long memory, the Museum today has this graceful and historic object, whose many layers of meaning could so easily have been lost.1 In this chapter, I will focus primarily on three-dimensional artefacts acquired for the Holocaust Exhibition both during its planning (1996–1999)

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and after its opening in June 2000 (Figure 1.2). As will be seen, the quest for such material dominated the first two years of the four-year project, and in the decade following the Holocaust Exhibition’s opening, collecting has continued, providing the Museum with a modestly sized – but qualitatively first-class – collection of three-dimensional objects on this theme. The Museum has tried to give Holocaust collecting a similar status to other collecting initiatives and to familiarise our curators with the possibilities and issues it poses. It is a mainstream collecting area within the Museum now therefore. But insofar as the Holocaust was an extreme event, the term ‘Extreme Collecting’ certainly applies as it relates to the practice of acquiring objects related to genocide, suffering and loss.

Collecting relics of the Nazi crimes The task of creating the Holocaust Exhibition was not without its anxieties, the availability of original material for the showcases being one of them. The fact that it was to be the principal exhibition on the theme in the United Kingdom, having received a £12.6 million grant from the Heritage Lottery Fund, meant that public expectations were high. Two floors of the Museum’s about-to-be-extended building were given over to it – 1,200 square metres of space – the largest display the Museum had ever made at its London site. Yet within the Museum, the number of objects related to Nazi persecution – when laid out for the project team’s inspection – barely covered one

Figure 1.2. Showcase in the Holocaust Exhibition’s section ‘Inside the Camps’, which tells the story of slave labour. By permission of the Imperial War Museum.

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table. There was plenty of ‘flat evidence’ in terms of documents, film and photographs relating to Nazi Europe and a lot of oral history interviews, but as regards artefacts which told the story of what happened to millions of families deliberately targeted for persecution and eventual extermination by the Nazis, we had very little. The team who made the Exhibition were mainly recent graduates – several with useful languages such as German, Czech and Polish, all with a total passion to do the best for the subject. Discussing what artefacts we could hope to find, our reference points were TV documentaries, films, books and photographs. We talked about the peculiar street furniture of Polish cities; the religious items that would convey the specific culture that had been lost during the years of Nazi oppression and mass murder; the desirability of having variety as the visitor progressed through the display. One of the team – Terry Charman – was a regular adviser to television productions on period detail. Another – James Taylor – had spent many years in the Museum’s library. Their high standards of verification were quickly transmitted to the rest of the team. We developed a set of rules which required material to appear in the Exhibition only at its appointed place – there should be no pre-empting of the story – and which forbade artistic representations unless done at the time or very shortly after the event. We would resist pressure to highlight famous or distinguished figures: the persecution had affected millions of ordinary people, and this needed to be emphasised. Was it acceptable to show facsimiles? Here we took a purist approach. Our visitors’ experience would be richer and more penetrating if they knew that what they were seeing was original. Clues as to the kinds of artefacts we might acquire could be found in existing exhibitions, although back in the mid-1990s there were fewer than today.2 On a visit to the Auschwitz State Museum it was instructive to walk round the former prisoner barracks, which the museum authorities had allocated to different countries to curate their own accounts of the Nazi crimes. In the Belgian display, we sensed the potency of several dozen camp uniforms lined up together: one conveyed a single experience, a dozen spoke of the dehumanisation of many. Nervous of whether we would succeed in acquiring sufficient strong material to fill the seventy or so showcases we had asked for, we ensured that other elements – notably the audio-visual monitors – would be richly conceived. Our team realised that words and phrases could themselves work as artefacts – when rendered as quotations in three-dimensional letters on the wall. But there was no escaping the fact that we needed a strong collection of artefacts, and finding these occupied our team for the first two years of the project.3 Staff at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum (USHMM) in Washington – opened in 1993 – told us how they had built up their collection. Edward Linenthal’s (1995) book about that museum, Preserving

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Memory: The Struggle to Create America’s Holocaust Museum, gave insights into the often fraught discussions that had taken place as their team addressed what artefacts should be featured. One chapter describes how a watershed moment had been reached when both Jeshajahu ‘Shaike’ Weinberg and Martin Smith, the UK-based documentary maker, came together on the creative team.4 A conviction developed between the two that there had to be a ‘terrible immensity’ in order to tell the story of the Holocaust. With diplomatic intervention at a seriously high level, intergovernmental agreements had been set up which paved the way for major loans of key artefacts from museums in former Nazi-occupied countries (Linenthal, 1995: 140–66). Meeting the USHMM staff, it became clear that their acquisitions programme had indeed been pursued with zeal, underpinned by scholarly research and fieldwork. The results were plain in the Permanent Exhibition, where notably large and striking exhibits punctuated the historical narrative. It was impressive, to say the least, to find one of the milk churns in which the Emmanuel Ringelblum archive had been buried in Warsaw in 1943, and a full-scale replica of the famous wall in Krakow that had been made from Jewish gravestones.5 The scale on which the USHMM had collected influenced our own efforts, and we followed their example of seeking support from the Polish Government for loans from their museums. The USHMM’s then Head of Collections, Jacek Nowakowski, generously let us have long lists of contacts in Europe. Realising the scale of effort that had been expended by USHMM on the ground in Poland, we fixed that one of the newly recruited research assistants – Kathy Jones – should be based in Warsaw for a full two years, a decision which bore fruit. The IWM’s exhibition has especially strong and diverse material from Poland – the result of Jones’s relentless research and following-up of leads. We had a newsletter which was distributed through the small number of organisations and associations of former refugees and concentration camp survivors in this country. Produced to a high standard by a former Financial Times journalist, this allowed us to report progress on the making of the Exhibition. Readers could learn, for example, of James Taylor’s field visit to Mauthausen concentration camp in Austria, and realise how deeply our curatorial staff were immersed in the subject. When hearing of our appeal for material, many survivors sent us booklets about their town of origin and photocopied records acquired in recent years from German archives that documented their parents’ fate. There was no doubt about how large these documents loomed in their own families’ histories. But it was objects that we needed, and thankfully offers of these began to come in. One was a heavy tablecloth lined with deep yellow fabric from which the compulsory Stars of David had been cut by the family who had owned it. It was initially lent to the Museum by Menahem Steinmetz, whom one of our researchers, Alison Murchie, visited at his home in north London. Steinmetz had grown up in Mihaifalve in Transylvania, one of

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eleven siblings – seven girls and four boys. In August or September 1939, their region was returned to Hungarian rule (after being ruled by Romania), so the war did not affect them until March 1944 when the Nazis marched into Hungary. The family were deported to Auschwitz, and of those eleven children, only four survived. Returning to the family home after the war, Steinmetz retrieved the tablecloth and kept it with him into his old age. Language barriers prevented our interviewing Mr Steinmetz, but it emerged that some time after his liberation, during a period spent in Israel, he had written a book in Hebrew about the family’s ordeal. A member of staff at Yad Vashem, Sara Shor, provided a detailed English summary – giving us the all-important context to the tablecloth’s history. Over the two years, the list of artefacts either acquired or promised on loan grew steadily, giving the team the much-needed confidence that the Holocaust Exhibition would be resonant with real, tangible objects. Regular meetings assessed what we had got and what gaps remained. How should we show the history of the T4 programme – whereby 170,000 physically or mentally ill people in Germany’s hospitals had been killed through injections or starvation? Something on that scale had left a traumatic legacy – were there not support groups nowadays for relatives of these victims of this appalling treatment? This turned out to be the case, and an appeal for evidence brought a collection of documents relating to a doctor – Ernst Gassen – who had opposed the Nazi regime and ended up being murdered in one of the psychiatric hospitals.

Ethical issues An Advisory Group helped the Holocaust Exhibition creators through a number of ethical issues – notably over the display of upsetting artefacts.6 One particularly grotesque item borrowed for the first two years of the Exhibition’s existence was a bone-grinder – a machine used to dispose of the evidence of the Nazi crimes, now owned by a museum in Lviv, Ukraine. There was concern that this might be just too upsetting for survivors and their families to look at, but a conviction also that the history needed to be delivered truthfully and with no censorship. Antisemitic material provoked similar discussions. Was it right to conceivably sow dangerous thoughts in people’s minds through exposing them to pernicious cartoons and caricatures? In the context of the Exhibition, it was allowable, came the unanimous reply (although there was a nagging feeling that there were some individuals with entrenched views who would ‘enjoy’ this material – a disturbing thought).

Large artefacts Most personal items and much of the historical evidence – booklets, documents, clothing, domestic items and so on – were small in scale. Larger

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objects, we agreed, would be important to convey the industrial nature of the murder programme, and for sheer variety and visual ‘pacing’ on the visitor route. Discussions ranged over the possibility of finding all or part of a gas van; whether bunk beds from existing camp museums could form part of a display; whether a doorway leading to a one-time hiding place might be found. Our ambitions in this area were curtailed partly by the constraints of the space, but also by a recognition that former camps were anxious not to lose precious historical material to museums overseas: a degree of delicacy was needed, and, having secured five large artefacts, we agreed that this number would have to suffice. One of these was a 1940s railcar. Such an item had been on our wish list from the outset – indeed, one of the first enquiries we had made concerned the likely weight and height of such a thing. One had only to travel by rail anywhere in Europe to realise that examples could be seen in railway sidings and depots, and we regarded such an item as essential: it would convey instantly both the fact that thousands were sent from all over Europe to the killing centres in Poland, and also the appallingly crowded conditions that so many had to endure. The search took Kathy Jones initially to Hungary and then to Belgium where an example ‘most probably’ used for deportation was procured and brought to this country – the generous gift of Belgian Railways. To our regret, the only way in which the railcar could be incorporated into the display was by cutting it up. A mitigating aspect was that the remaining half was eventually incorporated by Yad Vashem’s exhibitions team in the new display opened there in 2005.

A mutually sustaining partnership One of the most disturbing parts of the Holocaust Exhibition is the long run of metal shelves containing 800 pairs of shoes taken from deportees to the extermination camp at Majdanek – a major loan from this memorial museum in Poland (Figure 1.3). This display sits adjacent to the model of the arrival of a train at Auschwitz-Birkenau in May 1944. The texts explain the process whereby deportees from all over Europe arrived at the extermination camps and – having often been forced to bring their valuables in suitcases on the journey from the transit camps – had their belongings confiscated, were forced to undress, and were then selected to either work as slave labourers, or be sent to the gas chambers. To walk down the long wooden hut at the Majdanek State Museum where the shoes are stored is unforgettable. The leather is not so old that it does not still give off the odour of sweat and decay – as you walk down the hut past the huge cages of shoes, and further away from the door and fresh air, the smell overpowers you. These confiscated shoes, cynically recycled in the German economy, are the material evidence of the huge numbers killed at Majdanek, proof that the owners of these shoes once lived, but were murdered by the SS.

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Figure 1.3. View of the Holocaust Exhibition showing the showcase containing 800 shoes confiscated from deportees to Majdanek extermination camp. Lent by the Majdanek State Museum, Poland. By permission of the Imperial War Museum.

The Museum has an arrangement with the Majdanek State Museum whereby every ten years, a fresh consignment of their shoes takes the place of those that have been on display, both consignments being cleaned and conserved. This rolling programme of specialist attention is ensuring the long-term preservation of Majdanek’s huge collection of confiscated shoes – whose scale is such that external help is vital if this historical evidence is not to be eventually lost. There are other organisations from whom we borrowed or copied material, with whom the Museum will always have a mutually supportive relationship – a crucial way of repaying the professional and practical help received in earlier years.7

Continuing collecting effort The Holocaust Exhibition – when it was eventually opened by the Queen in June 2000 – drew praise for the effort that had been put into acquiring material. One national daily’s reviewer wrote: ‘tireless searching for artefacts, relics and film has given us something which takes at least two hours to examine properly and will, I suspect, stay in the memory forever’8 and this quote appeared on the posters that advertised the Exhibition – a gratifying result for the team who had worked so hard.

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Figure 1.4. A conservator places on display a Torah scroll, rescued from Germany at the end of the Second World War by Rev Isaac Levy, the British Army Jewish chaplain who officiated at mass burials at Bergen-Belsen. By permission of the Imperial War Museum.

The acquisition of Holocaust-related records and objects remains a constant activity at the Imperial War Museum9 (Figure 1.4). Recognising the very wide-ranging efforts being made by the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, Yad Vashem and other institutions devoted to the history of Nazi persecution, which it would be impractical and wasteful to duplicate, we took a policy decision to concentrate our efforts on two specific areas: the acquisition of material for the Holocaust Exhibition’s showcases, and the documentation of the lives of those former refugees who made their home in this country (a role which we share with several other archives and museums in the UK). Given the high cost of administering loans, and international loans in particular, the Museum has tried to reduce their number in the Holocaust Exhibition, retaining those it considers indispensable. A drive at selfsufficiency involved employing former curator Sandra Nagel in a freelance capacity to make judicious purchases of items which would fill known gaps: a street sign from the one-time Place Maréchal Pétain in Paris being a particularly good find. Other purchases by Nagel were a hand-carved folkart Nazi wooden candlestick with a swastika and SS runes (Figure 1.5), and a Nazi inkwell and blotter – again with SS runes – for the solemnising of SS weddings. The policy on facsimiles has been relaxed, recognising that it is better to show a replica of an artefact which is historically pre-eminent, than to

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Figure 1.5. Wooden hand-carved Nazi candlestick showing a farmer and his wife, the Swastika and SS runes. IWM EPH 4374. By permission of the Imperial War Museum.

substitute something less powerful. In two instances, therefore, historically important artefacts have been replaced with copies. One was the dissecting table from the psychiatric hospital at Kaufbeuren in Swabia, Germany – a large and heavy metal device which we had replicated by a specialist firm. Another was the sign from Belzec extermination camp lent by the nearby Regional Museum of Janusza. The sign orders deportees to undress and proceed to the showers, and is one of the most historically important relics of the Nazi murder programme. We agreed that it was justifiable to reproduce this unique and potent item, provided that we made that clear in its caption.

The Kindertransport collection The history of the 10,000 refugee children brought to this country in special transports organised from Germany, Austria and Czechoslovakia between November 1938 and the outbreak of war has been the subject of several films, books and a play. In 2003, the Museum acquired several dozen collections of personal possessions stored by these children in the small suitcases they brought with them when they made the journey to this country, usually by sea from Hamburg to Harwich and onwards by rail to London (Figure 1.6). The collection tells the intimate, painful story of the weeks and days before the children left their homes in Germany, Austria or Czechoslovakia for an unknown future in this country. Most of the children never saw their parents again. (It is a measure of the terrifying efficiency of the Nazis’

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programme to annihilate the Jews of Europe that our team learned to be aware that when meeting a refugee who had escaped to this country before the war, their parents had very likely perished.) The Kindertransport collection speaks across the decades of the anxiety and care which surrounded the packing of those children’s suitcases, and of the excitement and apprehension of the young refugees. Name-tags were stitched onto coats, jumpers and even face-flannels. There were lastminute purchases of keepsakes – in one case an engraved fountain pen. The Viennese parents of fourteen-year-old Otto Hutter bought him a coat several sizes too big – it lasted him well into his twenties. Sometimes there was a subconscious – or maybe fully conscious – wish to keep the family together, as when the three Heidenstein sisters from Berlin were all kitted out with the same coloured jumper. The collection gives us a picture also of youthful minds, who enjoyed having the latest gadget. Ingrid Jacoby brought with her a propelling pencil that could write in four colours. German–English dictionaries and geometry

Figure 1.6. ‘Trixie’ who accompanied her young owner – Ingrid Jacoby – when she left Vienna for Britain as one of the Kindertransport refugees in June 1939. IWM EPH3922. By permission of the Imperial War Museum.

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sets speak of the knowledge that, once allocated to a school, children would soon resume their studies, though in another language.  Many would in reality find the route to education barred through being too old – even though they were only in their mid-teens. Lina Hirsch gave her daughter Ruth her wedding veil. Frau Rothschild gave her daughter Edith the apron she had made when a young girl. Parents took special care over wallets and document-envelopes, one giving his son his own wallet, previously owned by his father, so that vital documents would be safe. ‘I remember my father writing the fabric label for the rucksack’, remembers Lore Heimann. ‘He took such immense care as if he wanted to ensure my safety by writing meticulously.’ One father, determined that his twins Hans and Hannah should know something of their origins, prepared two photograph albums documenting their early years. As one former Kind said: ‘there is an eloquence in those suitcases which says as much about the parents of the Kindertransport children as about the children themselves.’

The Gianfranco Moscati collection Three years later, in November 2006, the Museum took delivery of an extensive collection of documents amassed over sixty years by an Italian collector, Gianfranco Moscati. Having escaped persecution by fleeing to Switzerland, on his return to Italy at the end of the war Moscati set about collecting whatever material he could which documented the plight of his fellow Italian Jews. Moscati was undoubtedly ahead of his time in terms of collecting material across the entire history of Nazi persecution, arranging his finds thematically in over thirty volumes. Having visited the Holocaust Exhibition and heard about our work, he decided to give his collection to the Museum. The Moscati collection comprises around 1,500 pieces, and an online catalogue is on the IWM website. Although mainly consisting of paper items, the collection includes a small number of objects. One – a cloth yellow Star of David – has a very specific and moving story attached to it, an example of how a major episode of history can be encapsulated in one tiny piece. The star was owned and worn by twenty-five-year-old Tilde Modiano, a physician from a large Jewish family in Salonika, home of the largest Jewish community in Greece. Tilde Modiano was for a time part of a concerted effort by the Italian consulate in Salonika in Greece to rescue Jews from deportation. The consul, Guelfo Zamboni, assisted by his Germanspeaking liaison officer, Lucillo Merci, provided provisional certificates of Italian nationality which allowed many of the Jews in the city to reach safety in Athens, which was under Italian control.10 The Modiano family were eventually themselves interned in the ‘Baron Hirsch’ camp in Salonika – one of three separate ghettos in the city. Upon Italy’s surrender to the Allies in September 1943 and her release from the camp, Tilde Modiano tore off the star she had been forced to wear and embroidered the reverse with

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her name, giving it to Merci as a memento of their life-saving work. Tilde Modiano did not survive, however, for she was caught up in the arrests and deportations that followed the Nazi occupation of the whole of Greece. She was deported to Auschwitz, and from there to Bergen-Belsen, where she died just days before the camp was liberated (Modiano, 2000). Her embroidered yellow star thus tells how the vicissitudes of the war gave false hope to this young woman. The Museum is extremely grateful for this donation which has provided us with a plentiful cache of material – allowing us to dispense with loans of paper items for most sections of the Exhibition.11

Conclusion Reviewing the entire intake of artefacts by loan, purchase or gift since those first steps back in 1996, it is an inescapable fact that the Holocaust collection is still modest – certainly compared to those documenting other major events covered by the Museum. The fact is that to survive years of harsh treatment and murderous persecution was not the norm. For those who did survive, liberation brought long waits for visas, temporary lodgings and often several false starts at a new life. To keep hold of filthy lice-infested clothing or worn-out shoes was highly unusual. The effort at building the Holocaust collection came relatively late in the Museum’s history, moreover: our team often contemplated how much more might have been collected if the effort had been made in earlier decades. One could ask whether in choosing to feature eye-catching and unusual artefacts – a Viennese clockwork bear, a candy-striped dress worn in the Warsaw Ghetto, hand-illustrated books of nursery rhymes – one does not risk presenting a misleading impression of what it was to be persecuted, starved and eventually killed – for that was the fate of millions. Some might think that the exhibitions that have been developed in recent years – in their competition to ‘absorb’ audiences and engender ‘empathy’ with the persecuted – risk domesticating this terrible event too much. On the other hand, the lives that were disrupted were ordinary lives in which domestic possessions were a constant presence, and the violent disruption when the Nazis or their sympathisers seized control saw those possessions confiscated and a real assault on people’s everyday lives. To show only the darker evidence of the ghettos and camps would be to dwell solely on the perpetrators’ destruction of these lives. To show what – against the odds – was saved somehow restores some dignity to those who were oppressed. Parting with what is often the only physical reminder of a family’s centuries-long past life in Europe cannot be easy, and the Department’s staff are sensitive to what these relics can signify. We have been especially touched by the gifting of no fewer than three wedding outfits from camp survivors. Two were worn by Belsen survivors Gina Turgel and Taube Biber who married their husbands in that camp shortly after liberation. Another

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survivor Alicia Melamed-Adams, who survived the Drohobycz ghetto and Beskiden camp, gave us the jacket she wore on her wedding day in Warsaw in 1946. Having fragments of a past life turned into a museum story with text, lighting and careful positioning in a showcase has – we have learned – given many of ‘our’ donors and lenders a sense that their own family’s history has been recognised and even memorialised. ‘My mother now has a resting place and it is in your exhibition’, I was told by Barbara Stimler, one of the witnesses in the videos. It is one of the more satisfying aspects of this deeply moving area of collecting to realise how much the care by this national institution matters to our donors. Our work continues. The telephone rings and a story unfolds. Perhaps the least expected was the offer of a pair of shoes worn on a death march in 1945, together with a metal water flask used by Gisele Friedman, who had been deported from Paris to Auschwitz and survived medical experiments and a death march (Figure 1.7). Friedman had ended her days in France where she was befriended by an Englishwoman, Yvonne Archard, who turned to us when looking for a permanent home for what she knew to be historically important items.

Figure 1.7. The shoes worn by Auschwitz survivor Gisele Friedman on a death march in 1945. IWM EPH7050. By permission of the Imperial War Museum.

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A few months ago we were sent two rag dolls, between 6 and 7 inches tall, male and female, wearing grey and blue striped concentration camp uniforms, the bodies finely stitched from soft cloth, with painted facial features and the numbers 3113 and 8311 printed on cloth labels (Figure 1.8). We were told that they were made by survivors of Bergen-Belsen, who gave them to one of the British soldiers – Gwyn Edmond Jones – in the aftermath of liberation in 1945. That was as much as we knew until Yad Vashem’s Yehudit Inbar sent me a reference to a book by an Australian nurse who was part of the relief operation (Doherty, 2000: 165f).12 In it she described how dolls were made during occupational therapy lessons at Belsen, and how one fifteen-year-old ‘with golden hands’ used the fabric of concentration camp uniforms to make representations of the former camp inmates. As I write, colleagues at the Bergen-Belsen Information Centre are investigating the significance of the numbers on each of those dolls. Just conceivably the identity of the two survivors they represent can be unravelled too.

Figure 1.8. Cloth dolls in concentration camp uniforms made during occupational therapy classes at Bergen-Belsen. By permission of the Imperial War Museum.

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Notes   1. Ivor Stilitz contributed a memoir of the impact of the Holocaust on 1940s Stoke Newington to The Goldfinch Independent, an occasional anthology of family history, No 12, July 2008, pp. 3–5. A copy is held in the IWM Department of Documents.   2. 2005, the 60th anniversary of the end of the Second World War, saw three major new exhibitions open in succession: the Mémorial de la Shoah in Paris, the newly redeveloped Yad Vashem in Jerusalem and the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe in Berlin.   3. A Holocaust Exhibition Acquisitions Group assisted this process, providing a representative in each of the Museum’s seven collecting departments who took charge of the material the HEPO (Holocaust Exhibition Project Office) acquired.   4 Martin Smith had had a long association with the Imperial War Museum’s Film and Video Archive through his work on the series The World at War and other productions. He provided an important link to the USHMM as well as constant and muchvalued advice throughout the making of the Holocaust Exhibition.   5. For a full account of this project to document the Warsaw Ghetto, see Kassow (2007).   6. The Advisory Group comprised Rabbi Hugh Gryn, who sadly died before the project was completed, Sir Martin Gilbert, Professor David Cesarani, Martin Smith, Anthony Lerman and Ben Helfgott.   7. The IWM was part of a delegation to Lithuania to advise two museums as part of the International Task Force on Holocaust Education, Remembrance and Research; was on the advisory group to the Jasenovacs Memorial Site in Croatia; assisted with the creation of the Srebrenica Memorial Room, Bosnia; and is on the international advisory board to the Holocaust Museum at Dossin Barracks, Mechelen in Belgium.   8. Sunday Express, 4 June 2000.   9. The Holocaust Exhibition Project Office was formally made a department and placed in the Collections Branch in April 2008, and then absorbed into the Research Department in 2010. The work of administering the loans to the Holocaust Exhibition, acquiring new material and preparing it for display is today undertaken by Emily Fuggle. 10. Joseph Rochlitz (Compiler) and Menachem Shelach (Introduction), Excerpts from the Salonika Diary of Lucillo Merci (February–August 1943), Yad Vashem Studies, 1987, vol XVIII. 11. See reference to the online catalogue on the IWM website: http://www.iwm.org.uk/ upload/package/82/moscati/home.html 12. Both Yad Vashem, Jerusalem, and the Great Synagogue, Sydney, have similar dolls in their collections.

References BBC, The People’s War. [Online]. Available at: http://www.bbc.co.uk/ ww2peopleswar/stories/20/a5350420.shtml. Doherty, M.K. 2000. Letters from Belsen, J. Cornell and R.L. Russell (eds), Sydney: Allen and Unwin. Jüdisches Museum Vogelsberg, Michael Maynard alias Manfred Moses: Video-Dokumentation zu Michael Maynard. [Online]. Available at: http://www.juedisches-museum-vogelsberg.de/zeitzeugen/maynerd.html.

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Kassow, S.D. 2007. Who Will Write our History? Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Linenthal, E. 1995. Preserving Memory: The Struggle to Create America’s Holocaust Museum, London: Penguin. Maynard, M. n.d. ‘Fragments from my Life’, unpublished typescript, Imperial War Museum, Department of Documents. Modiano, M. 2000. Hamehune Modilliano: The Genealogical Story of the Modiano Family from ~1570 to Our Days, Athens. [Online]. Available at: http://www.themodianos.gr/The_Story.pdf. Rochlitz, J. (Compiler) and Shelach, M. (Introduction) 1987. ‘Excerpts from the Salonika Diary of Lucillo Merci (February–August 1943)’, Yad Vashem Studies, XVIII. Stilitz, I. 2008. Goldfinch Independent, No. 12, July, pp. 3–5, Documents and Sound section, Imperial War Museum.

2 Lyricism and Offence in Egyptian Archaeology Collections

• Stephen Quirke

Receiving the invitation to contribute a paper on ‘Extreme Collecting’, my initial instinct was that the phrase must be tautologous, that all collecting is extreme in its practice. In these pages I have sought to work through that thinking from the experience of curatorship in collections of Egyptian antiquities. As a philologist, I include evidence from ancient Egyptian writings, conceiving language as one of the forces that shapes a society, a philosophy in practice, and so potentially a response to modern thinking.

I. Ever extreme? Collecting practice as physical rupture, collection space as physical threat to the object In 1900, London-based archaeologist Flinders Petrie was directing excavations near al-Araba al-Madfuna in southern Egypt. In clearing the tomb of king Djer (about 3000 bc), the Egyptian excavators uncovered in a wall crevice a human arm adorned with jewellery (Petrie, 1901: 17). The arm had been placed there in antiquity, perhaps by robbers disturbed on exit, perhaps by devout restorers of the plundered burial-place. In encounters with violence, a physical presence can never be less than extreme, however much an archaeologist applies the anaesthetic of analysis. Reburial into oblivion is a frequent modern solution; yet such forgetting may be just as terrible an act of violence, if ‘not even the dead will be safe from the enemy, if he is victorious’ (Benjamin, 1940: paragraph 6). Later, Petrie found the jewellery from the Djer tomb on display in the Egyptian Museum, Cairo, but without the arm bones or textile wrappings. Like books and coins, human remains

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are often removed to separate places of collection for specialised care, and so the bones may have been sent to an anatomical collection in Cairo. Petrie commented more darkly, and simply, that ‘a museum is a dangerous place’ (Petrie, 1930: 175). Such material loss may be the most tangible threat to an object in collection space. Harmful climates and feeble architecture join war and neglect to cancel the collection’s claim to immortality. Beside them, more abstract forces also threaten to undermine the objects of collection. As institutional public space, the ‘museum form’ of collecting has proven extreme in several historical effects: 1. Naturalising historical presence: in the modern global spread of institutions for display, collecting can come to seem a universal human activity, against all the efforts of museology to historicise it (Bennett, 1995). Gathering ‘things’ in institutions becomes, in this view, a benevolent material maternalism, echoing the figure of the nation as mother. An opposite position deems collecting a variant of hoarding and self-worship, a destructive pathology outside and against daily experience. Between the two poles, in conformistly consumerist societies, collecting may strike most non-collectors less a normative standard, and more an eccentric activity. 2. Material confusions: the objects that attract people to visit (collection) come to be treated as synonyms of their architecture and staffing (museum). Once this remarkable elision involved a conscious act of translation: in 1737 Alexander Gordon used the Latin Musaeum for French/English Collection, and in 1753 Museum Britannicum was a Latin translation of National Collection. In the blur between Collection (of objects) and Museum (as staffed building and operation), a new social actor emerges: the museum management profession, centred on a rotating stage of museum directorship. Simultaneously, a new career evolves for subject specialists, transferred from technical lives of collections care to an aestheticised curatorship of short-term display. 3. Political dislocations: in institutional space, the public and political focus shifts to the guarded, silenced terrain of the display gallery, following models of painting and sculpture in churches and rich houses. This tactic moves attention away from a vulnerable political economy of institutional practices: conserving, storing, checking, studying, interpreting, marketing and funding. 4. Faking a genealogy: with its specific epicentres, the ‘museum form’ of collection has enshrined a tenuous white European South-toNorth trajectory. In its autobiographies, the encyclopaedic museum in particular professes descent from the Mouseion, the ‘Muse-Temple’ with Library, in what is made an emphatically Greek Alexandria (in Egypt (in Africa)). Standard museum histories seem undeterred by the absence of objects in the Alexandrian institution, a place primarily concerned with compiling standard editions of Greek literature.

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In private property relations of European as of other societies, an object has regularly been considered to belong to one owner at a time, making its use-life a prosthetic lineage for each owner in turn. Like every genealogy, ‘object biography’ is a selective narrative that highlights an original line in place of complex webs of descent; the web can be restored in a collection of many objects. In the Homeric epics underpinning ancient Greek identity, Helen of Troy is said to own among a set of presents a silver basket given by ‘Alcandre, the wife of Polybus who dwelt in Egyptian Thebes, where greatest store of wealth lies in men’s houses’ (Odyssey Book 4, 120, cited in Pearce, 2000, vol. 1: 36). The African turn to the line disrupts any European endstory, which must preserve itself by the magic of Aufhebung, simultaneously raising to note and surpassing (Pope, 2007). Yet archaeology can visually reinforce this thread of resistance in early Iron Age epic, with a silver basket found at San al-Hagar (ancient Djanet) among a collection of precious metal vessels in the tomb of an early Iron Age king of Egypt (Egyptian Museum Cairo, JE85906, de Cenival et al., 1987: 227–29, with illustration and bibliography). Djanet was the major Mediterranean port and royal city of Egypt seven centuries before Alexandria. A silver basket found there offers new, if still ambivalent genealogies, liberating into the web, or merely ennobling a different modern client.

II. Ambivalent antonymy: mundane and sacred in ancient collecting-space Staying in the Nile Valley, one escape route out of the Eurocentric straightjacket might be along the vocabularies of collectable things in the ancient Egyptian language. Through the impact of writers such as Kant and Baudrillard, the word ‘thing’ carries philosophical baggage in Latin and Germanic spheres, to such an extent that even other European languages already help renew our thinking. Introducing Russian-language essays on visual culture, Alla Efimova and Lev Manovich note the mutual dependency of two terms for object: ‘If predmet refers to strictly inanimate and functional entities, vesch is an entity endowed with human spirit’, offering as translation for the latter ‘Thing’ in place of ‘thing’ and citing a neologism, ‘verbject’, proposed in 1988 by Mikhail Epshtein (Efimova and Manovich, 1993: xxiv–xxv). Still implicitly eliding museum, collection and display by the same game rules outlined above, Epshtein aims for a ‘lyrical museum’ in contrast to traditional museums with their ‘three functions of a Thing [vesch] – as a curiosity, as a sample, and as a relic’ (Epshtein, 1993: 152f). His exhibits would be ‘the Things of everyday life, in general use, without a particular monetary, historical, or artistic value’. With these reframed, re-recognised Things the lyrical museum creates, for Epshtein, a new vehicle for questioning the world and human existence, leading, perhaps, to redemption. Quoting from the novel Foundation Pit by Andrey Platonov, Epshtein follows the character Voschev collecting leaves: ‘your life had no meaning, thought Voschev

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with parsimonious empathy, – stay here, I will find out what you lived and died for’; and pebbles: ‘he was excited and worried by the almost eternal existence of the pebble in the mud, in the midst of darkness: there must be a reason for its being here, then more reason for man to live’ (Epshtein, 1993: 165). In the stores of archaeological collections across the Soviet Union and wherever archaeology has been practised, Epshtein might have found his lyrical museum waiting for its name. His way to such examples seems blocked by the usual dominant equation Museum = Display. In the Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology, a pebble becomes a cosmetic tool by its association with a grinding palette and malachite fragments in a tomb of a man, if documented at the time of finding. Another unworked pebble, without excavation record, becomes a cosmetic tool by its looser association with the dig finds in the context of this collection. In lyric store or on aesthetic display, excavated objects resonate with the language of their makers or users, among modern speakers or ancient writings. Accordingly, the Russian antonymy could be augmented by a more fragmented, archaeological evidence of Bronze Age Egypt. Ancient Egyptian words for ‘things’ introduce their own universe of associations. The main word khet also denotes ‘offerings’ and, at least in late first millennium bc inscriptions, the ‘relics’ of Osiris, god of the underworld (Beinlich, 1984: 49). These relics are not so much a presence to be revered by the living, but a temporal-spatial fissure in the fabric of physical being, according to a process that Tom Hare has termed the re-membering of Osiris (Hare, 1999). Osiris was murdered by his brother Seth, embodying anarchy, and his corpse cut into pieces and scattered over all Egypt. The parts were collected by his sister-wife Isis, the great healer, to re-form Osiris and conceive their son Horus, embodying order, to recover the kingship. These khet ‘things’, one for each province, amount to a sacralised map of Egypt, or the Nile Valley, as the body of the god. The primary reference of a second term, henu, was pottery, specifically, in the early second millennium bc, the standard drinking cup of the day, a miniature Nile-silt bowl, of a type found reduced to rough sherds by the million across sites of the period (Bourriau and Quirke, 1998: 74). In a document of the same date from Lahun, a rarer word, tjaut (‘taking’), is used in the heading for a set of henu-objects, ‘List of objects taken in the first taking’ (UC32183, first published Griffith, 1898: 48–51). Ranging over food and boxes of cosmetic and writing equipment, the miscellaneous items may have been collected as supplies and equipment for a Nile journey (Quirke, 2009). Things taken on board would constitute the essential ancient Egyptian collection, perhaps in some periods the model for the groups of objects placed in richer burials (Miniaci and Quirke, 2009). In the spectrum from sacred to discard, collections of people, deities, documents and books more regularly receive names (attestations in the standard academic dictionary for the language, Erman and Grapow, 1926– 1961): demedjyt – ‘unit’ of people in the combination of family and estate

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staff; semayt most often in the ‘confederacy’ of anarchic Seth; pesdjet, the ‘Nine’, the collective of deities receiving offerings in a cult-place. Collections of books appear as institutional spaces in writings, as ‘House of Books’, ‘Store-place of Documents’, and the centres of cultural transmission, ‘House of Life’, presumably model for the institutions created for Alexandria (attestations in Schott, 1990). Essential to the political weight of the modern collection, private or public, is its publicly affirmed value. In ancient Egyptian, the valued object is the object sealed (khetemet, from khetem – ‘(to) seal’); as always, collecting is an act of security. The institutional form for a secure collection is the per-hedj (‘White House’), usually translated as Treasury and most often said to be attached to the state (‘Treasury of Pharaoh’) or a temple. Finds of treasure are rare in Egyptian archaeology and most often encountered on temple sites and in rich tombs. For the latter, modern opinion may hold that ancient Egyptians ‘took everything with them’, but in practice significant variations mark the history of depositing wealth in the ground (Grajetzki, 2003). In general, a restricted range of material, and for the adult male often nothing at all, accompanied the deceased. Only twice in Egyptian history was the rich tomb stocked like a house-store: in the early Early Bronze Age, about 3000 bc, and the early Late Bronze Age, about 1450–1300 bc. Both periods saw a particular intensity of contacts with western Asia, recalling a contrast drawn by David Wengrow for earlier periods between a north African focus on body, and west Asian focus on house (Wengrow, 2006: 69). Accumulations at temples include one from the founding phase of Egyptian unification, about 3000 bc, at a central sacred enclosure in Nekhen (modern Kom al-Ahmar, southern Upper Egypt): hundreds of objects were deposited in trenches, apparently according to material and type, as if an ancient museum cataloguer had been at work (McNamara, 2008). Two and a half thousand years later, a similar separation of deposits by material can be observed in smaller-scale, but still substantial, deposits at the shrines and catacombs of ibis, falcons and monkeys (Smith and Davies, 2007). When a cult fell into abeyance, its architecture might still attract visitors; in the Late Bronze Age, several wrote on walls a formulaic appreciation of aura: ‘he found it as though heaven were within it, the sun-god shining in it, and said, may heaven rain fresh myrrh, may it drip incense upon the roof’ (examples in Peden, 2001: 58–65).

III. Colonial extreme: modern European collecting practice outside Europe European colonialism frames every modern museum as extreme. By timephases for new uses for a past, early modern collecting falls under the conditions of mercantile capitalism (see Pomian, 1986, for the changes within this period); nineteenth-century collecting under ascendant military imperialism (cf. Barringer, 1998); contemporary collecting under finance/ consumer capitalism. In the manner expressed most forcefully by Max

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Weber in 1917 for any university discipline (Mommsen et al., 1992), archaeologists claim innocence of politics and the market, allowing standard histories of archaeology a remarkable freedom from the investigative scope of other modern histories. This claim can be tested against the life stories of leading practitioners, such as the London-based archaeologist Flinders Petrie (1853–1942).

Science Petrie worked in Egypt between 1880 and 1924 and then in Palestine, along Wadi Gaza, until 1938 (Drower, 1985). He created the first object typologies for the Nile Valley, including its first sequence of prehistoric finds. More disinterested scientific work could scarcely be imagined. In the absence of government funding, heavily reliant on institutional sponsorship, Petrie requested export permits, for finds to go to public museums, from the Antiquities Service of Egypt, then under French directorship. The result is a distributed collection linking over 200 museums worldwide.

Politics In 1882, the Liberal government in London sent armed forces to occupy Egypt. In 1919, revolution in Egypt forced the 1922 rearrangement whereby the English retained control of foreign policy and the Suez Canal, ceding domestic authority to Ahmed Fuad, as King, and an Egyptian parliament. Fearing an end to export permits, and so to his museum funding, Petrie moved to Palestine, where he expected fewer obstacles from the recently imposed British Mandate (Drower, 1985: 355–64). He was wrong on both counts: exports to museums worldwide continued into the 1980s, long after full independence in 1952; and British administrators in Palestine applied greater control than the Antiquities Service of Egypt. All archaeological fieldwork, still today, reinforces the extreme fractures of colonial history. Excavation directors relate to core workforce in a systematic two-part operation: (1) employing inhabitants of an archaeological landscape to locate sites and then as manual labour to clear the sites of earth; (2) removing finds, not so much physically (most are too heavy or repetitive, and remain on site), as intellectually and conceptually, to sites of collection that are structurally out of reach of those individuals: academic circulation (conferences and print publications, in academic forms of European languages). Petrie recorded his workforce to perhaps an unusual degree in circular letters home, in some publications, in notebook pay lists, and in some early seasons of photography (much preserved in three English institutions: Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology, University College London; Egypt Exploration Society, London; Griffith Institute, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford). This archival material supports a new biography, starting when Ali Jabri initiates his guest Petrie, 1880–1882,

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into the seekers among the Najama, the Giza Pyramid Bedouin (Quirke, 2007). They reveal to him the site of Nabira, ancient Greek Naukratis, and provide the supervisors for his 1880s work, notably Muhammad abu Daud, under whom the Hawara expedition of 1888–1889 uncovered the famous Greek-style encaustic portraits. Petrie then liberated himself of supervision and used more diffuse control through a few men from Fayum, notably Ali Suefi of al-Lahun (Figure 2.1). In 1893, now Professor at UCL, Petrie organised excavations at Qift, near Luxor, where Ali Suefi trained a new core workforce of three dozen men, celebrated in Egyptian archaeology as the Quftis, employed on Egyptian and foreign expeditions alike. In his 1904 manual Methods and Aims in Archaeology, Petrie claimed ‘discrimination’ as the criterion dividing director and workforce, but he had learned to identify and to date from and like them, on the ground. Nothing divided him from his Egyptian supervisors except the charmed circle of academic writing for print, in which they would never, even under an independent Egypt, be trained.

Figure 2.1 Ali Suefi of al-Lahun, excavating and supervising the Egyptian team at the Royal Tombs near al-Araba al-Madfuna, Egypt, ad1900. Petrie Museum archive album, copyright of the Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology, UCL.

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IV. Collecting offensives By the system of finds distribution, in theory, key pieces went to the Egyptian Museum, Cairo, and most other finds to sponsors, leaving at UCL a residue, today 80,000 items, of the typical and the enigmatic. Petrie also purchased, sometimes for others, such as Amelia Edwards (1837–1892), the writer who bequeathed with her collection the funds for Petrie to start teaching Egyptian archaeology and philology. Petrie dedicated forty-two years of collecting and excavating in Egypt to create, not only at UCL, but peppered around the globe in all sponsoring museums, not art galleries, but study centres of ‘social and racial history’ (Petrie, 1895) – of society and of peoples. Despite the different focus, in its scale his all-encompassing museum is the Epshtein goal, a lyrical museum that escapes the three museum types, of Art, Type, and Name. It includes Art in abundance, with highlights in the cosmetic spoons of fourteenth-century bc imperial luxury, masterpieces in ivory sculpture from 1800 bc, the outstanding royal wall-reliefs from Qift. The collection was probably in his own eyes a traditional Type museum, of ‘Things … important as samples typical for an entire family or class of similar Things’, as in zoology (Epshtein, 1993: 152). Here belong, not for the non-specialist, but for (some) numismatists, the several thousand miniature coins from two fifth-century hoards. Petrie traced his first steps in archaeology to his childhood coin collecting; the minimi support his complex investigation into the scale of trade between western and eastern halves of the late Roman Empire, but also an intimate life history of the person collecting. From the impact and scope of his own work, every object in his collection becomes part of a collective memorial to himself, as a Name famous within the confines of archaeology, if not beyond it. Simultaneously traditional and lyrical, the Petrie Museum is extreme in its scale among a particular class of Egyptian collections: those that have not been divided by the European history of Egypt (Reid, 2002). The unbroken collection speaks for the mass of speakers of the four historic languages dominating Egypt in their scripts: ancient Egyptian, Greek (Hellenised Egypt), Coptic (Egyptian language in Christian Egypt), and Arabic (since the opening to Islam), all on a prehistoric base for which we cannot know the language. Yet their talk and their silence are framed in the extremity of the historical dislocation by which collections are necessarily created. Every archaeological museum negotiates its future with its present political context, whether in Egypt or London. In the London collection, stored and displayed, two undermining forces in European self-expression disrupt the disinterested scientist, who must resort to all the anaesthetising authority of policed, quiet galleries: the erotic, and the reminder of death. Hellenistic and Roman period figurines and vessels abound in the graphic and phallic (figurines UC33447, 48356, 48372: collection online, www. petrie.ucl.ac.uk). Ancient Egyptian imagery of the divine includes ithyphallic forms, notably for Min, god of male fertility. As one major cult-centre of

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Min was Qift, where Petrie directed work in 1893, the Petrie Museum preserves a range of images in two and three dimensions, including one of the outstanding works of Middle Kingdom Egyptian art preserved in England (UC14786 relief; small stelae UC14405, 14501, 55628; figurines UC16457). This has presented problems in the past; the relief was published with a label over the offending member (Montserrat, 2000). On two figurines the erect penis was removed (UC8137, 8138). Evidently, this collecting intervention was not peculiar to Petrie, as a third example now in the collection derives from the Egyptian collections of Henry Wellcome (UC8136), and similar treatment has been meted out to figures on the ancient Greek vases at another English educational establishment, Harrow School (Gaunt, 2005: 2 with pl. 4, 11 with pl. 13). Displays of human remains in Egyptian collections pose problems that are now still more acutely felt. The Petrie Museum never housed the sizeable anatomical collection of 2,000 to 3,000 individuals, shipped (mainly the skulls only) for Petrie to UCL eugenicists Francis Galton and his successor, Karl Pearson. After Pearson retired in the mid-1930s, the Eugenics Department lost faith in archaeological remains, and after the Nuremberg trials eugenics itself became unmentionable. With no funding or space to house the material in the heavily blitzed university campus in central London, the remains of the ancient individuals in the anatomical collection faced destruction. They were saved by interest from a new quarter, the Department of Anatomy at the University of Cambridge, offering advanced analytical techniques to new research agendas on human development and climate change (see Leverhulme Centre for Human Evolutionary Studies, n.d.). Human remains as study collection and on display have become a focus of debate in Australia and anglophone North America, and since the 1990s elsewhere (Fforde, 2004). This debate intensifies the weight on those who would justify the presence of the few individuals remaining in the Petrie Museum. Those from excavations, where more can be learned of the place and time when they lived, are one substantially intact body, three skulls, and several leg bones, and (though without anatomical identification of the bone) one skull fragment inscribed in the mid-first millennium AD with a protective charm in Coptic Egyptian. Apart from the skull fragment, all are on display, as vulnerable as the living to reactions of ridicule, indifference, disgust. None of the options left are easy. They could be removed, to become the preserve of the expert. The parts could be reburied, though the rites expected by these specific individuals are not known; horror stories of good intentions include cremation by twentieth-century individuals unaware that burning signifies damnation in ancient Egyptian religious writing (Citro and Foulds, 2004: 293 for a case in Middlebury in 1945). For ancient human remains to appear in public space, safeguards are needed, including assent from more people than authorities in more than one geographical context. If museums hold authority as spaces where people expect learning, that rather dubious power may be redeemable to an extent by corrective acts

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of transparency. As long as the West is a place where people deny humanity to ancient Egyptians, or impose one racial identity over another, the bodily remains of ancient individuals hold radical research potential and learning impact for the living. The collected head displays two things that authoritative people might rather we did not see, an extremity of European violence, and an ancient humanity, not idealised but physical. As their museum label, the ancient Egyptian words below aim not just at archaeologists, but at a physical, personal disintegration – the extremity that is our end. Book of the Dead, chapter 43 (author’s translation, from the papyrus for Nu, about 1400 bc, cf. Allen, 1974): ‘Formula for preventing the head of a man being cut off from him in the underworld. He says: I am the elder, son of the elder, the flame, son of a flame, he to whom his head is given after it has been cut off; my head can never be removed from me. I am joined, fresh, young. I am Osiris.’

References Allen, T. 1974. The Book of the Dead or Going Forth by Day: Ideas of the Ancient Egyptians Concerning the Hereafter as Expressed in Their Own Terms, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Barringer, T. 1998. ‘The South Kensington Museum and the Colonial Project’, in T. Barringer and T. Flynn (eds), Colonialism and the Object: Empire, Material Culture and the Museum, London: Routledge, pp. 11–27. Beinlich, H. 1984. Die ‘Osirisreliquien’: Zum Motiv der Körperzergliederung in der altägyptischen Religion, Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Benjamin, B. 1940. On the Concept of History, trans. D. Redmond (2005). Available at: http://www.marxists.org/reference/archive/benjamin/1940/ history.htm (accessed 14 January 2011). Bennett, T. 1995. The Birth of the Museum:  History, Theory, Politics, London: Routledge. Bourriau, J. and Quirke, S. 1998. ‘The Late Middle Kingdom Ceramic Repertoire in Words and Objects’, in S. Quirke (ed.), Lahun Studies, Reigate: SIA Publications, pp. 60–83. Citro, J. and Foulds, D. 2004. Curious New England: The Unconventional Traveler’s Guide to Eccentric Destinations, Lebanon, NH: University Press of New England. de Cenival, J.-L., Yoyotte, J. and Ziegler, C. (eds) 1987. Tanis: L’or des Pharaons, Paris (exhibition catalogue).

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Drower, M. 1985. Flinders Petrie: A Life in Archaeology, London: Victor Gollancz. Efimova, A. and Manovich, L. (eds) 1993. Tekstura: Russian Essays on Visual Culture, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Epshtein, M. 1993. ‘Things and Words: Towards a Lyrical Museum’, in A. Efimova and L. Manovich (eds), Tekstura: Russian Essays on Visual Culture, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, pp. 152–72 (translation from Russian original, in Paradoksy novizny, Moscow, 1988: 304– 33). Erman, A. and Grapow, H. 1926–1961. Wörterbuch der ägyptischen Sprache, vols 1–4, Berlin: Akademie-Verlag. Fforde, C. 2004. Collecting the Dead: Archaeology and the Reburial Issue, London: Duckworth. Gaunt, J. 2005. Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum: Great Britain: Harrow School, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Grajetzki, W. 2003. Burial Customs in Ancient Egypt: Life in Death for Rich and Poor, London: Duckworth. Griffith, F.L. 1898. Hieratic Papyri from Kahun and Gurob, Principally of the Middle Kingdom, London: Bernard Quaritch. Hare, T. 1999. Remembering Osiris:  Number, Gender, and the Word in Ancient Egyptian Representational Systems, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Leverhulme Centre for Human Evolutionary Studies. n.d. ‘History of the Duckworth Collections’ [Online]. Available at: http://www.human-evol. cam.ac.uk/Duckworth/history.htm (accessed 23 June 2011). McNamara, L. 2008. ‘The Revetted Mound at Hierakonpolis and Early Kingship: A Re-Interpretation’, in B. Midant-Reynes, B. Tristant and Y. Tristant (eds), Egypt at Its Origins, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 172, Leuven: Peeters, pp. 901–36. Miniaci, G. and Quirke, S. 2009. ‘Reconceiving the Tomb in the Late Middle Kingdom: The Burial of the Accountant of the Main Enclosure Neferhotep at Dra Abu el-Naga’, Bulletin de l’Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale 109, 339–83. Mommsen, W., Schluchter, W. and Morgenbrod, B. 1992. Max Weber: Wissenschaft als Beruf 1917/1919. Politik als Beruf 1919. Max-WeberGesamtausgabe, vol. I/17, Tübingen: Mohr. Montserrat, M. 2000. Ancient Egypt: Digging for Dreams: Treasures from the Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology, University College London, London (exhibition catalogue). Pearce, S. (ed.) 2000. The Collector’s Voice: Critical Readings in the Practice of Collecting, 4 vols, Aldershot: Ashgate. Peden, A. 2001. The Graffiti of Pharaonic Egypt: Scope and Role of Informal Writings (c.3100-332 bc), Leiden: Brill. Petrie, W.M.F. 1895. The Egyptian Research Account. Report of the First Year presented to the Contributors, 1895, London: University College.

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  1901. The Royal Tombs of the Earliest Dynasties, Part 2, London: Egypt Exploration Fund.   1904. Methods and Aims in Archaeology, London: Macmillan.   1930. Seventy Years in Archaeology, London: Greenwood. Pomian, K. 1986. ‘Pour une histoire des sémiophores: À propos des vases des Médicis’, Le genre humain 14: 17–36. Pope, J. 2007. ‘Ägypten und Aufhebung. G. W. F. Hegel, W. E. B. Du Bois, and the African Orient’, New Centennial Review 6: 149–92. Quirke, S. 2007. ‘Interwoven Destinies: Egyptians and English in the Labour of Archaeology, 1880–2007’, in B. Brehony and A. El-Desouky (eds), British-Egyptian Relations from Suez to the Present Day, London: SOAS, pp. 247–73.   2009. ‘Contexts for the Lahun lists’, in I. Regen and F. Severjean (eds), Verba Manent. Mélanges offerts à Dmitri Meeks, Montpellier: Cahiers de l’ENiM 2, Université Paul Valéry, pp. 363–86. Reid, D. 2002. Whose Pharaohs? Archaeology, Museums, and Egyptian National Identity from Napoleon to World War I, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2002. Schott, S. 1990. Bücher und Bibliotheken im Alten Ägypten: Verzeichnis der Buch- und Spruchtitel und der Termini Technici, Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Smith, H. and Davies, S. 2007. ‘Bronzes from the Sacred Animal Necropolis at North Saqqara’, in M. Hill (ed.), Gifts for the Gods:  Images from Egyptian Temples, New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, pp. 174–87. Wengrow, D. 2006. The Archaeology of Early Egypt:  Social Transformations in North-East Africa, 10,000 to 2,650 bc, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Contested Human Remains

Jack Lohman

In the 25 years or so during which the issue of human remains in museums has been argued, are we any nearer to an agreement or a consensus as to what should be done about these extreme collections? The fact that many museums have voluntarily repatriated such holdings or that others have been forced to do so by legislation has helped to move the discussion along in practice. However, in principle, a divide remains between those who argue for their return on cultural-religious grounds and those who argue for their retention on scientific grounds. Is a middle ground possible between what seems to be mutually exclusive positions? Is compromise possible, even desirable, or is this a case of all or nothing? The case for both sides has been made many times over. Both have power to convince and convict. Indigenous arguments cite such values as living legacy, cultural identity, social meaning and living ancestry as motivation for repatriation while the scientific community values these collections for what they can tell us about our development as a species and also for the potential they may hold for future learning. It is argued that this contestation highlights the difficulty of reconciling differing value systems, that of natural science and of supernatural belief systems; between the rationalism of the West and indigenous belief systems. The unarticulated assumption of the superiority of Western rationalism sits uncomfortably with many who are sensitive to the historical circumstances under which the remains were acquired in the first place and are concerned with the ethical implications which up to now have been neglected or ignored. (We are of course not talking about the massive uncontested collections but the disputed collections, which often form a small but important part of such holdings.)

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I think it safe to say that few of us who curate and study human remains would totally dismiss the social-spiritual value and significance that they hold for others, not just for indigenous communities but also for modern individuals and communities in the West and elsewhere (see Figure 3.1). Also, not all indigenous communities reject the scientific value of these collections, nor are they all demanding their return. The museum community has made significant progress in appreciating the relevance of the ‘non-scientific’ side of the argument. The remaining gulf, I believe, is a diminishing one. It may be one that we will have to learn to live with rather than attempt to traverse at all costs. It may also be one which requires far more than the appreciation of opposing views, or the careful drawing up of ethical and legal guidelines whether by the museum community itself or by governments and global cultural institutions such as ICOM or UNESCO. We are mostly familiar with the wide spectrum of opinion that has been eloquently presented over a quarter of a century and it is not my intention to restate the many positions on this issue. A position based purely on the higher principles of the rationality of western science, while downplaying the broader and deeper culturalspiritual principles at work in indigenous communities has not served up an adequate solution as yet and probably never will. Nor is it likely that the arguments for repatriation on the grounds of cultural identity, tradition and spirituality with which we are by now so familiar will succeed in persuading those who are not open to such persuasion. Not only do we have opposing cosmologies at work here, we have no common language with which to communicate even our differences. While not all extreme collections have been acquired through illegal and sometimes violent means, nor do they all come from outside of Britain. In this contribution, I will focus mainly on what has been described as ‘bones of contention’ – those collections whose return is being demanded by various claimant communities. Of considerable concern to the issue of these contested human remains is how they were acquired and how they come to be in our museums in the first place (see Figure 3.1). Suffice to say that many find it difficult to actually articulate the harsh truths surrounding many such acquisitions. Take for example the following statement from a draft of the Minister’s ‘Code of Practice for the Care of Human Remains in Museums’ (DCMS, 2005): However, there is also recognition that because of their origin human remains should hold a unique status within collections and this puts responsibilities on the museum in the way they are acquired, curated and displayed. It is also the case that a number of human remains held in British museums and collections were acquired, often between 100 and 200 years ago from Indigenous peoples in colonial circumstances where there was a very uneven divide of power. There has also been recognition that some human remains were acquired in circumstances that by modern standards, and those of the time, would be considered unacceptable. (My italics).

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Figure 3.1. Human remains in museums. Reproduced with permission of the Museum of London.

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Figure 3.2. Twenty-six skeletons were sensitively exhibited at the Wellcome Trust (London) in a joint exhibition with the Museum of London, 23 July–28 September 2008. Reproduced with permission of the Museum of London.

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Contrast this with the following statement from an article on the subject by Jane Morris, published in The Guardian in July 2002: ‘Items were collected in various ways. Some were taken by amateurs and trophy-hunting soldiers. Others were taken by scientists looking for evidence of evolution and racial variance in studies that speak overwhelmingly of the attitudes of empire as well as enlightenment. … No one would, or could not, collect like this today’. She goes on to point out that there existed no collections of victims of, for example, the Holocaust. For all our codes of ethics, best practice and legal guidelines, there continues to exist distrust and antagonism between the parties concerned. We have members of our profession who do not seem to be able to temper their positions and come across as arrogant and totally devoid of sympathy to any argument other than their own. In an attempt to contribute to this debate, I want to explore drawing a parallel between this issue and that of a well-known example of conflict and one of the methodologies employed in bringing about a mutually acceptable solution. The example which I have in mind is that of South Africa and the national programme of seeking reconciliation following the end of Apartheid. The role and function of the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission in helping victims and perpetrators come to terms with the atrocities committed during their divided past and to assist in building a shared future in a post-Apartheid society hold some interesting parallels. Despite the obvious injustices of the system and the existence of a mountain of evidence which would have been sufficient to convict the Apartheid leaders and their various agents and instruments of oppression and statesanctioned criminality, the path to reconciliation did not focus upon the imposition of justice through the application of law. Rather, emphasis was placed upon the acknowledging of guilt and the willingness of perpetrators to tell the truth. This process of truth-telling on the part of perpetrators in many cases led to the revealing of the location of the remains of victims of torture and state-sanctioned murder. For those who told the truth, amnesty was (in most cases) granted. For the families and comrades of the victims, having heard the public acknowledgment of guilt and the facts surrounding the victims, these revelations helped them to lay to rest both the physical remains of the victims and their own powerful feelings of grief and anger. In some instances the remains were never recovered, yet because it was believed that the truth had been told, amnesty was given. At the heart of this process was a simple but profound realisation that, while not necessarily universally true, enlightened self-interest is a powerful incentive for many to do what is right and thereby achieve the best (not necessarily the perfect) possible result under difficult circumstances. Enlightened self-interest is usually defined as a philosophical stance from which one acts to serve the interests of another or others, the consequence of which is ultimately to achieve or serve one’s own ends. In the case of the

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South African example, telling the truth served to help the victims’ families know the truth about their deaths and the location of their remains while at the same time availing amnesty from prosecution for the perpetrators (who also had to prove that they were acting under orders). It is now part of the historical record that, in many cases, victims’ families and perpetrators were often publicly reconciled during and after the Truth and Reconciliation hearings. It may be useful to explore how ‘unenlightened self-interest’ is defined. Unenlightened self-interest places the interests/ends of the individual or group above that of others in order to protect those interests at all costs. This results, more often than not, in ongoing conflict, decreased efficiency and increased costs as a result of having to concentrate energy and resources on protecting one’s interests. Rather than arguing that we are dealing with conflicting sets of beliefs, is it possible that we could commit to exploring the potential of acting in the interests of others in order to achieve our own? This would of course require that ‘the other side’ similarly commits. But the all or nothing option is currently clearly not working for either party. Both sides are in danger of being so right as to be ‘dead right’ and there is no merit in being so right that the potential for cooperation dies in the process. Good science rests on humane, moral and ethical standards underpinned by the principle of informed consent. But this is not just about the legitimacy of science; it is also about having the generosity of spirit to recognize the moral legitimacy of indigenous claims on such human remains. The contested human remains in Western museums were collected at a time of gross inequality of power … We now have the opportunity to redress that historic imbalance acknowledging that this may well entail a loss to science that will in its turn heal open festering wounds. And it won’t all be a loss for the Western museum or the anthropologist; there is plenty of evidence that dialogue and transfer of authority back to where it rightfully belongs leads to a healthy relationship in which cultural exchange and understanding can flourish between the museum or the scientist and the indigenous community. That seems to me at least a pretty good dividend for addressing past injustice and working with the willing consent of indigenous peoples. (Tristram Besterman, Manchester Museum, May 2003)

Besterman makes an important point which is often overlooked. The past is not the only consideration with which we should be concerned. Our relationship with communities around the globe with regard to the sharing of knowledge cannot be sacrificed upon either the altar of myopic selfrighteousness or that of misguided altruism. As we begin the twenty-first century, it is clear that neither the natural sciences nor the supernatural belief systems have sole claim to the minds and hearts of humankind. This will probably be the case for a long time to come if not for all time and there is therefore clearly a need to find a language which is able to help both sides communicate across this cosmological divide. Such a language will need to speak to some ‘common’ interest.

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Figure 3.3. A skeleton from London is displayed in a darkened interior on dust-free mineral granules. Reproduced with permission of the Museum of London.

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I would argue, from pure pragmatism that the most common of all interests is that of the enlightened self. But this requires a commitment to understanding, if not totally accepting, the concerns/interests of the other and the willingness to be open to considering making concessions. By way of example, the availing of dedicated ‘sacred space’ within the museum environment for the displaying of human remains is one way of acknowledging the particular significance of such a display (see Figures 3.2 and 3.3). Enlightened self-interest draws on the appreciation that we already share common ground as a species that has a shared humanity. Such a shared humanity is not only that of a shared past but of a shared present and future. Anthropology has shown us that race and ethnicity are false categories and that there is universality to humanity. Such humanity, it seems to me, cannot easily divorce its soul from its mind. When we attempt to do so, we do not cause the ‘other side’ injury, but rather inflict a universal pain on the single species that we are. Just as in South Africa, the people of that formerly artificially divided nation have had to strive towards reconciliation based upon more than the mechanics of justice, so it is likely that we will only move forward if and when we acknowledge the artificiality of a worldview based purely on science which excludes the persistence of the existence of a wide range of values and authorities which are not scientifically based. Critics of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission have argued that the absence of any reference to justice has severely weakened the prospects of reconciliation in South Africa. With the benefit of hindsight, it is arguable that such an emphasis would have severely impeded what reconciliation and nation building has been achieved thus far. Restoring the legitimacy of more than a single worldview and acknowledging that there exists the possibility of understanding ourselves and our world by way of different truths may open up for us all new paths of exploration and lead us to deeper discoveries. Debating the issue among ourselves and developing solutions which largely serve our own interests will not work. We may not be able or indeed willing to restore or repatriate these bones of contention. But as South Africa has shown the world, restorative justice is not demanded when there is the willingness to take the path of truth-telling and enlightened self-interest.

References Besterman, T. 2003. Manchester Museum, May. DCMS 2005. Code of Practice for the Care of Human Remains in Museums. Morris, J. 2002. The Guardian, July.

4 Extreme or Commonplace

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The Collecting of Unprovenanced Antiquities

Kathryn Walker Tubb

Introduction Collecting antiquities is fraught with legal, ethical and moral considerations due to the secrecy with which the trade cloaks itself, making distinguishing between the licit and illicit virtually impossible. Archaeological material is illicitly traded if it has been removed from its country of origin in violation of national patrimony laws vesting ownership in the state, or if it has been taken across borders in contravention of import and/or export legislation. However, proving that an artefact has been trafficked illicitly is extremely difficult. Unless it has been stolen from a museum or monument where it has been fully documented and is uniquely identifiable, any chances of recovery are remote. Finds looted from the ground are virtually unclaimable since they will not have been recorded in any catalogue or on any inventory. This is particularly true for those of low economic value. Litigation is extremely expensive and the outcome uncertain. To those observing the destruction of sites by looters and the wealth of material on offer by dealers both online and in shops, the connection between the two is glaringly obvious. Assertions by dealers that the material on the market comes from old collections and surfaced sometime before the 1970 UNESCO Convention on the Means of Prohibiting and Preventing the Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property ring hollow and smack of conscious avoidance. Very few are prepared to acknowledge that ‘The whole thing is just a pastiche of lies, cheating and lack of integrity on all levels by most of the people involved. That’s the art market basically’, as described by an

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anonymous London dealer and quoted in Simon Mackenzie’s extraordinary book Going, Going, Gone: Regulating the Market in Illicit Antiquities (2005: iii). Poverty and conflict coupled with a large archaeological resource provide the perfect environment for looting, driven by a relatively unregulated or unregulatable market with ready buyers dismissive or ignorant of the social implications of their actions. Michael Steinhardt, a collector at the top end of the market and a hedge-fund manager, was quoted in an article by Linda Sandler as saying that ‘“Part of my attraction to ancient art is that there is an element of risk, of speculation.” He states that the challenge is augmented by “issues of provenance, and a dealer community that is not a candidate for sainthood […] it’s like an addiction to me.”’ (Sandler, 2005).

Afghanistan Afghanistan is a country that has endured prolonged and severe assaults on its cultural heritage over the course of the past thirty years. The market forces that underlie and impel the looting have been documented repeatedly. Most recently, a programme entitled Blood Antiquities has been produced by Journeyman. The title is clearly reflective of the film Blood Diamonds and traces the looting of sites in Afghanistan to supply dealers and collectors in Belgium. Both seek to demonstrate the human and societal cost that is involved in the ruthless extraction of antiquities on the one hand and diamonds on the other (Figure 4.1).

Figure 4.1. A looters’ pit at the site of Balkh (ancient Baktra) in northern Afghanistan (photograph courtesy of Paul Wordsworth).

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One particular example came to my attention in 1994 when David Keys published an article in the Independent under the banner headline ‘Treasure to go into the melting pot’ (26 April). It related to a vast hoard of artefacts, including in excess of 550,000 gold, silver and bronze coins, discovered in 1992 and recovered over two years from a spring/water hole at Mir Zakah. News of the discovery leaked out and attracted the attention of various warlords engaged in the Civil War that followed the departure of the Russians in 1988. An article by Philippe Flandrin and Michel Setboun published in 2004–05 relates the efforts of a professor from the Sorbonne and numismatist, Osmund Bopearachchi, to track the hoard over a period of ten years, taking him from the Indus Valley to Europe and Japan. Often antiquities crime is seen as victimless and attracts little interest from enforcement agencies. By the time artefacts are displayed by online dealerships or in fashionable shops in Dubai, London and New York, they are far removed from the nefarious activities linked to their origin. In this particular case, Flandrin and Setboun state that five of twelve minor warlords were murdered in the fevered rush to profit from the finds. Frank Holt and Norman MacDonald reported that ‘a rough alliance of warlords, gangsters, antiquities dealers and greedy collectors converged in a wellequipped treasure hunt using generators, water pumps and large levies of workmen with shovels and pickaxes’ (Holt and MacDonald, 2006). Keys expressed concern that ‘the silver coins are proving impossible to dispose of’ since they were in poor condition and required a great deal of conservation. His contention was that museums and other large organisations, knowing the material to have been smuggled out of Afghanistan, were unprepared to buy it, the conclusion being that unless the Afghan government were to sanction such a purchase, then ‘much of Afghanistan’s early history seems therefore doomed to the furnaces’ to be converted to bullion. The assertion that the existence of the market prevents chance finds from being melted down is recurrent in the dealer-collector repertoire. In this particular context the coins threatened with this fate are described as being inscribed with the names of kings, mint marks and so forth which casts doubt on the state of their preservation being so poor as to require extensive conservation. Certainly, no further reports have been published (at least of which I am aware) that record this fate having befallen any of the coins. Rather, Flandrin and Setboun report that Professor Bopearachchi has traced the course of some of the hoard from Peshawar to Basel free port in Switzerland to the Miho Museum in Japan. In this case a false provenance was invented stating that the artefacts had been recovered from the banks of the Oxus River in Turkmenistan, 800 kilometres north of Mir Zakah. He told the Museum that it had Mir Zakah material from Afghanistan in its collection but he received no response. Clearly the material has been dispersed to the four corners of the world and is now in both public and private hands.

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The Miho Museum, in common with many other museums, has demonstrated that it is not always as careful in exercising due diligence as it arguably should be. In 2000 it returned the sixth-century AD stone sculpture of a Bodhisattva which it had purchased in 1995/6 (sources vary) from John Eskenazi Ltd, a London dealership, to China. It had been stolen from a museum in Shandong Province in 1994 (Brodie, 2001: 3). Although the Museum maintained it had bought the statue in good faith and was under no obligation to return it, at least without compensation, in 2000, an eight-month negotiation with China culminated in an agreement to return the statue without payment in 2007 after an extended loan. China issued a statement acknowledging that The Miho Museum had bought the piece in good faith (Prott, 2009: 70–1). More recently, David Gill reported that accounts associated with the trial in Rome of former Getty curator, Marion True, and dealer, Robert Hecht, indicate that some fifty objects in the Miho Museum are being investigated by the Italian authorities as potentially having been clandestinely excavated in Italy and smuggled to Switzerland for sale on the international market (PR Newswire, 2 April 2010). True and Hecht have been accused of conspiring to traffic in antiquities looted from Italian sites. Evidence into the operation of a network trafficking in illicitly-obtained antiquities was gathered by the Carabinieri Tutela Patrimonio Culturale (see, for example, Watson and Todeschini, 2006) and has been instrumental in the recovery of more than a hundred objects from US museums. A notable example is the Euphronios krater, known as the ‘hot’ pot because of its disputed provenance and million dollar price tag when purchased by the Metropolitan Museum in 1972 from Hecht (see Gage, 1973, for a contemporary account) and only returned in 2008 to the Italian Ministry of Culture. Surely, it behoves trustees of major museums to research the history of an antiquity rigorously, if only out of self-interest, to protect their organisation from a dodgy investment. Proceeding with such risky purchases should be seen as an extreme form of collecting, ill-advised and unethical. Unfortunately, it would appear to be all too commonplace (see Brodie and Renfrew, 2005; Renfrew, 2006). In 1996, Tim McGirk also reported on the looting of sites in Afghanistan to purchase weapons in pursuit of the civil war. He stated that hundreds of sites ‘have been divided up by rival mujahedin commanders to be despoiled. These warlords operate like armed claim-jumpers during the California gold rush; discovery of a precious item often leads to gun battles. Some use bulldozers to raze ancient tombs. Some encircle their digs with Russian tanks or use landmines to keep away intruders’ (McGirk, 1996). The Civil War saw terrible damage to the National Museum in Kabul. Mercifully, much of the display collection had been packed away and stored in vaults and has since been recovered (van Krieken-Pieters, 2006b: 233). Following the war, the Taliban then took power and were initially protective of archaeological and heritage sites, although they ushered in a period of ferocious iconoclasm towards the end of their tenure that culminated in

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the blowing up of the Bamiyan Buddhas in 2001 and the smashing of the remaining objects in the Kabul Museum (van Krieken-Pieters, 2006b: 232). However, after that, Mohammed Zakir, an Afghan archaeologist, was reported by James Astill of the Guardian as saying ‘There was looting under the Taliban, but it was nothing compared to now [...] This is a total disaster, a complete free-for-all’ (Astill, 2003). In 1994 the Society for the Preservation of Afghanistan’s Cultural Heritage (SPACH) was formed. In the face of the devastation that was ongoing, the organisation took the difficult decision to try to rescue museum objects that appeared on the market provided they were affordable, for return once peace and security were assured. In 2001 SPACH’s objects were sent to the Musée Guimet for safe-keeping. Thus far the objects have not been repatriated (van Krieken-Pieters, 2006b: 230). This decision surely represents an extreme form of collecting done with the highest of motives, but with the knowledge that the money spent was being use to fund conflict. The market in Afghan artefacts was burgeoning and hugely lucrative and stolen objects from the Museum were appearing on it. Does the recovery of some of the pieces outweigh becoming complicit in an illegal market? It is often argued that if people refused to buy any object without a clear find spot and provenance that the driving force behind the looting would diminish sharply. However, in this situation, such abstinence by SPACH would have been ineffective in curtailing the trade, would have had little or no impact on other buyers and the rescued objects would simply have been lost to a future National Museum in Afghanistan. This poses a dilemma even within the argument for ‘repositories of last resort’ since objects, especially those representing the human form, were under threat simply by being in Afghanistan. The ICOM Code of Ethics for Museums specifies in article 2.11 that it is legitimate for museums to act in this capacity only ‘for unprovenanced, illicitly collected or recovered specimens and objects from the territory over which it has lawful responsibility’ (ICOM, 2006). It is a decidedly uncomfortable thought knowing that the money paid for the antiquities was being funnelled back into arms trafficking and conflict. Such connections are far removed from the showrooms of dealerships whether actual or virtual. (Figure 4.2).1 ICOM has been instrumental in alerting the international community to the trafficking of Afghan heritage by publishing a ‘Red List of Afghanistan Antiquities at Risk’ in 2006. Red lists are produced as flyers and are available on line.2 They are produced in emergency situations and illustrate generic types of artefacts to assist customs officials, the police, dealers and museum professionals in identifying them and alerting appropriate professionals so that action can be taken. Much of the exposure of the illicit trade is thanks to investigative journalists who make extraordinary documentaries such as Blood Antiquities. Another example is a programme first broadcast in two parts in September 2004 by the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation, NRK, entitled Skriftsamleren –

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the Manuscript Collector, based on an in-depth investigation into Martin Schøyen, the eponymous collector referred to in the title. Both parts are still available to view on the NRK website. The producers were Ola Flyum and David Hebditch with the assistance of Soheil Qureshi, a local researcher. The first part, shown on 7 September, relates to Buddhist manuscripts on palm leaf and birch bark, dating to the first to seventh centuries AD.3 It would appear that some of these had been looted from a Buddhist monastery site in the Gilgit area of Pakistan and some from Zargaraan to the east of Bamiyan in Afghanistan and had not been rescued from the Taliban at Bamiyan as initially reported. It is interesting to compare the documentary with the statements on the Schøyen Collection website4 together with a review article of the programme in Culture without Context by Staffan Lundén (2005). Here the contrasting positions between the collector and the archaeologist are starkly drawn. Brodie uses this as an example in a recent publication in which he examines the involvement of academics such as epigraphers and conservators in the manuscript trade (2009) and the ethical concerns are considered at some length by Omland (2006).

Figure 4.2. Assemblage of images of the artefact types referred to in this chapter (photograph courtesy of Stuart Laidlaw, UCL Institute of Archaeology).

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The British Library also came into the frame in the NRK programme concerning its acquisition of some Buddhist manuscripts for its collection. Graham Shaw was plainly appalled when the interviewer stated ‘It seems from the research that we’ve done that your acquisition in 1994 may well have sparked off a whole sequence of looting campaigns and incidents particularly in northern Pakistan but also ...’. Shaw interrupted at this point saying ‘I don’t want to answer that question because I think that’s totally unfair. You can’t possibly say, you can’t possibly say that. That’s a very unfair question. You can’t possibly say that our acquisition sparked off a looting campaign. I think that’s very unfair. I’m not answering a question like that. That’s very unfair. I wouldn’t ask anybody to loot anything, anywhere. I’m not answering that question.’ At this point Shaw removes his microphone and the interview is terminated.5,6 Holding dealers to account in England for dealing in unprovenanced artefacts from Afghanistan is virtually impossible since the 1958 Code for the Protection of Antiquities in Afghanistan is regarded as having been breached by the Taliban when they were in power. In January 2003, Koichiro Matsuura, the Director-General of UNESCO, and Sayed Makhdoum Raheen, the Afghan Minister of Information and Culture, announced an agreement to work together toward a national policy for safeguarding the country’s cultural heritage,7 and in April 2004, new legislation, the Law on the Preservation of Afghanistan’s Historical and Cultural Artifacts’, was enacted.8 However, even in the presence of this law, any prosecution in market countries would be thwarted were it necessary to prove that the offence had been committed after 16 April 2004, the actual date of the enactment of the legislation. It is all too easy for unscrupulous dealers to maintain that any Afghan artefacts being offered for sale came into their possession before then. Objects from Pakistan can also be incorrectly identified as coming from Afghanistan to circumvent Pakistan’s protective legislation. Of course objects looted from the ground and therefore incapable of having been inventoried or catalogued are particularly vulnerable in this respect. Significantly, Afghanistan became a State Party to the 1970 UNESCO Convention on the Means of Prohibiting and Preventing the Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property and ratified the 1995 UNIDROIT Convention on Stolen or Illegally Exported Cultural Objects in 2005. It is not a signatory of the 1954 Hague Convention on the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict.

Iraq The unremitting and calamitous destruction of Iraq’s cultural heritage began with the looting of thirteen regional museums in the chaos immediately following the First Gulf War in 1991, waged to force Iraq out of Kuwait, and the imposition of economic sanctions by the UN. McGuire Gibson did his utmost to alert the international communities to the looting of the

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archaeological sites that resulted, with little or no effect. For example, on the occasion of the Rutgers University ‘Art, Antiquity and the Law’ conference, 30 October–2 November 1998, he gave an impassioned plea for the situation in Iraq to be alleviated, which I witnessed. In a recent publication, Gibson, referring to the early to mid-1990s, states that ‘It is important to note that whereas other Iraqi products were forbidden entry into the USA, the antiquities of Iraq were allowed to be bought and sold freely’ (2008: 35). He states that the evidence for the looting ‘was a flood of objects reaching dealers in London and other centres of the trade, and the quick buildingup of collections in Europe, the USA, Japan, and the Persian Gulf’ (ibid.). In an attempt to protect at least some of the Sumerian city sites that were being targeted by looters, Iraqi archaeologists launched a number of rescue excavations with year round presence despite extremes of weather in the late 1990s (ibid.: 38). Foster et al. provide a brief summary of this period with reference to UN activity and its impact on the Iraqi population and cultural heritage (2005: 207–9). Using satellite imagery, Elizabeth Stone, referring to the Second Gulf War, states that she discovered ‘evidence of intense looting immediately before the war, suggesting that the threat of hostilities, and presumably the mistaken expectation of increased security thereafter, stimulated an unprecedented level of activity’ at small and medium-sized sites (2008: 135) (Figure 4.3).

Figure 4.3. Aerial view of the devastation of the site of Isin, southern Iraq, in 2003 (photograph courtesy of John Russell).

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It is during the interval between the two Gulf Wars that the objects that form the subject matter of the second part of the Skriftsamleren documentary are concerned. Here the origin of 654 incantation bowls, owned by Martin Schøyen, is investigated.9 The objects of the title ‘De Magiske Krukkene’ – The Magic Bowls, differ little from omnipresent utilitarian earthenware bowls found on sites for centuries from the Uruk (4000–3100 bc) and Early Dynastic (3000–2350 bc) periods onwards. Modern versions can still be bought in today’s markets throughout Asia Minor. What makes incantation bowls exceptional is that they have had spells written on them in ink by magician scribes, usually in Aramaic. They date from the sixth to eighth centuries AD. From examples that have been excavated at sites such as Nippur, it has been discovered that they were buried under the floors in various rooms of the houses of an individual needing healing, protection from demons or, less usually, placing a curse. They are associated with Jewish communities that elected to stay in the area of modern-day Iraq, following Cyrus the Great’s Edict of Restoration after the Persian Conquest of Babylon in 539 bc, freeing them from slavery. The incantation usually spirals upwards from the bottom of the interior of the bowl where a shackled demon may be drawn. The name of the client or the intended location for the deposition of the bowl within the home may be written on the exterior (Levene, 2000: 11).10 Brodie states that ‘By 1990, less than a thousand Aramaic bowls were known’ (2008: 45). He has also deduced that market prices for translated bowls increase by a factor of ten (ibid.: 47). He estimates the damage to the archaeological resource in the clandestine recovery of 650 bowls as covering approximately five hectares in area (ibid.: 48). The loss of context is grievous. The NRK documentary discovered that Schøyen’s bowls were in London and, in their opinion, had been removed illegally from Iraq. In 2004, Mark Geller, Director of UCL Institute for Jewish Studies, stated that ‘Within the past decade, hundreds of Aramaic incantation bowls have appeared on the antiquities market, collected from archaeological sites’.11 Schøyen had consigned his collection of bowls to Geller, who together with Saul Shaked of the University of Jerusalem, was to study the inscriptions. The documentary mistakenly assumed that the bowls were in the possession of UCL Institute of Archaeology. However, it has had a policy in place since 1990 whereby only objects of known and documented origin would be accepted for study (Tubb, 2002). In 1998, a new policy was adopted which has been amended most recently in 2008. Thus, the bowls could not have been, and indeed have never been, in the archaeology department. Institute of Archaeology staff did not know of their presence in UCL until NRK’s programme was made. In June 2009, UCL adopted a Cultural Property Policy that applies to the whole of the university to ensure that in future the terms for accepting material for study and/or acquisition are in place. This followed a two-year investigation by Lawrence Freedman, Sally MacDonald and Colin Renfrew

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into the origin of the bowls. It had been anticipated that this would be published and form the basis of a university-wide policy but unhappily it was suppressed in 2007 as part of an agreement between Schøyen and UCL which resulted from litigation he initiated to recover the bowls. That notwithstanding, a policy has emerged12 (for greater detail, see Brodie, 2007 and 2009). It is certainly true that throughout the 1990s, auction catalogue after auction catalogue featured large numbers of cylinder seals, cuneiform tablets and other objects, often blithely labelled as Mesopotamian in origin (see Brodie, 2006 and 2007 for detailed statistics). This will have been in contravention of both Iraqi antiquities legislation and the UN Security Council resolution (UNSCR 661) that imposed crippling economic sanctions on the country in 1990. Most recently, the issue of these bowls was again raised in a lengthy article in the Norwegian newspaper Dagens Nœringsliv entitled ‘Tyvene i Bagdad’ (The Thieves of Baghdad). In it, the noted Iraqi archaeologist, Lamia al-Gailani Werr, laments the plunder of some 5000 cylinder seals from the Iraq Museum in April 2003 and is quoted as saying ‘Everyone has a theory about the robbery, but no one will talk about it. It is a great mystery. There are now two great mysteries about the looting of Iraq [...] The stolen cylinders. And the 654 magic bowls’.13 The looting of the Iraq Museum in April 2003 and Donald Rumsfeld’s dismissal of it with a shrug and the phrase ‘stuff happens’ has been abundantly documented, as has the ensuing looting of libraries, archives, regional museums and archaeological sites following the invasion (see, for example, Bogdanos, 2005; Foster et al., 2005; Rothfield, 2008, 2009; Stone and Bajjaly, 2008). A report in the Independent on Sunday indicates that the looting continues, stating that armed gangs are stealing to order for antiquities dealers (15 April 2007). On 22 May 2003, UN Security Council Resolution 1483 lifted the trade embargo but maintained a prohibition on dealing in stolen Iraqi cultural property. Although cuneiform tablets and cylinder seals together with other artefacts referred to as Sumerian are still offered for sale by many online dealerships, the quantity of material on the market is felt to be very low considering the enormous devastation of archaeological sites. One possible conclusion is that the artefacts are being warehoused for sale in the future when such strictures have relaxed. It is worth noting that Iraq signed the 1954 Hague Convention and the First Protocol in 1959 and the 1970 UNESCO Convention in 1973 but not the 1995 UNIDROIT Convention. Initiatives by museums to raise awareness of the devastation that is stimulated by a market in archaeological objects and the concomitant demand that it fosters and supplies are few and far between. One notable effort is the exhibition co-curated by McGuire Gibson and Katharyn Hanson for the Oriental Institute Museum that opened on 10 April 2008, the fifth anniversary of the looting of the Iraq National Museum in Baghdad, entitled Catastrophe! The Looting and

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Destruction of Iraq’s Past. This was marked by a candle-lit vigil organised by SAFE (Saving Antiquities for Everyone) and a reception. On 12 April, ‘Looting the Cradle of Civilization – the Loss of History in Iraq’, a significant symposium, was held. The exhibition remained open until 31 December. In the accompanying collection of edited papers, Gil Stein, Director of the Oriental Institute, states that ‘The world needs to know what is happening to the most important remains of Mesopotamian civilization. The exhibit Catastrophe! The Looting and Destruction of Iraq’s Past is an effort by the

Figure 4.4. Entrance to the Oriental Institute, University of Chicago, with banner advertising the Catastrophe! exhibition (photograph by the author).

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Oriental Institute to show the public the clear evidence for the destruction of these cities, and the pillaging of their artifacts’ (2008: 5) (Figure 4.4). The exhibition was designed with the intention that it be capable of being shown in other venues. To this end its reliance on photographs and information panels that were to be freely shared was appropriate, admirable and altruistic. Some objects from the Oriental Institute’s collection were used to help illustrate the importance of context and added to the impact of

Figure 4.5. Central installation of the Catastrophe! exhibition with artefacts used to explain the importance of archaeological context (photograph by the author).

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Figure 4.6. Panel and photograph display showing design intention in rendering the Catastrophe! exhibition transferable (photograph by the author). the message. However, venues without such material would still be able to convey the desperation of the situation (Figures 4.5 and 4.6).14

Iran The Oriental Institute has inadvertently become embroiled in a claim by nine US citizens who were victims or relatives of victims of a terrorist attack in 1997 in Jerusalem attributed to Hamas. The action, Jenny Rubin et al. v the Islamic Republic of Iran et al., was filed in 2001 against Iran for funding Hamas and in 2003 the plaintiffs were awarded $371.5 million in damages (the figure varies according to which account is being consulted but is an astronomical sum in any event). Iranian assets in the US have been sought in an attempt to realise this sum. Conventional resources were difficult to locate, so in 2004, a decision was taken to pursue Iranian artefacts in US museums (Gerstenblith, 2008: 725). Among them are some 15,000–18,000 clay tablets or tablet fragments that were discovered in 1933 in Persepolis by archaeologists working for the Oriental Institute. These are known as the Persepolis Fortification Archive and the ongoing research is described on the Oriental Institute’s website.15 The tablets were transferred to the United States as a division of finds, the legitimacy of which was disputed

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at that time (see Majd, 2003). As an assemblage, their study involves in part working out how they relate to one another which reflects how the administrative system worked. Their forfeiture would lead to their sale and dispersal on the market and would be a tragedy for the Iranian people to whom they will return when their conservation and the study of some seventy years is completed. Museums with similar holdings are resisting handing over similar material as well. The outcome is still unresolved. Given the circumstances, it is worrying to think there might be customers for these artefacts. Another recent case involved a suit by Iran for the recovery of eighteen highly decorated chlorite vessels from the Barakat Galleries in London. Following flash floods of the Halil River in southeastern Iran, the Bronze Age site of Jiroft was exposed due to removal of the topsoil. Huge numbers of the chlorite vessels began to be looted by local farmers and began to appear on the market. It has been reported that ‘farmers often sold chlorite vases worth tens of thousands of dollars on the international market for a few sacks of flour’.16 In 2002, the Iranian authorities became alerted to the situation and have endeavoured to clamp down on this plundering. Initially, Iran lost the case in the High Court but this decision was reversed by the Court of Appeal and the House of Lords rejected any further appeal by Barakat (for a concise but more detailed case summary go to the website of the International Foundation for Art Research17). Iran became a State Party to the 1954 Hague Convention and its First Protocol in 1959 and to its Second Protocol in 2005. It ratified the 1970 UNESCO Convention in 1975 and is also a signatory of the 1995 UNIDROIT Convention as of 2005. It has had protective legislation in place since 1930 (Prott and O’Keefe, 1988: 107).

Conclusion The mining of archaeological sites to feed market demand is pernicious and damages both the originating state and anyone interested in knowing the past. Heritage pays but people do as well, as elements of collective identity are damaged or destroyed. Equally harmful to individuals and society at large are demonstrable links with organised crime and arms trafficking. Exploitation of heritage as a long-term resource, for example in the development of a lucrative tourism industry, is also impaired or obliterated. Once the ‘family silver’ (the looted artefacts) is sold off, inflating prices benefit the trade – both dealers and collectors, rather than local communities. Scholarly involvement hikes the value of artefacts and collecting potentially illicitly obtained objects should be perceived by museum professionals and the public alike as unacceptable. Close questioning before any purchase is essential. Education is really the only viable approach to stemming this problem and yet this process is extremely slow. Museums could easily play an important role, not only in informing their visitors of the harm that

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results from stocking dealers’ shelves to satisfy eager customers, but also by making full records of the collecting histories of their objects freely available online and on request. The secrecy that often shrouds this information complements the lack of transparency that is a characteristic practice of the trade. Education, openness and scrupulous integrity are vital. Such efforts are necessary to flip casual acceptance of the market in antiquities into one of a warranted suspicion of the items on offer.

Notes   1. Van Krieken-Pieters discusses these problems further in her paper ‘Dilemmas in the Cultural Heritage Field: The Afghan Case and the Lessons for the Future’ (2006a) and Kurt Siehr, in the same volume, addresses the concept of safe havens in his paper ‘“Safe Havens” for Endangered Cultural Objects’ (2006).   2. http://archives.icom.museum/redlist/afghanistan/pfd/afghanistan_eng.pdf, accessed 27 January 2011.   3. http://www.nrk.no/nett-tv/klipp/45488/, accessed 27 January 2011.   4. http://www.schoyencollection.com/buddhismIntro.html, accessed 27 January 2011.   5. http://www.nrk.no/nett-tv/klipp/45488/, accessed 27 January 2011.   6. Whether it is true in this particular situation, it is certainly the case that, prior to the scientific excavation of Jenne-Jeno in Mali by archaeologists Roderick and Susan McIntosh, Malian terracottas were unknown. Following their discovery thirty years ago when work on the site began, Comte Baudouin de Grunne, a Belgian private collector, began to buy these extraordinary artefacts as they appeared on the market, and the trade took off with dire consequences for archaeological sites. Objects of this kind are now in many of the major museums of the world (I have seen exquisite figures in both the Smithsonian Institution’s African Art Museum in Washington, DC and in the Metropolitan Museum in New York, for example. I hasten to add that I do not know the collection history of these pieces). Indeed de Grunne’s collection was bought by the Musée Dapper in Paris (pers. comm., Walter van Beek, 12 May 2010). The catastrophic impact on Mali’s cultural heritage of this burgeoning demand and the ensuing illicit trafficking in these objects was exposed in an extraordinary documentary entitled The African King: An Investigation, by Walter van Beek, shown in the UK on Channel 4 as part of the Rear Window series in 1990. It has been estimated that between 80 and 90% of Mali’s archaeological sites have been looted. In 1993 this led to the United States taking emergency action to restrict the import of artefacts from Mali. In 1997 this became a bilateral agreement between the two countries, known as a Memorandum of Understanding, in accordance with the Cultural Property Implementation Act 1982, legislation enacted by the US to implement the 1970 UNESCO Convention on the Means of Prohibiting and Preventing the Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property. This agreement with Mali was extended for a further five years in 2007 (http://exchanges.state. gov/heritage/culprop/mlfact.html). The Malian government has initiated outreach programmes to local communities to garner their support in protecting the archaeological resource.   7. http://portal.unesco.org/en/ev.php-URL_ID=9119&URL_DO=DO_TOPIC&URL_ SECTION=201.html, accessed 27 January 2011.   8. Of particular interest is Article 8, Chapter 1, which reads ‘All moveable and immovable historical and cultural artifacts and heritage items that are discovered or remain buried and not discovered/excavated in Afghanistan are the property of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan and any kind of trafficking of such items is considered theft and is illegal’ (http://www.aisa.org.af/laws/I.2(A)%20%20-%20E%20Economic%20

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Laws%20in%20Force/828%20Cultural%20Preservation.doc, accessed 28 January 2011).   9. http://www.nrk.no/nett-tv/klipp/45959/, select Brennpunkt host 2004, then Brennpunkt – Skriftsamleren – del 2, accessed 27 January 2011. 10. Levene received his PhD from UCL for the study of another selection of twenty incantation bowls owned by Shlomo Moussaieff, a private collector of biblical artefacts whose motivation for collecting as explained to Nina Burleigh is ‘God you have to find [...] Money buys everything. I use it only to prove the Bible is genuine. I don’t practise religion. Since I got beaten for the sake of religion I don’t practise at all. My religion is in the heart, in understanding the universe’ (2008: 23–4). Levene used Schøyen’s bowls for comparative purposes by consulting with Shaked whom he thanks in his thesis. This thesis was published as A Corpus of Magic Bowls: Incantation Texts in Jewish Aramaic from Late Antiquity by Kegan Paul in 2003. 11. Accessed 16 May 2010, http://www.ucl.ac.uk/hebrew-jewish/ijs/news.htm. No longer available at this site as of 28 January 2011. Excerpts available at http://paleojudaica.blogspot.com/2004_05_30_archive.html. Full text available from Tubb as print-out of the original posting. 12. http://www.ucl.ac.uk/cultural-property/downloads/Cultural%20Property%20 Policy%20-%20FINAL%201June%2009(TRPSMcD).pdf, accessed 28 January 2011. 13. http://avis.dn.no/artikler/avis/article396374.ece, accessed 28 January 2011. 14. I saw the exhibition for a second time at University College Dublin on the occasion of the Sixth World Archaeological Congress, 29 June–4 July 2008. 15. http://oi.uchicago.edu/research/projects/pfa/, accessed 28 January 2011. 16. http://www.saudiaramcoworld.com/issue/200405/what.was.jiroft..htm, accessed 28 January 2011. 17. http://www.ifar.org/case_summary.php?docid=1241817974, accessed 28 January 2011.

Acknowledgements I am extremely grateful to Stuart Laidlaw for all his assistance with the illustrations and to Juliette van Kriekens-Pieters for information about new legislation in Afghanistan.

References Astill, J. 2003. ‘‘Plunder Goes on across Afghanistan as Looters Grow ever Bolder’’, The Guardian, 13 December. Blood Antiquities. 2009. Journeyman Pictures. Blood Diamond. 2006. Warner Brothers. Bogdanos, M. 2005. Thieves of Baghdad, London: Bloomsbury Publishing. Brodie, N. 2001. ‘Editorial’, Culture without Context 9: 3. Brodie, N. 2006. ‘The Plunder of Iraq’s Archaeological Heritage, 1991– 2005, and the London Antiquities Trade’, in N. Brodie, M.M. Kersel, C. Luke and K.W. Tubb (eds), Archaeology, Cultural Heritage, and the Antiquities Trade, Gainesville, FL: University Press of Florida, pp. 206– 26.

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  2007. ‘Comment on “Irreconcilable Differences?”’, Papers from the Institute of Archaeology 18: 12–15.   2008. ‘The Market Background to the April 2003 Plunder of the Iraq National Museum’, in P.G. Stone and J.F. Bajjaly (eds), The Destruction of Cultural Heritage in Iraq, Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, pp. 41–54.   2009. ‘Consensual Relations? Academic Involvement in the Illegal Trade in Ancient Manuscripts’, in S. Mackenzie and P. Green (eds), Criminology and Archaeology: Studies in Looted Antiquities, Oxford: Hart Publishing, pp. 41–58. Brodie, N. and Renfrew, C. 2005. ‘Looting and the World’s Archaeological Heritage: The Inadequate Response’, Annual Review of Anthropology 34: 343–61. Burleigh, N. 2008. Unholy Business: A True Tale of Faith, Greed, and Forgery in the Holy Land, New York: Smithsonian Books/Collins. Flandrin, P. and Setboun, M. 2004–05. ‘The Quest for the Treasure of MirZakah’. Available at: http://www.setboun.com/AFGHANISTAN/ R20401%20The%20treasure%20of%20Mir-Zakah/index.htm (accessed 27 January 2011). Foster, B., Foster, K.P. and Gerstenblith, P. 2005. Iraq beyond the Headlines: History, Archaeology, and War, London: World Scientific Publishing. Gage, N. 1973. ‘How the Metropolitan Acquired “The Finest Greek Vase There Is”’, New York Times, 19 February. Gerstenblith, P. 2008. Art, Cultural Heritage, and the Law: Cases and Materials. Durham, NC: Carolina Academic Press. Gibson, M. 2008. ‘The Acquisition of Antiquities in Iraq, 19th Century to 2003, Legal and Illegal’, in P.G. Stone and J.F. Bajjaly (eds), The Destruction of Cultural Heritage in Iraq, Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, pp. 31–40. Holt, F. and Macdonald, N. 2006. ‘Ptolemy’s Alexandrian Postscript’, Saudi Aramco World, November/December, pp. 4–9. Available at: http://www. saudiaramcoworld.com/issue/200606/ptolemy.s.alexandrian.postscript. htm (accessed 27 January 2011). ICOM 2006. ICOM Code of Ethics for Museums. Available at: http://icom. museum/fileadmin/user_upload/pdf/Codes/code2006_eng.pdf Keys, D. 1994. ‘Treasure to Go into the Melting Pot’, The Independent, 26 April. Levene, D. 2000. ‘Incantation Texts in Jewish Aramaic from Late Antiquity: A Corpus of Magic Bowls’. PhD thesis, University College London. Lundén, S. 2005. TV Review: (Norway) Skriftsamleren [The Manuscript Collector]. Culture Without Context 16: 3–11. Mackenzie, S.R.M. 2005. Going, Going, Gone: Regulating the Market in Illicit Antiquities, Leicester: Institute of Art and Law. Majd, M.G. 2003. The Great American Plunder of Persia’s Antiquities 1925–1941, Lanham, MD: University Press of America.

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McGirk, T. 1996. ‘A Year of Looting Dangerously’, Independent on Sunday, 24 March. Omland, A. 2006. ‘Legitimizing Ownership of Buddhist Manuscripts’, in J. Van Krieken-Pieters (ed.), Art and Archaeology of Afghanistan: Its Fall and Survival, Leiden and Boston: Brill, pp. 227–64. Prott, L.V. 2009. Witnesses to History: A Compendium of Documents and Writings on the Return of Cultural Objects, Paris: UNESCO. Prott, L.V. and O’Keefe, P.J. 1988. Handbook of Regulations Concerning the Export of Cultural Property, Paris: UNESCO. Renfrew, C. 2006. ‘Museum Acquisitions: Responsibilities for the Illicit Trade in Antiquities’, in N. Brodie, M.M. Kersel, C. Luke and K.W. Tubb (eds), Archaeology, Cultural Heritage, and the Antiquities Trade, Gainesville, FL: University Press of Florida, pp. 245–57. Rothfield, L. (ed.) 2008. Antiquities under Siege: Cultural Heritage Protection after the Iraq War, Plymouth, UK: AltaMira Press.   2009. The Rape of Mesopotamia: Behind the Looting of the Iraq Museum, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Sandler, L. 2005. Bloomberg.com, 10 June. Siehr, K. 2006. ‘“Safe Havens” for Endangered Cultural Objects’, in J. Van Krieken-Pieters (ed.), Art and Archaeology of Afghanistan: Its Fall and Survival, Leiden and Boston: Brill, pp. 325–34. Stein, G. 2008. ‘Foreword’, in G. Emberling and K. Hanson (eds), Catastrophe! The Looting and Destruction of Iraq’s Past, Chicago, IL: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, pp. 5–6. Stone, E.C. 2008. ‘Patterns of Looting in Southern Iraq’, Antiquity 82 (315): 125–38. Stone, P. and Farchakh Bajjaly, J. 2008. The Destruction of Cultural Heritage in Iraq, Woodbridge: The Boydell Press. Tubb, K.W. 2002. ‘Point, Counterpoint’, in N.J. Brodie and K.W. Tubb (eds), Illicit Antiquities: The Theft of Culture and the Extinction of Archaeology, London: Routledge, pp. 280–300. Van Krieken-Pieters, J. 2006a. ‘Dilemmas in the Cultural Heritage Field: The Afghan Case and the Lessons for the Future’, in J. Van KriekenPieters (ed.), Art and Archaeology of Afghanistan: Its Fall and Survival, Leiden and Boston: Brill, pp. 201–25.   2006b. ‘Afghanistan’s Cultural Heritage: An Exceptional Case?’, in N. Brodie, M.M. Kersel, C. Luke and K.W. Tubb (eds), Archaeology, Cultural Heritage, and the Antiquities Trade, Gainesville, FL: University Press of Florida, pp. 227–35. Watson, P. and Todeschini, C. 2006. The Medici Conspiracy: The Illicit Journey of Looted Antiquities from Italy’s Tomb Raiders to the World’s Greatest Museums, New York: Public Affairs

5 Unfit for Society?

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The Case of the Galton Collection at University College London

Natasha McEnroe

The ‘extreme’ nature of the Galton Collection and Archive at University College London (UCL) derives from the views, personality and approach of Francis Galton (1822–1911). Even in the context of the idealistic nineteenth century, Galton’s belief in his ability to use technologies of quantification and assessment to ‘improve’ the human race can be regarded as singleminded and verging on the obsessive – he was convinced not only that he was right, but that he held the key to the solution, and his independent wealth meant that he was able to pursue his interests to their extremes. As a progenitor of eugenics, Galton’s work – and the material evidence of his researches, such as the anthropometric measuring tools in the Galton Collection – is inevitably associated with the worst excesses of the eugenic movement, notably in Nazi Germany. Despite its title, the Galton material at UCL is unusual in that it was not originally formed as a collection. Rather, it is made of working objects and research records that were forgotten by the institution in which they were located, and were only formed as an historic resource in the late 1980s. Galton’s own focus was a form of extreme collecting, largely centred on amassing information, personal data and images of individuals, and the conclusions that he drew from this information. As a direct result of this personal data, the collection raises issues about the rights of the individual, especially in the portrait photographs of prisoners and of patients with physical and mental health problems whom is it very unlikely would have

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given permission for their photograph to be used in this way, or possibly even taken at all. Despite this material remaining in silence for most of the twentieth century, it now faces a new lease of life, due to its relevance with the current interest in themes such as identity and protection of personal data. The ethical and legal issues that arise from this form the basis of my discussion in this chapter. Galton was described by his colleague R.A. Fisher (1890–1962) as ‘that versatile and somewhat eccentric man of genius, Francis Galton’ (Bulmer, 2003: 203). Certainly his high intelligence was evident from early childhood, as Galton was regarded as a child prodigy. His parents Samuel and Violetta Galton had produced seven children in quick succession, and then Francis Galton was born after a gap of six years (Forrest, 1974: 5). His elder sister Adele, suffering poor health, had asked to be given the responsibility of educating their youngest brother, although all of his elder sisters seemed to be inclined to make a pet of him. Although Samuel and Violetta were Quakers, the children were not brought up in this faith. Many of Violetta’s family were doctors, including her father, Lunar Society member and early evolutionary theorist Erasmus Darwin (1731–1802). Perhaps because of this family connection, Galton was destined for a career in medicine. In 1838, at the age of eighteen, he was sent to train at Birmingham General Hospital (Forrest, 1974: 9) until his father’s death and his own resulting financial independence meant he was free to pursue his own interests, which

Figure 5.1. Francis Galton, 1860. Studio portrait by C. Silvy of Galton at 38. The props include a globe and a bookcase, portraying Galton as both an educated man and a traveller (Source: UCL Special Collections).

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at that time largely involved travel. One of his works that is still in print today is The Art of Travel (Galton, 1855) which is brimming with helpful advice for the Victorian explorer, including hints such as breaking raw eggs into boots as a cure for blisters, or keeping clothes dry during a shower of rain by stripping naked and sitting on them (Galton, 1855: 45). Despite not coining the word ‘eugenics’ until 1883, we can see the beginning of eugenic theory in his and others’ thinking much earlier than this (Farrell, 1985: 10). The year 1866 seems to have been a significant one for Galton: he had suffered one of his periodic nervous collapses, and by this time, it was clear that his marriage (to Louise Butler in 1852) was likely to remain childless. It was during this period that Galton’s interest in heredity overtook his previous enthusiasm for travel and geography (Forrest, 1974: 85). Although Galton is seen as being the founder of eugenics, eugenic beliefs have a much longer history; amongst others, Plato discussed a form of eugenics in The Republic (Jones, 1998: 3). However, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, eugenics assumed a distinct disciplinary identity, not least through the work of Galton himself. This new science was defined by Galton in a paper given to The Sociological Society in 1904: ‘The science of which deals with all influences that improve the inborn qualities of a race; also those that develop them to the utmost advantage’ (Forrest, 1974: 256). The primary thought was to encourage the best examples of each class, individuals that showed both good health and strong character. Galton recommended creating a register such as Burke’s Peerage, where people could check the eugenic credentials of their prospective mates. He hoped that eugenics could in time be rooted in the public consciousness, and this could be achieved by putting in place practical methods of control. Galton initially established a temporary Anthropometric Laboratory as part of the South Kensington International Health Fair of 1884 (see Figure 5.2). People paid a small sum to have their anthropometric measurements taken and were given a copy of the form with all their personal data on it (Pearson, 1914, vol 2: 371). Thousands of these forms are still kept at UCL and give physical information on a wide selection of Victorian society including politicians, builders, schoolboys and teachers. The laboratory was set out systematically for visitors to progress in order, pausing at each table for tests to be carried out to judge their weight, height, lung capacity, arm span, sight and hearing. It was also here that Galton’s interest in fingerprints is first seen. This laboratory, which closed in 1894, became the prototype for what later took shape on a more permanent basis at University College, that ‘godless institution of Gower Street’ (Harte and North, 1978: 31). It seems that some of the equipment used in the earlier laboratory was given to a similar laboratory at Oxford in the intervening years (Forrest, 1974: 182). In 1904, Galton was given rooms at UCL to form the Eugenics Record Office, later known as the Galton Laboratory. Galton’s plan was to collect, research and store family records and histories of noteworthy families,

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Figure 5.2. The Anthropometric Laboratory at the International Health Exhibition, 1884. Galton’s first work with anthropometric measurements took place at the South Kensington Health Exhibition. Visitors had their hearing, vision, strength and other physical traits tested (Source: UCL Special Collections).

and generally gather data relating to heredity from schools and hospitals throughout Britain. Galton funded a research fellow, an assistant and other general expenditure at a personal cost of £500 per year (Forrest, 1974: 260; Farrell, 1985: 182). The Eugenics Record Office was kept clearly separate from the Biometric Laboratory of Galton’s friend and biographer Karl Pearson (1857–1936), although the two were located near each other. When Pearson took over as Eugenics Research Fellow, it in effect merged the work that the two laboratories were carrying out, and both contributed significantly to Pearson’s work on statistics. Financially independent, the Eugenics Records Office and Pearson’s work found an inherent tension in its location at UCL, caused not only by Pearson’s argumentative personality but also because there was no contribution to teaching (Farrell, 1985: 142), although the work was regularly published and frequently consulted by the medical profession (Farrell, 1985: 175). As distinct from the Eugenics Record Office at UCL, the Eugenics Education Society, which aimed at popularising eugenics, was set up in 1907 by the colourfully named Montague Crackenthorpe, a neighbour of Galton’s at his home in Rutland Gate. Despite Galton being president of the

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Society, there was little connection between the two organisations, as the Society was focused on public education and ideology rather than research (Engs, 2005: 62). In writing an introduction to the Eugenics Review, it is clear Galton saw the Eugenics Education Society as very different from his own, strongly research-based Eugenics Records Office: ‘The foundation of eugenics is, in some measure, laid by applying a mathematical-statistical treatment to a large collection of facts, and this, like engineering deep down in boggy soil, affords little evidence of its bulk and importance’ (Forrest, 1974: 280–81).

The Galton Collection The responsibility for the Galton material at University College London is shared between UCL Museums & Collections and UCL Library Services – the book and archive collection is managed by the Library, whilst instruments, equipment and other artefacts are the responsibility of UCL Museums & Collections, and is comprised of over 500 objects. It also contains personal memorabilia such as Galton’s glasses, passport and the contents of his desk, including pens and rulers. The material that now forms the collection was moved in 1968 with the Galton Laboratory from Gower Street to Wolfson House, north of the Euston Road, as part of what was then called the

Figure 5.3. Set of head callipers, c.1896. Spanner in wooden box, used for measuring dimensions of the face and head. Produced by Cambridge Scientific Instrument Society (Reproduced courtesy of UCL Galton Collection).

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Department of Genetics and Biometry, later absorbed into the Department of Biology (Harte and North, 1978: 105). In this way, the objects simply never left UCL after Galton’s death in 1911. Following a grant from the Heritage Lottery Fund and UCL Friends programme in 2000, the Galton Collection was eventually gathered into one room in Wolfson House from its different locations throughout the department, and was photographed and fully catalogued at the same time (Reid, 2002: 2). Larger pieces such as his desk and bookcase were still in use until recently, and more Galton material occasionally surfaces within UCL as offices and departments move from their existing space. Traditionally, university collections face a challenge in establishing provenances as objects have often been collected specifically as teaching material and have little or no documentation. This is not the case for the Galton material as it was not acquired for teaching, and indeed is often physically labelled as belonging to the Eugenics Record Office, and Galton’s personal material is sometimes signed with his name and address in his own characteristic handwriting. Much of the Galton Collection is made up of anthropometric equipment used by Galton and his colleagues, often designed by Galton himself because they were not available on the market (Forrest, 1974: 181). In this case, the instruments would be produced by the Cambridge Scientific Instrument Society, directed by Galton’s cousin Horace Darwin (1851–1928). Later in the century, it was possible to buy some equipment in Germany, including the glass eyes still kept in the Galton Collection (Forrest, 1974: 181) (see Figure 5.6). The Galton archive, housed largely at UCL Special Collections is extensive, and includes 9,000 anthropometric data sheets, fifteen volumes of anthropometric registers, 14,000 sets of fingerprint cards containing fingerprints and personal data for visitors to the anthropometric laboratories, criminals, mental patients and others including Gladstone, Zola and other prominent figures of the day. Other records include the 100 questionnaires completed by eminent fellows of the Royal Society sent out by Galton (Forrest, 1974: 122) and personal correspondence.

Curating Galton It is the wealth of personal information in the Galton Collection, relating not just to Galton himself but to thousands of experimental ‘subjects’, that makes the collection such a potentially rich historical resource, but also a highly problematic one. This is particularly true of Galton’s photographic collection. For Galton, photography was a key part in both recording and identifying physical evidence of strength and weakness. He photographed hundreds of patients suffering from tuberculosis at Guy’s Hospital, collaborating with his colleague Dr F.A. Mahomed to study the narrow ovoid face believed to be associated with a predisposition to TB (Bulmer, 2003: 34). These photographs remain at UCL, as do hundreds of individual portraits of convicted felons, hospital patients and many others. The casual

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categorising of these images by Galton into ‘types’ can provoke an extreme reaction in researchers today. As a way of measuring how character traits could manifest themselves in physical characteristics, Galton developed the use of composite photographs. Others had already tried to make these, but it was Galton who had the idea of photographing all the individual shots on to a single plate, and giving it a short exposure. With these composites, any untypical characteristic melts away and shared ones appear much more strongly. In his unpublished Utopian novel, Kantsaywhere, the hero has to undergo a series of tests similar to the ones carried out at the Anthropometric Laboratory. Families of ‘Kantsaywhere’ had to be photographed at set times, and composite photographs created for the country’s records (Pearson, 1914, vol 3a: 423). Galton’s pioneering work on eugenics is often considered ethically questionable when regarded in the context of post-Second World War culture. Galton’s eugenic ideals included advocating an allowance of money, food and better sanitation, to the ‘better sort of people’ who would usually and prudently marry later on, when they were in a position of financial security. People classed as imprudent seemed to Galton to be more likely to marry early and have many children, who would in turn inherit this feckless streak. In an address on eugenics in 1908, he said that the sick or old or ‘unfortunate’ should be helped, but only if ‘by isolation, or some other less

Figure 5.4. University College bazaar and fete, July 1909. The front quad at UCL, showing a fund-raising fete that took place during Galton’s tenure at the college (Source: UCL Special Collections).

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drastic yet adequate measure, a stop should be put to the production of families of children likely to include degenerates’ (Pearson, vol 3a: 349). His solution, prior to any adequate and widespread use of contraception, was simple. ‘One practical and effective way in which individuals of feeble constitution can show mercy to their kind is by celibacy, lest they should bring beings into existence whose race is predoomed to destruction by the laws of nature’ (Pearson, 1914, vol 2: 119). With criminals, he again felt strongly about preventing them from breeding. Although in his earlier writings, Galton believed that it would be possible to persuade people against having children, he later realised that this was likely to be unsuccessful and some form of social control would be needed. Galton’s work was not universally well received at the time, and he frequently clashed with the church, which he felt was anti-eugenic in promoting celibacy of the priesthood, and in administering charity to weaker sections of society.

Figure 5.5. Photographs of violent criminals. Galton collected portraits of criminal and other types, as shown by the six upper photographs of individuals, and the lower five composites of several people blended into a single image (Source: UCL Special Collections).

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The problems with interpreting the history of eugenics from the midnineteenth to early twentieth century are many. Since the post-war period, both the public and the scientific communities have tended to associate all eugenics with Nazi abuses, such as enforced racial hygiene, human experimentation and the extermination of undesired population groups. The eugenic mass extermination in Nazi Germany was the extreme version of what can be termed ‘negative’ eugenics – that of limiting the growth of the less desired sections of society, whereas ‘positive’ eugenics is to encourage the ‘fit’ to breed. The attitude to eugenics in the early twenty-first century is understandably extremely guarded, and this impacts on curators attempting to interpret this historic material. By challenging the view that eugenics is often perceived as being the same thing as scientific racism, curators may fear being regarded as holding pro-eugenics views themselves. This raises several issues regarding curating this collection, primarily the difficulty in seeing Galton’s work in the context of his own period. The issues of displaying ethically sensitive objects around the topic of eugenics have been widely examined in recent years, especially in displays involving the Holocaust. However, the ethical issues of displaying material associated with earlier eugenic history has been little researched, and often is dismissed by being included in the later and more sinister aspects in the history of eugenics. There are many ethical questions raised by sharing historical personal data and other information. The growth of family history in recent years has been one of the most dramatic changes in the study of social history, and the interest in this area has taken the role of research into the hands of individuals, often without any academic training. At UCL, the Galton Collection’s increased popularity has led UCL Museums & Collections and UCL Library staff to examine the best way to interpret and make freely accessible for research purposes material that may cause offence and distress, and yet still tell a powerful, engaging and relevant story. A major challenge concerning presentation of the Galton Collection is therefore one of data protection and privacy. Whether or not it is appropriate to have information about nineteenth-century individuals in the public domain that may cause distress to their descendents is an issue primarily because of Galton’s interest in collecting material about people’s criminal habits and mental health. The history of eugenics, as with that of much medical history, is also the study of private and personal data about individuals. Although legally museums and libraries may be permitted to place private information about nineteenth-century individuals in the public domain, the ethical implications of this demand further examination. People alive today may be less than happy to have information about the mental and physical health or criminal habits of their forebears made available online. Recent legislation – notably the Freedom of Information Act (2000) – has contributed to an increased level of debate about what is, or is not, appropriate. There is limited guidance in place to help with the issues of

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interpreting politically and ethically sensitive material in this area, nor that of the ethics of putting personal details of deceased people in the public domain. The Wellcome Library has drawn up a policy for accessing their archives that sets out levels of accessibility to data to include open, restricted and closed, depending on the nature of the material. Again, the legal guidance is a grey area. ‘As a non-public body, the Library is not subject to the Freedom of Information Act 2000 (FOIA), nor does it acquire records that fall within the scope of FOIA. However, a body of FOIA case law has established that the duty of confidence owed to an individual during their lifetime passes to their personal representative after their death for a duration yet to be established’ (Wellcome Library, 2010). The Wellcome Library policy states that material will be placed online only if it is both classed as ‘open’ and over ten years old. In relation to sensitive and personal data on deceased individuals, due to the lack of legal guidance on the period of time allowed to elapse, the Library considers each request on a case-by-case basis, and their approach is to assume that all sensitive material will be derestricted once the individual dies or reaches a nominal age of 100: 2.4.1 The Library is aware that judging the level of protection needed in relation to archive records may involve an element of subjectivity. In order to make its judgements as ethical, consistent and transparent as possible, the Library’s Archives and Manuscripts team bases its decisions on a combination of record content/sensitivity and record structure. As mentioned in paragraph 1.2.3, the Library’s archives that are most likely to constitute sensitive personal data are those that relate to individuals’ physical or mental health, or sexual life. Sensitive records organised in a standard, structured way (even if not arranged primarily by data subject name) are classed as closed. Informal, less structured records which incidentally contain isolated references to sensitive issues are classed as restricted.

The history of eugenics is not as freely accessible as other areas of history. For example, access to the archives of the Eugenics Society, housed on loan from the Galton Institute at the Wellcome Library, is subject to the approval of individual requests in writing by the Institute’s Council. To join the History of Eugenics e-mailing list, a medium that is usually open to all, requires an explanation of the reason for joining, which is forwarded to the panel for approval. Another home to ethically sensitive material is the Crime Museum at Scotland Yard, who have closed all access other than to police officers as a training aid, despite the rich historical material held there with its potential for display in exhibitions internationally. Perhaps the most helpful guidance in interpreting eugenics of the nineteenth century can be found in literature relating to caring for human remains in museums, as there are many overlaps in the ethics of this area (DCMS, 2005).

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Consultation is a key part of either re-working or developing new displays and exhibitions, and is fast becoming a requirement of any major funding application. The Holocaust exhibition at London’s Imperial War Museum, which opened in June 2000, focused on not only the European Jewish community but also other groups including Soviet prisoners, homosexuals and Roma and Sinti groups. Their wide advisory panel was made up of all these groups, as well as historians, Holocaust survivors and others (Batsford, 2008). There are overlaps with the questions relating to the Galton material, including that of the ethics of displaying photographs of people without their permission. As well as ethical issues, ‘distress levels’ had to be considered – if material is too upsetting, people will simply switch off, which is counterproductive. Part of an answer was found in using personal testimonies that visitors can follow throughout the exhibition, which both gives individuals a ‘voice’, and also means that visitors find the subject easier to grapple with. The Imperial War Museum used the same method for their Evacuees display, mixing personal accounts, letters, drawings and diaries with propaganda and official information of the time (Gledhill, 2008). The American Eugenic Movement archive at Cold Spring Harbor has worked out a policy for accessing their material, which begins:

Figure 5.6. Glass eyes. Late nineteenth century. Selection of glass eyes set in aluminium within tin box, used for anthropometric classification of eye colour. Produced by Professor Dr Rudolf Martin (Reproduced courtesy of UCL Galton Collection).

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From the outset of this project, we have been cognizant that the images in this archive and the ideas expressed by eugenicists are potentially offensive. Eugenics cast a negative light on every racial, ethnic, and disabled group. Many of the things that eugenicists did and said were bigoted and hurtful. (Eugenics Archive, accessed 12 April 2010)

This policy was worked out by a consultation panel composed of historians, sociologists, scientists and representatives of minority and disabled communities (Eugenics Archive, accessed 12 April 2010). They decided that they wanted to be more stringent than the law insisted on and this was their solution: names and place identifiers are removed from all personal photographs and pedigrees in the archive. UCL Library, in common with other archives, also anonymises data in reproductions, deleting the names of individuals or place names. This was also the decision made by the Hidden Lives Revealed project, which brings online unique archive material about poor and disadvantaged children cared for by The Waifs and Strays’ Society, now The Children’s Society, based in the United Kingdom. All of the case studies give only the children’s initials: This site features the full contents of around 150 case files of children in the care of The Waifs and Strays’ Society from Victorian and Edwardian times. Even though some of these cases are from over 100 years ago, they have been fully anonymised to prevent the children’s identification. Each case is summarised, and linked to pages about the actual homes they lived in. (Hidden Lives Revealed, accessed 12 April 2010)

However, to anonymise is to remove the information that family historians are most interested in, that of the names of individuals and places, so to censor in this way is to remove all of the relevance and interest that family historians might have for the Galton data. A further complication is that most of the information can be seen if researchers physically come to the archives, which is another level of controlling access. Lastly, there is the additional difficulty in that successfully anonymising data is actually incredibly complex. An authority on privacy at Microsoft remarks: Direct anonymization of data sets – scrubbing records of sensitive, identifiable information – is very, very hard. The line between innocent and identifying information is rarely clear; the combination of a few apparently harmless attributes can easily uniquely identify individuals. The landscape is complicated by information from auxiliary data sources, multiple independent anonymizations of the same data, and unspecified and unanticipated privacy concerns. Current direct anonymization technologies all come with known limitations and vulnerabilities, and the prospects for air-tight approaches seem grim. (McSherry, pers. comm., 2008)

For most archives, there are different layers of access, and it seems clear that ‘unwritten’ decisions seem to be being made by archivists on a frequent

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basis. ‘Sensitive’ data is restricted, but there is a large element of personal judgement in what is considered sensitive. Limits such as time frames on access to individual files and personal medical records are simple to implement, but when dealing with personal data on individuals who have died many years ago, the case becomes more complex. A frequent recommendation is to ensure care is taken not to cause distress to living relatives, but with no legal guidelines as to how near the living relative should be, it seems to be an area of some subjectivity, with the possibility of a test case hanging

Figure 5.7. Composite photographs demonstrating family likeness, February 1882. Galton developed composite photographs, layering four or five photographs of different people to create a single image. This would illustrate dominant characteristics (Source: UCL Special Collections).

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Figure 5.8. Photograph of patient at Bethlem Asylum, 1880s. Bethlem Hospital patients were photographed by Galton as part of his research into physical manifestations of personality types (Source: UCL Special Collections).

in the air. Archivists do have pragmatic guidelines in place in the form of established practice at The National Archives in London, for example, ‘living relative’ would be taken to mean partner, sibling, parent or child. Arguably, an archivist holds a duty of confidence, and their job includes judging the many issues around granting access – ranging from how long the information has been in the public domain, how easy it has been to get hold of, as well as the legal issues and the context of how the information is available, whether online, in archives, or on public display. It could even include the powerlessness and likelihood of permission having been given at the time by the individuals concerned. Additionally, there is a potential age divide across the public in the perception of whether or not personal data about nineteenth-century individuals, potentially related to people alive today, should be made available online. Older people would be more closely related to those living in the late nineteenth century, and may have come from a generation that was less open about personal details. Younger people may have grown accustomed to the massive accessibility of information available in the last fifteen years or so.

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Conclusions Galton was not primarily a collector of objects, but of potentially sensitive information about individuals and this inevitably raises ethical issues that are exacerbated because of the sheer scale of his collecting, and because of its potential appeal as a research resource to those most likely to be offended or upset by its content. Placing his work in its proper historical context is doubly complicated, as it requires a disentangling of those aspects of Galton’s ideas that were judged unusual, radical or extreme by his contemporaries from a more general set of beliefs that were more widely shared among the British upper and middle classes in the Edwardian era, but which would now be considered unacceptable. For example, Galton’s casual description of the ‘West African negro’ as an individual who ‘has strong impulsive passions, and neither patience, reticence or dignity … He is eminently gregarious, for he is always jabbering, quarrelling, tomtom-ing, or dancing’ would now be considered offensive not just for its sentiment, but for its patronising and imperialistic tone, yet neither would have been considered in any way exceptional or problematic at the time that Galton wrote them (Pearson, 1914, vol 2: 81). In other ways, however, Galton’s absolute commitment to his eugenic programme can be seen as extreme even among his contemporaries. The detachment that was a key part of his nature meant that he found it hard to see the consequences of his suggestions in implementing eugenic theory, either in their conclusions or in their impact on real people. His lack of emotion can be evidenced in a small episode that took place when he was studying at Birmingham General Hospital as a young man, and people injured in the Chartist riots were brought in for treatment: ‘It was curious to observe the apparent cleanness of the cuts that were made through the scalp by the blow of the policeman’s round truncheon’ (Galton, 1908: 31). Curating the Galton Collection is therefore more than a matter of applying current standards of personal data management to a historical collection, or of supplying contextual information that enables modern viewers to comprehend, and to make allowances for – if not become oblivious to – the embedded prejudices in Galton’s work. Rather, it requires both of these steps, together with a more deep-seated and ongoing process of consultation and negotiation with users and stakeholders, to ensure that the value of the Galton Collection is not ignored, nor that those who might have the most to gain from its use are excluded simply for fear of giving individual offence. If Galton would not hesitate in sacrificing the rights of the individual for the common good, then his successors must take a more subtle approach, balancing individual concerns with the needs of a broader research community. In doing so, due care must also be given to ensure that Galton’s own personality, and his significant contributions to modern social and medical science are neither treated hagiographically, nor simply disregarded because of their problematic posthumous associations. Extreme collections require a level of curation that also goes beyond the norm.

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References Batsford, S. 2008. ‘Exhibiting the Holocaust’, Social History in Museums, Journal of the Social History Curators Group 32: 39–41. Bulmer, M. 2003. Francis Galton: Pioneer of Heredity and Biometry, Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins University Press. DCMS, 2005. ‘Guidance for the Care of Human Remains in Museums’, London: Department for Culture, Media and Sport. Engs, R.C. 2005. The Eugenics Movement, An Encyclopedia, Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Eugenics Archive, Cold Spring Harbor. Available at: http://www.eugenicsarchive.org (accessed 12 April 2010). Farrell, L. 1985. Origins and Growth of the English Eugenics Movement 1865–1925, New York: Garland Publishing. Forrest, D.W. 1974. Francis Galton: The Life and Work of a Victorian Genius, London: Elek. Galton, F. 1855. The Art of Travel or Shifts and Contrivances Available in Wild Countries, London, Murray.   1908. Memories of My Life, London: Methuen. Gledhill, J. 2008. ‘Who Do We Think We Were? Some Theoretical Perspectives on Interpreting Childhood’, Social History in Museums, Journal of the Social History Curators Group 32: 49–53. Harte, N. and North, J. 1978. The World of UCL 1828–1990, London: UCL. Hidden Lives Revealed. Available at: http://www.hiddenlives.org.uk/about/ index.html (accessed 12 April 2010). Jones, G. 1998. ‘Theoretical Foundations in Eugenics’, in R.A. Peel (ed.), Essays in the History of Eugenics, London: The Galton Institute. Pearson, K.P. 1914. The Life, Letters and Labours of Francis Galton, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reid, B. 2002. ‘Sir Francis Galton, His Work and Collection’, unpublished lecture. Wellcome Library. 2010. Access to Archives Policy, November 2010. Available at: http://library.wellcome.ac.uk/assets/WTX063805.pdf

Part II

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Mass Produced

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Knowing the New

Susan Pearce

An important segment of contemporary collecting is the emphasis placed upon contemporary, mass-produced material, like tea towels or carrier bags. Such collecting, although very widespread, challenges the bounds of acceptable practice, certainly among those whose mentalities have created what is generally acceptable. This sets out the extreme nature of this type of collecting, because it issues a challenge to normative views of modernist values, and to all the social and political issues with which these are entwined. But the keen reader will have raised an eyebrow at the implied notion that modernist values are still normative, and then will have recognised that the mentalities mentioned above are cast in the past tense. Quite apart from the general postmodern turn in thought, which characterised the twentieth century, some of the specific understandings arrived at quite recently by brain and cognitive scientists have a significant bearing on our perception of the collecting of mass-produced material. The understanding of such collections does indeed involve a profound shift in thinking, and the development of new epistemologies based upon anthropological and psychological ideas, which take proper account of current perspectives; this is capable of having a fundamental impact upon contemporary value systems in general, and upon curatorial and exhibition practices within museums. The present chapter endeavours to discuss these issues through the medium of research carried out over the last two decades in Britain and the United States into the collecting of mass-produced, mundane material. Every important shift in social practice has a widely ranging and infinitely nuanced set of background causes, but two events can be singled out as kindling curatorial awareness of the new collecting styles, one in the United States and the other in Britain. In 1969, the museum attached to the Rhode

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Island School of Design, USA, invited Andy Warhol to undertake a project, eventually to be called Raid the Icebox 1. David Bourdon, who was in charge of the museum side of the project, tells us that it was aimed to ‘bring out into the open some of the unfamiliar, and often unsuspected treasures mouldering in museum basements inaccessible to the general public’ (Bourdon, 1970: 17). So far, so unexceptional; but as Warhol chose his display material it began to become clear how distant his vision of the meaning of material was from that of his curatorial hosts. Warhol decided to display the whole of the reserve shoe collection, which at first seemed to the staff to be a nonsense of duplicates and inferior pieces, offering neither historical nor aesthetic knowledge. He also wanted the catalogue entry for each pair of shoes to be as full as possible, giving details of owners, and of the route through which it had reached the museum, and it became clear that, for Warhol, the label was as much part of the meaning of the exhibition as were the shoes themselves. The museum director, Daniel Robbins, describes the journey the museum staff made: After the headaches of data assembly, we now understood why; each object is obliged to carry its full set of associations and a weird poetry results; the combination of pedantry and sentiment that can be read in the entities is the serial image of history. There are the personal overtones of almost unbelievable poignancy in the now anonymous rubbed kid heels of some fine ladies’ shoes. (Robbins, 1970: 14)

Probably for the first time, at any rate in so clear and specific a fashion, Warhol’s exhibition had shown that the biography of each object is unique, regardless of the ‘off the production line’ status of the object’s origin, and that, although the circumstances of its ‘birth’ generate particular kinds of information which might be called historical or concerned with connoisseurship, its life story gives rise to a quite different kind of meaning, which is wrapped up in its relationship with its human owners. In Warhol’s hands, shoes became a paradigm for more than one kind of fetishism. At the Rhode Island Museum, Raid the Icebox 1 had become an instrument of transition and change, reflecting a cultural movement which was to transform thinking and feeling. More than twenty years later, museums in Britain experienced what became known as the ‘People’s Shows’ (Lovatt, 1997). In 1990, Peter Jenkinson, at a loss for an exhibition to enliven the summer season at Walsall Museum, in the British Midlands near Birmingham, hit upon the idea of inviting the people of Walsall to bring their private collections to the museum and have them put on display. This, the first People’s Show, was a phenomenal success; families who had never set foot inside the museum before came in, because a member of their family had taken the chance to put a cherished collection on public display in a prestigious location. Alongside the People’s Show exhibitions were galleries which held the Museum’s permanent collection of important Epstein sculptures, donated by the artist’s family. These were well known in the worlds of art history and

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connoisseurship, and in the related world of art dealing, and they were what hitherto the Walsall Museum had been known for. Altogether the Show brought together some 16,000 objects gathered by sixty-three collectors from very diverse backgrounds. The display packed the Museum’s walls, floors and ceilings, and overflowed into the entrance area. But the material which poured in to be shown was fundamentally different from that to which museums were accustomed. There were collections of neckties, eggcups, hotel soaps, aircraft sick bags, and gambling machines; there were years’ worth of Christmas presents, all featuring frogs, and serial purchases from companies like the Franklyn Mint, which produce ‘collectables’ especially for this market. The whole exhibition looked more like a mad version of the kind of English pub which features rugby club scarves than a normal, sober museum display which a visitor anticipates. Like Warhol’s shoes, each collection featured only one type of piece; there were no labels explaining any object’s significance, but only some information about each collector. Each collection had no obvious boundaries; as far as the viewer was concerned, each particular collection could have gone on growing forever. The Walsall People’s Show attracted a massive amount of media attention, including substantial features on national radio and television. This was at that time virtually unheard of for a small, essentially local museum, and it was to trigger a great wave of journalistic interest in museums and their doings, which is with us still. It was also a major force in the creation of a large range of programmes, most of them series, with titles like ‘Objects of Desire’ and ‘Collectomania’. The media, for reasons to be explored in a moment, had found a new and very successful field. Here were huge numbers of programmes waiting to be made, which involved little more than a camera crew, a journalist anchor, an academic talking head perhaps, and, above all, collectors willing to talk and show endlessly, with their extremely human personalities well on display. And the new wave was highly popular; people enjoyed seeing people talking about their ‘stuff’. Meanwhile, in the United States, research into these collecting practices had been going forward at the University of Utah under the direction of Russell Belk (1995). He and his colleagues were exploring an enormous superstructure (or perhaps substructure) of popular collecting which linked up with collectors’ fairs, swap meets, car boot sales, garage sales, magazines, clubs and websites. The more visible aspects of this had already attracted academic attention: events like the Barbie conventions, where a great deal of swapping and selling went on, and the advertisements for Barbie material in the up-market press were documented. Belk was able to show how similar processes were a nation-wide, deep phenomenon and to analyse their implications. In 1997, a single co-ordinated research project was carried out across Britain in order to find out about deep collecting habits across the nation (Pearce, 1998). This was quantitative (a questionnaire) and qualitative

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(invitation to add freely, and a follow-up of structured interviews by telephone). Fifteen hundred randomly chosen people were contacted and a reply rate approaching two-thirds was achieved, itself a testament to how important collecting is to people. About 66 per cent of those who replied identified themselves as collectors, and such self-selection was the criterion used to identify collectors within the study. Only 16 per cent of the collections involved traditional ‘collection’ objects like coins, natural history material and superseded technology. Overwhelmingly, the type of material collected involved factory-produced things like tea towels, soft toys and pepper pots; a definite group, in fact, involved objects such as pieces featuring elephants or miniature cottages, which are manufactured specifically for this collecting market. Overall, 25 per cent of the collections either were, or were used as, room ornaments. The study showed that men and women collect in almost equal numbers, and that this gender balance is matched by the percentages of broad socioeconomic groups represented by these collectors, so that the fit between the collectors and the contemporary population of Britain as a whole was very close. Three conclusions stood out. Firstly, the percentage of people who identified themselves as collectors against the whole population was very large, about 50 per cent, so whatever collecting is, it is not in any way socially aberrant or psychologically abnormal, but on the contrary a standard reaction to contemporary conditions in Britain. Secondly, the traditional characteristics of the two genders were carried through in their collecting habits: collections of ornaments/stuffed toys/tea towels were made by women, and almost all the oily-handed collections – old radios, early bicycles, militaria – together with those of sporting material, were made by men. Thirdly, men across the socio-economic divisions showed a similar passion for old tractors, while their wives were equally devoted to decorated thimbles. Similarly, women tend to value material because it embodies affective memories to family and friends, while men, although valuing memories, are very fond of wheels. In other words, the great divide in collecting is not by class or educational background, but by gender. The unpacking of these collecting practices is most easily considered by breaking their impact down into sections, which allow discussion. I shall take their socio-economic implications first, followed by a view of their critique of traditional epistemologies, and then consider their psychological and cognitive issues. Finally, I shall try to draw some threads together. Socially speaking, it is very interesting that the investigation suggests this type of mass production material collecting to be more or less limited to the western, English-speaking world and Japan. It is relatively uncommon in Scandinavia and southern Europe, and virtually non-existent in Africa, South America and Asia outside Japan, although it is beginning to develop in South Korea and Taiwan. In other words, it is characteristic of the regions in which capitalist practices were either first developed or taken up most enthusiastically, and where they are most deeply rooted in the social

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fabric. In economic terms, mass-production collecting, regardless of the fact that it spans the income groups, clearly involves a strained relationship to the monetary values, which define the desirability of objects in the modern capitalist world. It favours material which is old, but not very old, technologically inferior, and lacking in any precious or aesthetic component. A conscious spirit of defiance is sometimes conspicuous here. People are willing to invest much time, and some money, in collecting material because they believe that one day its ‘true value’ will be recognised and the collector with it; sometimes these fantasies involve devoting large sums of money. Such things, of course, do happen: collecting history is full of stories in which the existence of a collection of a particular painter’s pictures or wood-worker’s treen does indeed produce a new market, but this is rare, and for any given collector it is about as likely as winning the lottery. Also, as we have seen, the capitalist manufacturing world is very ready to supply collectors with what they want, at a price which they can (just) afford. This collecting vogue is then turned into a new kind of marketplace, just as antique buying has been. Its close relation, the manufacture of material intended for Christmas and birthday presents, many of which in this world become part of collections, is very similar. Nevertheless, for most individuals, economically speaking, mass production collecting is about turning their back on the values of the marketplace, and in this it has links with a powerful, new culture of recycling. It is part of the individual’s defiance of a capitalist structure within which he or she can only function as a virtually powerless component. It seeks to abandon socially received value and to create a quite different order of valuation, and this, in turn, involves a re-working of modernist epistemological assumptions. In very broad terms, this epistemology had two big ideas, both rooted in materiality and both fundamental to the construction of the modern world. The first is the key perception of the Enlightenment, that the technique of scrutinising the appearance of objects and then drawing up lists of their observed similarities and differences can create grids within which these characteristics can be quantified and with the capacity to generate predictions that work – which can be seen to come true – in the greater world. Collected material, particularly of the natural or historical kinds, was therefore valued chiefly as ‘evidence’, that is as presenting visible features that can generate useful descriptions. In essence, this technique was extremely simple. A collection of, say, ammonite fossils or hand axes is put out on the floor, and then arranged in groups according to appearance; neighbouring groups will share some traits but not others, so that characteristics can be seen to come and go across the whole. Usually, some fairly abrupt changes will be seen to emerge at specific points in the arrangement, making hierarchies of genus, species and type appear, apparently naturally from the assembled evidence. Secondly, to this eighteenth-century vision of patterning, the nineteenth century linked the ‘what’ of appearance to the ‘when’ of history. It became

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important to know the provenance, the past history and the exact context of an object, because this made possible a fuller understanding of it. Moreover, this historicity underpinned the gathering feeling, fed by the emotions of romanticism, that objects always retain as essential to their being the reality of the time and place from which they came, and to which, therefore, they can offer genuine and direct access. The two-dimensional plan became a three-dimensional tree with time, space and the developmental process, and each individual specimen could find its proper place on one of the branches. Narratives of this kind are particularly well suited to exhibition in museum cases and galleries, the very natures of which tend to be rectangular and capable of forming three-dimensional grids in which resemblances and differences across time can be made clearly visible. They also gave us, with their strongly romantic flavouring, the typical nineteenth- and twentiethcentury genres that depend on a belief in historicity and the object, like historical art, fiction and film, historical reconstruction and re-play, and much more. It is clear immediately that the types of collections under discussion do not play into this sort of scenario. They have no ‘objective’ historical depth, they are often extremely similar, and they cannot be organised into narratives of changing characteristics through time. Above all, they are not intended to do these things. Rather, their rational is based upon what they mean to the collector, not what they might be able to demonstrate to the outside world. To realise what these values are, where they come from, and how important they are, we need to turn to work done in the cognitive sciences and the way in which ‘mind’, that is to say the bundle of perceptions that we use to negotiate our way through the world, is produced by the physical matter of which are brains are made. An appallingly simple view, but one perhaps adequate for the present purpose, says that this matter is made up of about one hundred billion neurons, and each neuron has up to one hundred thousand connections, changing in response to inner and outer changes, from nano-second to nanosecond (Fernie and Onians, 2008). The pathways, which the neurons build up, link with the data banks stored in memory cells to produce the physical and mental reactions which guide us through life. Some of these are fleeting, mere footsteps in the jungle of memory and sensation. Others are permanent footpaths, which have firmed up to become fixed neuron/memory/thought/ action links; they make up the map through which we live our individual lives. Others still have hardened into motorways; these are the routes connecting universal fixed points in experience which any given community has agreed will be its official, or normative, culture, and which are instilled into each successive generation through education. It is immediately obvious that the modernist epistemological system just discussed is one of these motorways for the official, establishment, enlightened, educated, capitalist Western society, probably even the principle one, which connects the most important points through which lives can be led and livings can be made.

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Two points in the current understanding of neurological processes are especially significant to this discussion. Firstly, the physical, hands-on, experiences in life are probably very important in the creation of the neural pathways we call mind. Onians, for example, suggests that Montesquieu (1689–1755), one of the acknowledged creators of modernist Enlightenment thinking, was able to recognise the critical importance of climate and ecology in human affairs because he was a wine grower (Fernie and Onians, 2008: 88). This matches what we recognise intuitively. Secondly, of very great importance in the emergence of ‘mind’ is precisely this capacity for intuition. It is now clear that what we choose (for clear Enlightenment, capitalist, etc., motives) to call rational thought, is nothing of the kind. Emotional reactions, both at the time and stored in the memory cells, play a major role in the formation of the neural pathways. Feelings are at least as important as reason in the composition of our working minds, and at the end of the day it is probably impossible to tell them apart. Indeed, as Classen (2005: 13) has suggested, we probably learn a ‘mother touch’ along with a ‘mother language’, so that a tactile code of communication is part of the motorway system of every society. But, as David Howes (2005: 1–17) makes clear, while emotional sensations are cultural systems in their own right, they are not very susceptible to expression, and therefore communication, in the world of language, particularly in the kind of pareddown, written texts which are the Western world’s favoured style. The historical documents of feeling are the products of artists and others, like collectors, who express themselves through materiality. Collectors are engaged in the processes of creating their own identities through the accumulation of bits of the material world, which carry emotional and tactile memories of past places and times. This can be seen as an aspect of what Giddens (1990: 92) describes as ‘ontological security’, seen as ‘the confidence most humans have in the continuity of their self-identity and the constancy of the surrounding social and material environments of action’. This creates trust and thus the possibility of stepping onwards from present surroundings into creativity, defined as ‘capabilities to act or think innovatively in relation to pre-established modes of activity’ (Giddens, 1991: 40f). The collecting of objects, as practised in the contemporary world, takes its place within the nexus of identities which enables the individual to continue to go on being him or herself, and to rise within this to the provocations of each new day. The patterns, which their collections carry, are those of human relationships and embodied experience, and are likely to take the form of a web, with the collector at the centre, rather than a grid. It is very important to make the point that the other kind of collection, that which ostensibly works within the grid mentality of the earlier epistemology, has much more in common with contemporary collecting than it would care to admit. Work on collecting processes has shown, for example, how early flint collectors, and fossil collectors also, retained only fine specimens which would do them credit, rather than the off-cast flint

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debris or the peculiar-looking specimens, which, as we know now, carry much information. Moreover, Victorian collectors gained a good percentage of their material from dealers, like the famous Anning family at Lyme Regis, on the English south coast, who sold dinosaur material, and who themselves received some of their material from local villagers. The possibilities for muddled (to say no more) provenance and muddled bone groups are obvious. Other circumstances lie below the surfaces: boxes were lost or confused when families moved house; children were allowed to play with material; and inadequate field notes were touched up from memory or with wishful thinking. All collections, in fact, are a record of personal history and tactile understanding, as much as they are anything else. The challenge for museum workers is the need to create new structures which can allow the contemporary (and other) collections to say what they are capable of saying. The focus needs to be on the link between the material and the lived life, of looking at objects as experience within the life spans of the people who have changed their meanings and have themselves been changed because of them. This will involve detailed biographical and contextual studies, and due respect, too, to the very fast-moving society which is emerging around us. The outcomes of acquisition and display are no longer likely to be a catalogue entry, a well-lit, labelled case, and a scholarly catalogue (although it is to be hoped that these will still be created where they are appropriate). Rather, they will be diaries, web-cam footage, blogs, poetry, fiction, and whatever new technology the future holds. They will involve much general participation in exhibitions, and will be intended to extend experience rather than construct new epistemologies. As a curator unpacks a collection of beer mats or tea towels, or indeed a herbarium or an excavation archive, he realises that he is unravelling an odyssey. The collection is a travel through experience, with all the dislocations of experience this entails. All collecting – contemporary accumulations obviously and ‘scientific’ cabinets just as truly – is the sum of ‘what looked nice’, of ‘that Tuesday when it rained and I missed the last bit’, and ‘the time when the box was dropped and things may have got a bit mixed up’. The new challenge for museums is to find ways to unravel, record and display all of this.

References Belk, R. 1995. Collecting in a Consumer Society, London: Routledge. Bourdon, D. 1970. ‘Andy’s Dish’, in D. Bourdon (ed.), Raid the Icebox 1 with Andy Warhol: An Exhibition Selected from the Storage Vaults of the Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Providence, RI: Rhode Island School of Design Museum of Art, pp. 17–24. Classen, C. 2005. ‘Contact’, in C. Classen (ed.), The Book of Touch, Oxford: Berg. Fernie, E. and Onians, J. 2008. ‘Neuro Ways of Seeing’, Tate Etc. 13: 87–97.

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Giddens, A. 1990. The Consequences of Modernity, Cambridge: Polity.   1991. Modernity and Self-Identity, Cambridge: Polity. Howes, D. (ed.) 2005. Empire of the Senses, Oxford: Berg. Lovatt, J.R. 1997. ‘The People’s Show 1994: A Survey’, in S. Pearce (ed.), Experiencing Material Culture in the Western World, London: Leicester University Press. Pearce, S. 1998. Collecting in Contemporary Practice, London: Sage. Robbins, D. 1970. ‘Confessions of a Museum Director’, in D. Bourdon (ed.), Raid the Icebox 1 with Andy Warhol: An Exhibition Selected from the Storage Vaults of the Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Providence, RI: Rhode Island School of Design Museum of Art, pp. 8–15.

7 The Global Scope of Extreme Collecting

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Japanese Woodblock Prints on the Internet

Richard Wilk

Introduction In this chapter, I argue that some of the extremities of current collecting practices can be measured through scale and access.1 Using the example of developments in the market for nineteenth-century Japanese woodblock prints (ukiyo-e), I show that the Internet and other electronic communications media have made it possible for ever-larger communities of collecting to emerge, and these communities have self-organised through a process of recognising and suppressing differences, like other communities of practice in competitive arenas like sports. In the process, new forms of authority are emerging which undercut traditional hierarchies of knowledge and expertise. The result is a global market which is simultaneously chaotic and highly structured, extreme in scale and appetite, where extreme democracy challenges established forms of authority, and collecting practices are in constant flux. While the art market has had specifically global qualities for hundreds, if not thousands of years, the spatial extent of collecting activities was always closely linked to social status. Archaeologists actually measure social status and wealth in the past by assessing the spatial extent of collecting activities. People who were buried with exotic objects, either made far away, or made locally from rare imported raw materials, are deemed the ‘elite’ of society. Whether or not this is an accurate assumption, the connection between high social status and the collecting of the rare and unusual, objects with

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the magical power of mystery associated with distance, goes far back into history. This has the potential to make the new era of Internet collecting into a new epoch entirely.

Classification and difference in art As scholars have pointed out, collecting is never a passive activity; it involves the acquisition of knowledge, particularly about the taxonomy of the objects collected (Belk, 1995). The process of classification, sorting things into categories and relating those categories to each other, has also been a focus of innovative recent scholarship (Bowker and Star, 2000). Taxonomists in biology, zoology and genetics usually claim that they are simply discovering the natural categories (though see Roughgarden, 2009). Archaeologists and social scientists, on the other hand, have gradually moved from a position that taxonomies are objectively real systems that can be discovered, to a recognition that the ordering of things is a cultural activity, reflecting political ideologies and the particular goals of taxonomists. Following Bourdieu (1984), classification can be seen as a way in which people simultaneously organise the differences among things, and the differences among people. In other papers I have used the concept of ‘common difference’ to describe the way classifying practices can bring ever-larger groups into engagement and competition (Wilk, 1995). I use the example of beauty pageants to show that at each level of competition, certain kinds of variation are engaged, while others are suppressed. Crossculturally, beauty has many definitions and qualities, and it does not usually have a great deal to do with young unmarried women. The pageant presents schools, towns, principalities and states with the opportunity to compete with their own special brand of beauty, as long as they accept a definition of beauty which sets particular limits, a definition which makes beauty visual, feminine and youthful. Other forms of beauty are ignored, suppressed and unauthorised. This makes it possible to score performances and rank them, to choose winners. The structure of common difference creates various kinds of order – not just classifications, but rules for judging, ways of forming a community with differentiated roles, a justifying ideology, a source of economic support, and a system for organising space and time. If we see the world of collecting as a system of common difference, we can see how a traditional art-culture system (Clifford, 1988) structured common difference in a relatively invisible way, defining the genres of art, the hierarchy of artists, and matters like condition while dividing time into periods. Collectors and dealers then engaged in the exercise of taste within this structure. To be a collector – rather than just an owner or a decorator – required learning the legitimate degrees of difference. The acts of collecting also organise people into communities with recognisable and domesticated differences. The size and scope of these

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communities has until recently been limited by the speed and costs of transportation and the transmission of images and information. When publication was expensive and information about objects was hidden away in libraries and reference books, only small communities had access to the details and knowledge needed to collect. Someone in a small town or city might possess rare or exotic objects, but without special training or access to experts, they would not know what they had, how it was related to other similar objects, or its potential market value. For such a person, the path towards becoming a collector would be long and expensive. This restriction of access gave a special power to the gatekeepers of knowledge about objects. The experts decided on names, provenance, authenticity and all the other trappings of value, and they played a key role in creating markets. Typically, small groups of serious collectors based in major cities built long-term relationships with experts and dealers. These value-communities managed a structure of common difference, deciding which objects were the best exemplars of a category, which sources were the best, and what qualities entitled an object to belong to a category like ‘Gandharan statuary’. Experts (some of whom were collectors themselves) distinguished the varieties and periods defined by recognised dimensions of difference, and they authorised which differences were legitimate and recognisable. The system of value created a hierarchy of objects and agents, with the most valued objects generally belonging to the most prestigious people or institutions. To be sure, less exalted forms of collecting took place all over the world, sometimes in isolation, or in networks connected through meetings, letters, newsletters, price lists and reference books. But all of these means were slow, and except at the most local level, information moved much more quickly from the top to the bottom than it ever did (if at all) from the majority of collectors up to the experts and institutions. The social and material hierarchies of value in the kind of collecting system I have just described are still functioning for the categories of objects, such as old master paintings and antiquities, where the (legal) supply is finite and demand far outstrips supply. This kind of collecting is still inextricably linked to wealth and social status (though perhaps less so to expertise and scholarship), and much of this elite art world is still relatively untouched by contemporary information technology. It is possible to place a bid at Sotheby’s over the Internet, but personal communications and social relationships with artists, dealers and curators are still the bedrock of this art system. The prices of individual objects have become ‘extreme’, and objects have become more accessibly visible as museums have put collections online, but the size and scope of the collecting system has not changed dramatically (for example, by an order of magnitude). At the bottom of the hierarchy, where people are collecting plastic action figures, McDonalds giveaways, teaspoons and postcards, the informal and local circles of collecting also continue relatively unchanged, since the

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low market value of these objects keeps them out of wider networks. The sheer number of objects and their categories has continued to multiply, as manufacturers make ever-more esoteric groups of ‘collectibles’, but the practice of collecting, the networks connecting collectors, and the flows of information and authority have not changed very much. The intermediate categories, in between the mass-produced plastic figures and the Impressionist paintings, is where the explosion of collecting through computer-mediated communications has created extreme art markets, relatively unbounded by space, wealth or status. This has transformed the practice of collecting in radical ways. Most obviously, collectors can see many more objects, learn about and create new categories and taxonomies, and take part directly in ever-larger markets without going through others. More subtly, extreme art markets have undercut the roles of traditional legitimising authorities, opening up the possibilities for more ‘extreme’ kinds of competition among collectors. By making it possible for much larger groups of people to collect, exchange and publish information about objects and material culture, the Internet is undercutting and eroding previous forms of expertise, curatorial selection and valuation.

Japanese woodblock prints I found my first Japanese woodblock print (which turned out to be a reproduction) in a trash can in New York City in 1970 and took it home as a curiosity, sparking a lifelong interest. These prints (generally called ukiyo-e) were a popular art form in Japan for almost 200 years; hundreds of artists produced thousands of prints each year, which were sold for the equivalent of pennies in unlimited editions. It is hard to estimate the total number produced, but at the peak of their popularity in the early 1800s, hundreds of thousands were sold every year. A very popular print was issued until the blocks wore out – with several thousand copies, and then new editions from recut blocks, and even unauthorised copies could continue entering the market. Most were destroyed in fires or thrown away when they got old, but large numbers survived, often bound into collectors’ albums. So far, nobody has produced a complete catalogue for any but the best known artists, and the unpredictable size of any edition makes market value difficult to gauge. Much of the print industry revolved around popular Kabuki theatre, and many were used as posters to decorate paper-walled interiors. They were ephemera, and a popular collectible of the time. Many modern marketing techniques for collectibles were invented by woodblock print dealers in the nineteenth century, including issuing limited editions and different quality editions of the same prints, producing numbered print series with each print released on a schedule, special fan editions of a single actor, and prints issued to commemorate seasons, festivals, disasters, battles and other public events. Many ukiyo-e prints were full of folkloric, historical, political and poetic allusions, allowing different levels of connoisseurship and appreciation

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among different audiences. The genre flourished in the early period of rapid Westernisation following the Meiji reforms (1868) by depicting turbulent events of the time in a popular format, but with the advent of lithography, widespread literacy, newspapers and other mass media, the genre was in sharp decline by 1890, though revivals have been common.2 The world of Japanese print collecting was a typical art-culture system before the Internet. Taking part meant reading the few available books, subscribing to newsletters and catalogues, and making visits to galleries, auctions and dealers in major cities like New York and London. If a dealer judged a customer worthy, he or she might take some time educating them, but mostly it could take many years to acquire the specialised knowledge and taste to know about values and collecting. The dealers and curators mostly knew each other, and while they might disagree about the significance of particular artists, or have preferences for individual artists or subjects, they all agreed on the basic taxonomies, the scheme of common difference that structured value in the marketplace. Early artists and muted colours, for example, were much more valuable than later works which were labelled ‘garish’ and ‘repetitious’. Landscapes and portraits of beautiful courtesans were more valuable and ‘refined’ than actors, historical subjects or current events. Collectors might specialise in snow scenes, warriors or other genres, or specialise in the exclusive privately commissioned prints called surimono, or in the work of a particular artist, or choose a particular series and try to find pristine copies of the complete set. Furthermore, this art-culture-market system was internationally connected only at the very highest levels. The most expensive prints, the richest collectors and the most prestigious dealers, scholars and curators moved back and forth between Western countries, and even fewer connected with the separate Japanese market. Only this barrier, enforced by travel and language, and mediated by interpersonal connections, kept the two ukiyo-e markets apart, allowing dealers to take advantage of the fact that, for most of the last fifty years, prints have been cheaper and more abundant in Japan.3 Because avenues for distributing information and prints were limited and hierarchical, the bottom of the market tended to stagnate. Barriers kept all but the most determined collectors out, so for the lower-valued genres, unknown artists and unpopular subjects, supply far outstripped demand. These abundant prints tended to circulate in what was called the ‘decorator’s market’, where brightly coloured and stereotypical images were framed for wall display (leading to fading and loss of value). For a young and relatively poor collector, the only way to acquire cheap and unusual prints was to haunt estate sales and local auctions in the hope of turning up a treasure. The largest obstacle for all Western collectors of Japanese prints has always been language and culture. Though knowledge about Japan has gradually increased in the West as the country has become more economically powerful, very few Western people are willing to go through the arduous process of learning the language or the thousands of characters needed to

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read it, much less the esoteric archaic scripts and obscure referents which gave meaning to many ukiyo-e prints. This obstacle gave tremendous power to those few experts who could read and interpret the textual elements of prints, and explain the contexts of the images they depicted. While an early generation of Western collectors were content to appreciate the prints in the universalising frame of global fine art (Cuno, 2006), scholars and curators kept raising standards of cultural knowledge through the late twentieth century, increasingly depicting these objects as key historical artefacts. This put even more of a burden on the neophyte collector, and made the tutelage of experts even more important.

Internet transformations The most valuable Japanese woodblock prints have now entered the rarefied realm of fine art, where a first-edition Hokusai image from his series Thirtysix Views of Mount Fuji can sell for over a million pounds.4 The traditional network of major and minor dealers remains, including a few specialists in prints and those who also deal in other varieties of Asian art and antiquities. The pace of academic scholarship on the genre has picked up dramatically, and a number of galleries and museums have held popular shows, often centring on the mutual influence between Asian and European art, and the popularity of Japanese prints among Impressionist painters. But in other respects, the market for ukiyo-e has been transformed, so that today the collecting is extreme in scale and access. By scale I mean the sheer number of people participating, in an expanding number of roles. Participation is truly global, and thousands of images, both electronic and physical, move across national boundaries. The traditional sharp boundaries between roles like scholar, curator and dealer have become blurred as more diverse people participate. Hundreds of collectors and museums have put prints online, giving collectors and scholars unprecedented access to rare genres and artists, so everyone can see different states of the same print, re-assemble large serial editions and compare prices. Blogs and discussion boards offer venues for discussions at many different levels of expertise, direct challenges to authority, and the voicing of opinions in public that were previously very private or unvoiced. Today the largest market for woodblock prints is eBay; over the last five years, the number of genuine ukiyo-e prints for sale at any one time has gone from about 500 to about 1,500, before settling back to hover around 1,000 after eBay raised listing prices. EBay is a home for a number of dealers who maintain online stores, some of whom also run online galleries and discussion groups, some buying their stock directly from Japan. Several independent online auction companies eschew eBay and run their own regular auctions, usually of higher-priced prints. Some of the major galleries that have sold prints for a long time have opened online portals where they sell a part of their stock – usually the lower-priced items. EBay has also

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provided an opportunity for people who have inherited small collections to find out how much they are worth and sell them, providing a constant flow of new prints of highly varying quality. The venues and outlets differ in the amount of information and quality assurance offered to buyers. An eBay search for ‘Japanese prints’ pulls up hundreds of reproductions, some old and some new, often deceptively labelled. Some prints are actually parts of woodblock-printed books that have been taken apart. Sellers may have no idea what they are offering, while others include biographies of artists, full information on what is depicted in the print, including translations of labels and titles, and some trace of provenance. Some online dealers and independent auctioneers offer very skimpy information about prints, while others include extensive references, biographies of artists, and guides for collectors, dealing with everything from repairs to the plots of Kabuki plays. To summarise, the trends in access and scope which have accompanied the Internet explosion of ukiyo-e include the following: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

A much broader range of prints and genres available to buy and view. More fakes, reproductions and questionable attributions in the market. Many new sources of prints from Japan and small, scattered collections. Static or lower prices for the majority of prints. Emergence of ‘digital collecting’ of images and CDs, and attempts to copyright images. 6. Appearance of a ‘bottom end’ of the market for damaged and unidentified prints. The growth of a global market, where extremely large numbers of prints and images are circulating among an ever-expanding group of actors and agents, has had a dramatic effect on the hierarchies of knowledge which previously structured the art-culture system. The veneration of an imagined ‘classical’ period, landscape images, and a small number of key artists has not completely disappeared by any means, but its hegemonic power appears to be crumbling at the edges. Even elite institutions and museums now recognise later artists like Chikanobu, who until very recently had been labelled ‘decadent’. Others seem to be withdrawing into the small market segment of elite landscape print editions, where most of the existing copies have been located, catalogued and locked up. The extreme growth in the number and scale of collecting has started to blur the boundaries of the whole genre. The old style of a restricted information market encouraged dealers and collectors to specialise, because knowledge was so difficult to obtain. Today, Internet dealers in ukiyo-e are much more likely to sell other kinds of Japanese art including old postcards, netsuke, ehon (woodblock books), hanga (twentieth-century woodblock revival prints), reference books and high-quality reproductions. Because of the multiplicity of new sources and options, it is now possible to begin serious collecting of Japanese prints with as little as £10, after a few days

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of clicking and reading. And the ability to compare prices between auctions and galleries has tended to keep prices down in general. The Japanese language remains a barrier, but it is now mitigated by English literacy on the part of Japanese sellers, as well as the increasing number of Japanese living in Western countries. Many Internet dealers are bilingual Japanese, partner with Japanese speakers, or employ translators. I have met several collectors in Western countries who are themselves of Japanese ancestry, for whom the prints are an important link to their culture of origin.

Global extremities? I mentioned above that in a highly structured art world, the structure of common difference which creates categories and confers value on particular objects is relatively invisible, hidden behind expertise and appeals to natural and universal concepts. When globalisation and Internet access suddenly undercut this structure, opening extremes of scope and access, the hidden armature which keeps the hierarchy in place is fleetingly and imperfectly revealed. Until new structures of difference emerge, this time more broadly based and accessible, we have a relatively short period, a window, which reveals how the old machinery was working. One example is the issue of condition. For many years, dealers used terms like ‘fine, excellent, very good, good and poor’ to grade the colours, condition and impression of each print. Within the confines of a relatively small world of practice, the terms never really had to be defined, and they were rarely challenged. Now, with much greater accessibility of information and the extreme visibility of large numbers of prints, people can see just how much variation there was in the colouring, registration and materials in a single edition, and understand that there are many dimensions of condition. On blogs and discussion boards, collectors ask why a print with severely faded colours should be called ‘excellent’ when another with small worm holes, backing, or trimmed edges is ‘good’? Judging by conversations on discussion groups and comments from dealers, people have become increasingly aware of how value-laden and uncertain statements about condition really are, even as they become more crucial given the difficulty of judging condition from small low-resolution photos. Most importantly, the narrow conception of genres and their relative values, which structured the market for so long, has weakened. Traditionally, dealers threw prints into stacks labelled ‘actors’, ‘warriors’, ‘wrestlers’, ‘landscapes’, ‘ghosts’ and bijin (courtesans and prostitutes). From these they might pull out prints showing snow, cats, maps or other subjects which appealed to ‘theme’ collectors of different media. This was hardly the only way prints could be sorted, and in fact many prints do not fit any of the categories particularly well, since they might depict courtesans in front of a landscape, or male actors playing female warriors. Nevertheless, collectors

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tended to stick to categories or artists, since it was so hard to assemble or even view prints organised according to other themes, because physically handling hundreds of prints is time consuming and damages prints. The Internet has destroyed these conventional genres, allowing collectors to choose different dimensions of difference and group prints in different ways. One can choose to assemble images from all the plays at a single theatre, or depictions of firemen, beheadings, giants and dwarves, or restaurants. There are other signs that the world of authorisation, of making difference and choosing its important dimensions, has opened up in some important ways as the market has become extremely accessible. There are more players and more open debate about what differences really are the most important in making prints valuable and collectable. Some collectors question the importance of actual physical possession; if one is really interested in a genre, why not collect digital images as well as, or instead of, paper ones? Valuation is much less under the control of dealers, and the auction has allowed collectors to decide more freely if a poor print by a prominent artist is more valuable than a good print by a relatively unknown one, if topic is more important than condition. The scarcity of early prints has become more apparent, and genres which used to be exceedingly rare – like the woodcuts that were included in the earliest newspapers as a kind of bonus supplement – have become much more visible. Yet amidst the chaos and extremity of eBay, the free-for-all of a global market with thousands of actors connected together, structure is bound to re-appear in new forms, some of them radical and unexpected. Just because the rules are no longer under the tight grip of a small group of dealers, academics and curators, this does not mean that rules will disappear. It is still too early to see what the new structures of common difference are going to be, if the world of ukiyo-e is going to fragment into segments, or if new sources of authority are going to emerge. For the near term, I expect that competition for legitimacy in the marketplace will intensify, forcing many of the present part-time and casual vendors to professionalise and specialise. But given the extreme openness of the market, and the huge numbers of prints coming into circulation, there is no way to ever stuff the genie back into the bottle, and the prints might gradually turn back into what they started as – inexpensive pieces of paper, offering a decorative commentary on an evanescent everyday world.

Notes 1. I caution the reader that I am by no means an expert in the art world that I will discuss in this chapter. While I have been a collector for more than thirty years, I have not interviewed dealers or spent a great deal of time in discussion with other collectors. 2. I am particularly interested in the prints produced at the very end of the genre as Japan rapidly modernised, and today my collecting focuses on how gender roles were changing during this period. When I began collecting, prints of this period were not

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available. Defined by influential collectors as decadent and worthless, most dealers and galleries did not handle them. There are still remarkably few good introductions to the genre – most books are exhibition catalogues or studies of a single artist or genre. Kita et al. (2001) is a good introduction. 3. Another avenue for prints to circulate from east to west was through US servicemen returning from assignments in Asia. They often brought back prints as souvenirs, and this produced a huge reservoir of generally poor-quality (sometimes fake) and mostly decorative prints in households all across the United States, so they end up in many estate sales. In Japan, the prints have waxed and waned in popularity, but the ones that have survived as family heirlooms tend to have been pasted into albums by contemporary collectors. Until recently, dealers in both Japan and the West considered the bulk of these prints to be ‘junk’ – hardly worth selling. 4. It is very hard to trace the current prices and pace of museum acquisitions, which are rarely fully disclosed. Nevertheless, reports do appear of astronomical prices paid for the best-known images by iconic artists like Hokusai, Hiroshige and Sharaku.

References Belk, R. 1995. Collecting in a Consumer Society (Collecting Cultures), London: Routledge. Bourdieu, P. 1984. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Bowker, G.C. and Star, S.L. 2000. Sorting Things Out: Classification and Its Consequences, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Clifford, J. 1988. The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth-Century Ethnography, Literature, and Art, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Cuno, J. 2006. ‘View from the Universal Museum’, in J.H. Merryman (ed.), Imperialism, Art and Restitution, New York: Cambridge University Press, pp. 15–33. Kita, S., Farquhar, J.D., Marceau, L.E. and Blood, K.L. 2001. Floating World of Ukiyo-E: Shadows, Dreams and Substance, New York: Harry N. Abrams. Roughgarden, J. 2009. Evolution’s Rainbow: Diversity, Gender, and Sexuality in Nature and People, 2nd edn, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.  Wilk, R. 1995. ‘Learning to Be Local in Belize: Global Systems of Common Difference’, in D. Miller (ed.), Worlds Apart: Modernity Through the Prism of the Local, New York: Routledge, pp. 110–33.

8 Awkward Objects

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Collecting, Deploying and Debating Relics

Jan Geisbusch

Introduction ‘In Christian usage the word [relic] is applied to the material remains of a saint after his death and to sacred objects which have been in contact with his body’, according to the Oxford Concise Dictionary of the Christian Church (Livingstone, 1996: 433). While this gives us a sort of ontological indication of what relics are, it tells us little about the actual object. In religious – or, more narrowly, Catholic – practice, which is the focus of this chapter, one may encounter relics in a number of forms: a church may display an entire body or a substantial body part,1 either interred or contained in a shrine, usually box- or chest-like constructions, typically made of metal, sometimes wood, often with windows of glass or rock crystal that allow the relics inside to be seen. Furthermore, the altar in every Catholic church is required by canonical law to hold a relic in order to be liturgically functioning. Typically, the altar relic is placed into an interior cavity and walled in and therefore not visible. In either case, the relic is (meant to be) a permanent part of the church fittings that can be removed only with the permission of the local ordinary or other competent official. More mobile are relics of a lesser nature, usually small fragments of the saint’s remains – splinters of bone, hair, pieces of cloth either worn by the saint or touched to his or her remains, ashes, chips from the coffin. These are usually contained in a so-called theca, a kind of metal locket, normally of round shape, which in turn can be mounted in an ostensory to allow

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better display (see Figure 8.1). Relics are also sometimes placed into small crucifixes that can be worn as pendants. Usually the face of the crucifix is detachable or hinged, so the relics can be revealed. Cloth relics in particular are often attached to prayer cards, usually issued by a religious order in order to promote devotion to the saint in question or to further his or her cause if the candidate has not yet been canonised. For popular figures, print runs of such cards can reach hundreds of thousands, examples being St Theresa of Lisieux (1873–1897), a Carmelite nun, or

Figure 8.1. Theca with a bone relic (ex ossibus) of Blessed Francis Xavier Seelos (1819–1867, beatified in 2000) (Photograph: Jan Geisbusch).

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Padre Pio of Pietrelcina (1887–1968), a miracle-working Capuchin monk who has become the most revered saint in contemporary Italy. Such lesser relics may also be set into medals or pins, often mass-produced and not always of trustworthy pedigree, or kept in little paper envelopes, sometimes sealed with an official wax seal. Such relics are often leftovers, waiting to be placed in thecas or reliquaries for private or public devotional practices. Unlike relics as liturgical church fittings, these kinds of relics tend to be quite mobile. They were (and are still) meant to circulate either within specific networks of religious professionals and ecclesiastical bodies – this applies mostly to body relics – or among the faithful more generally. The purpose of holy cards or medals is, obviously, to be given away and to reach wider audiences, to encourage devotion and promote a saint (see Figure 8.2). Speaking of relics within the context of collecting involves, I think, at least three aspects: first, we need to ask about the logic of collecting and how relics fit (or do not fit) into this logic. Second, we need to examine strategies of display, taking into account how sensory regimes shape the perception of relics in private as well as institutional domains. And finally, we need to look at mechanisms of acquisition and their disciplinary implications. In order to see how these aspects play out it will also be necessary to reflect briefly on what it is that renders relics ‘extreme’ in the sense the term is employed in this volume.

Extreme objects As liturgical and devotional practices have changed radically over the past fifty years, relics have become a rather alien presence in Catholic religiosity – hard to conceptualise, rarely preserved; in other words, ephemeral. Notwithstanding what Webb Keane called their ‘brute persistence over time’ (2006: 311), relics have faded, both metaphorically and literally, as pastors moved them from display in church to dressers in the sacristy or attic, whence they often enough vanished into oblivion. Relics for private devotion, on the other hand, are ephemeral in a different sense. They are often made from cheap, sometimes fragile material and they are made for ‘consumption’, that is to say, the touching, kissing, carrying about and giving away that religious practices often involve – with all the attendant wear and tear. Yet relics are also ‘extreme’ in that they consist of ‘taboo materials’, materials that carry a charge of the forbidden or repellent; they are bodily substances of the dead (bone, hair, flesh, blood), or have at least been brought into contact with such substances. For institutions this raises obvious issues over ethical collecting and display practices. Private collectors are freer in this respect, but still not everyone will feel at ease with having bits of dead bodies around. Even religious professionals may recoil from them: one of the most experienced postulators2 in Rome told me that he would never consider owning, let alone collecting, relics; their whole concept struck him as obsolete and ghoulish. The ‘taboo’ also extends to who can and cannot

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Figure 8.2. Holy card with a stitched-on contact relic of St Thérèse of Lisieux (1873–1897, canonized in 1925), a particle of cloth that has been touched to her remains (Photograph: Jan Geisbusch).

(or should not) own them. The modern Code of Canon Law simply states that they must not be sold (canon 1190; Canon Law Society of Great Britain and Ireland, 1983); yet it is still understood that they must be treated with respect, should not fall into the hands of non-believers and that clergy and ecclesiastical bodies are generally preferable as owners over lay persons (as

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canons 1276 to 1289 of the older Code laid down in great detail; Catholic Church, 1917). While canon law can, of course, not be enforced in secular courts, it nonetheless carries an ethical charge curators as well as faithful Catholics might want to be aware of. Perhaps the most far-reaching aspect, however, and the one that will be discussed in most detail in the remainder of this chapter is the epistemological position of relics; that is to say, their movement between the domains of the secular and the religious that have come to be seen as structural features of social reality – features, moreover, that are now often regarded not just as different, but as actively opposed. Religious objects such as relics raise questions over their adequate definition, handling and description: museum experts and curators may feel uncomfortable with the intrusion of ‘life objects’, as it were, into their domain – like statues of deities that need to be consecrated or voodoo altars in front of which visitors fall into trance (Arthur, 2000: 18; Cosentino, 2000: 102). Relics have the potential to disturb the flow of secular discourse: when some remains of St Thérèse of Lisieux were put on display at various churches and monasteries around Britain in autumn 2009, drawing substantial numbers of visitors, several commentators in the mainstream press wrote decidedly hostile pieces. Clearly, the presence of these relics was felt as a painful, even offensive intervention of an alien order that threatened to corrupt secular rationality. At best, people believing in such ‘jujus’ may be shown tolerance since religion, as a form of madness, absolves them from full responsibility (Guardian, 2009). At worst, they must be shouted down as dangerous ‘nutters’ (The Times, 2009) – ‘extreme’ potential, indeed.

Relics and collecting In this section I will argue that with the object characteristics just outlined come certain structures that impinge on collecting practices, respectively that raise two questions: what is collecting and what is a collection? Stewart (1993: 151) states that the collection ‘represents the total aestheticization of use value’, which posits a crucial distinction: collecting is the act through which an object is stripped of its use value and instead bestowed with an aesthetic or, more broadly, discursive value: it becomes a specimen, a metaphor, an illustration for something else. It ceases to be complete in itself and its intrinsic qualities are made to conform to the logic of the collection. The distinction is important, I believe, because it highlights how and which relics have, over time, been drawn into the scope of collections, but also because it demands us to rethink the position of relics, and sacred objects more generally, within collections. Acknowledging this issue, the catalogue of a French exhibition of relics opens with the statement that ‘[m]ore and more have reliquaries become an object of the museological type […] One admires the artwork, the technique; one studies the messages revealed through iconography; but the sacred has

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today nearly vanished’ (Dierkens quoted in Musée d’Art Sacré du Gard, 2000: 5; translation my own). Looking at an example closer at hand, the British Museum, too, presents relics principally as objects of the ‘museological type’: in room 41, ‘Europe 1050–1500’, one comes across a display on ‘saints and pilgrimage’, which contains a number of reliquaries, most prominently the gable-end of a late twelfth-century shrine to St Oda. Made from silver-gilt, copper-alloy, enamel and rock crystal, it shows the saint standing between two figures representing ‘Religion’ and ‘Almsgiving’. Around this tableau runs a frame into which are set eight relics, mounted behind windows of horn. They are identified by inscriptions on vellum, visible, though no longer readily legible. Typically, a shrine such as St Oda’s would have occupied a central, elevated place in a church, allowing pilgrims to see and venerate it even from afar, perhaps to circumambulate it. The still extant shrine of the Three Magi at Cologne cathedral shows such an arrangement. What becomes obvious here is the difference between the museological and the religious gaze. At the British Museum, visitors are invited to inspect the exhibit at close spatial distance, yet at the same time to detach themselves from it: the way it is presented firmly situates it in the distant past, granting it significance mainly (or even only) as an object of historical and art historical discourse, evidence of what others used to think and do, of the skill of medieval craftsmen, of their iconographic and symbolic universe. We are told that ‘medieval pilgrims visited sacred sites as a way of demonstrating piety and repentance. Many hoped to receive a miraculous cure for illness.’ While this is correct, it nonetheless cuts off a continuing and still living tradition and confines it to ‘Europe, 1050–1500’ when, in fact, millions of Catholics still visit places such as Lourdes, Fatima, the basilica of the Virgin of Guadalupe in Mexico City or the tomb of Padre Pio at San Giovanni Rotondo, to say nothing of non-Christian pilgrimage. This strategy is reinforced by the statement that ‘among the relics [of the shrine] is one labelled as being the milk of the Virgin Mary’. Intentionally or (possibly) not, the effect is to exoticise the object, as this particular relic, not at all uncommon in medieval times, will be hardly plausible to modern sensibilities. Such a curatorial strategy stands within an Enlightenment tradition that has differentiated religion into a two-tier model of the ‘official’ (scriptural, scholarly, detached) versus the ‘popular’ (magical, superstitious, selfinterested) (Brown, 1982), typically placing relics and material religion more broadly in the latter category. ‘True’ religion, all too often, is abstract and internalised. With the Enlightenment construction of ‘popular religion’ also came its policing (Dipper, 1986), which could (and often did) result in the destruction of devotional objects. Following the political reorganisation of the German Empire in 1803, monasteries were widely suppressed throughout the German principalities, in accordance with the revolutionary French model of 1790. Their possessions were confiscated, sold, destroyed or, if found to

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be of historical value, placed in museums – an action suggesting connected, yet different, modes of ‘veneration’ and remembrance, the emergence of the secular cult of the museum (Duncan, 1995) beginning to cannibalise its sacred counterpart. Consequently, with so many sacred objects being dislodged, the nineteenth century saw the transformation of the relic (or, more exactly, certain relics) into ethnographic or museological object, and the formation of some of the major collections of religious material culture. Alexander Schnütgen (1843–1918), a canon of Cologne Cathedral, began to gather what was to become the foundation of today’s Schnütgen Museum of Medieval Art in Cologne. As van Os (2001: 44) commented: Looking at the crammed storerooms in which Alexander Schnütgen piled up his ecclesiastical treasures … one may imagine what was available around 1900 and how much was preserved for posterity through the initiative of this one man. Regardless of particular objects’ quality he aimed to gather and classify scientific study material as completely as possible, so that it would convey a relevant didactic content.

Other collectors of the time, such as Alexander Basilevsky and Aleksei Saltykov, Russian aristocrats living in Paris, whose collections of medieval and Renaissance art became part of the State Hermitage Museum in 1884, applied different standards, being foremost attracted by the sumptuousness of the objects they acquired. In either case the sacred object – displaced, abducted from its original context – became re-contextualised within an alien discourse; its liturgical and devotional functions were elided in favour of the ‘study object’ or ‘art object’. This conforms to a conception of religion as primarily propositional, scriptural and preceptual that, while being under critique (Sullivan, 1990), has nonetheless been of immense influence: Scholars of religions have generally been more comfortable with ideas than with things, more comfortable with what they thought others thought than with what they knew they did. They have been particularly uncomfortable, perhaps, when people touched or rubbed or hugged or kissed things, especially when those things were themselves somewhat disconcerting – dead bodies, bits of bone or cloth, dirt or fingernails, dried blood. (Schopen, 1998: 256)

Mary Douglas (2003 [1970]: 52) mounted the same critique against the contemporary Catholic hierarchy, which, she argued, has become overly intellectualised so that its ‘impoverished symbolic perception’ can no longer deal with the ‘dazzlingly magical’ or ‘conceive of the deity as located in any one thing or place’. Museum collections conform to this logic. ‘Collectors tout court’, one of my informants, a dedicated Catholic and professional archaeologist, remarked, ‘are different from the genuinely devout’, as they ‘hasten to compile long lists of their possessions’. What he criticised was exactly the museological or curatorial approach, which he felt deadened the relic and robbed it of its real significance. In Stewart’s words, ‘[t]he spatial whole of the

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collection supersedes the individual narratives that “lie behind it”’ (Stewart, 1993: 153). The project of anthropology or ethnology and its collecting of ‘ethnographic objects’ underpins constructions of alterity and suppresses actual re-cognition as a threat to objective distance (Fabian, 2007). Against a discursive or linguistic model of religion (and of collecting), we may therefore argue that greater emphasis needs to be placed on a praxeological model: religion is what people do, more than what they codify, it is theo-praxis more than theo-logy, and what they do involves the intimate interaction with objects, such as relics. This suggests a retrieval of the relic’s use value from the aestheticising logic of the collection: historically, relics served as devices, in a quite literal sense, of salvation, of healing, of intercession, they helped to raise funds through the attraction of pilgrims, offered protection from natural as well as supernatural adversaries, legitimised claims to power and ancestry, or witnessed the taking of oaths. While their functions and social importance have obviously changed over time, some of these functions are still relevant today. How (supposedly) ‘objective distance’ may be complemented with more culturally informed experiences will therefore be the subject of the following section.

Relics through the Western sensorium ‘Museums’, Macdonald suggests, ‘have always involved an interplay of science and magic, authoritative knowledge and enchantment’, with magic containing both a ‘calculated’ curatorial content that aims to captivate audiences’ interest and the ‘excess provided by the subjects’, which may or may not tie in with such strategies (2005: 212f). The museum, as Alpers (1991) writes, may well be a ‘way of seeing’ in the modernist tradition – objectifying, distancing and marginalising other sensorial registers. Yet to the extent that museum and church share a ritualist experience, to the extent that modernity, religion and magic operate not simply as opposites, but dialectically inform each other, the invitation to a ‘form of enchanted looking’ (Macdonald, 2005: 224) will also always be inscribed in museological practice. Relics, I will argue in this section, can both activate this dialectic as well as become effaced by it due to their position at the crossings of these regimes: they are objects of private piety as well as institutional display; objects of the gaze, meant to be looked at with devotion, yet also objects of touch and occasionally even taste and smell;3 framed in terms of religion by the Church, always on the defensive to ward off any magical references, or as ethnographic object by the museum. They occupy the margins between ‘scientific’ and ‘magical’, ‘modern’ and ‘pre-modern’ regimes. It is by recognising the praxeological dimension of the relic that we may save the ‘ethnic artefact’ or ‘ethnographic object’ both for and from the museum and the collector. As long as they are ‘ethnic artefacts’, we will allow them to be part of our environment only through collections and displays and ‘only on the condition that their materiality be severely

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restricted (materiality meaning cultural materiality, culturally informed experiences of and with the body)’; for who ‘would think of making butter in a churn from Transylvania or sleeping with a headrest from the Sepik River?’ (Fabian, 2007: 58). This also questions what Edwards et al. (2006) term the ‘Western sensorium’, a ‘particular way of being-in-the-world’ that has historically privileged sight as the principal way of knowing the world, at the expense of other senses. Hearing, and even more so touch, smell and taste have been assigned the lower rungs on a hierarchy of perception – less effective, but also less noble and ‘pure’. Instead of making butter in a Transylvanian churn, in Fabian’s words, we are typically content with looking at it, perhaps reading the description and then wandering to the next display cabinet. Museums have been implicated in this process of sensorial ordering, both reflecting and advancing it. Developing from the early-modern ‘Wunderkammer’ – literally a ‘chamber of wonders’ – they transformed into the demotic space of education, national identity and scientific exploration, governed by rational, taxonomic principles. In turn, the museum also imposed the distancing logic of sight on its visitors by defining itself as a ritual space that demanded certain behaviours, such as avoiding loud talk, eating or drinking (Duncan, 1995). By the same token the museum appears as a contested, politicised space, open to critique as its specific representational strategies have been criticised for their marginalisation of certain groups – the ‘exotic’, colonial, primitive, medieval other – or of certain experiences, such as the non-discursive, non-visual and non-textual (Karp and Lavine, 1991; Edwards et al., 2006). In my specific context, it is necessary to probe the relation between the museum and religion or, more broadly, the sacred. Bound up with notions of modernity and rationality, authors such as Arthur (2000) and Durrans (2000) have argued that the relation between the museum and religion is beset by fundamental contradictions. For one, neither ‘modernity’ nor ‘religion’ are straightforward categories, but instead carry a heavy ideological load (Asad, 1993; Cannell, 2006), as each tends to play itself off against the other: doing fieldwork in Rome, I repeatedly found signs in the more notable churches reminding the visitor that ‘this is a place of worship’ or, more pointedly, ‘not a museum’. Drawing tourists because of their artistic treasures, churches aim to demarcate their space as different from regimes perceived as secular, such as history, art history or tourism. In the same way, displaying sacred objects within a museum raises questions over the status of the exhibit. The museum claims (and creates) a secular totality that recognises the sacred foremost as an object of study and knowledge, not as an autonomous presence, leading Arthur (2000: 16) to ask whether ‘a living religion [is] somehow automatically destroyed as soon as it becomes an exhibit’. However, the relation is by no means clear-cut or uni-directional; rather, it needs to be seen as a complex dialectic. As much as the monolithic view of modernity has been revealed as a utopian programme more than

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a finished project – always containing traces of its other – religion, too, has adopted the logic of modernity and partly developed along similar trajectories (Weber, 2001 [1930]; Tambiah, 1990). After the Council of Trent (1545–1563) the Catholic Church engaged in a centuries long process of developing a ‘modern’, that is to say centralised and rational, bureaucracy. Simultaneously, it sought to impose a new social discipline on the mind and body of its flock by curtailing indecorous behaviour within a newly marked-out sacred space. The regulations against mundane, improper activities that transformed the emerging modern museum into a ‘liminal’ space here appear as curious echoes of similar, earlier processes within a religious context, suggestive of a shared structural dynamic rather than simple opposition. Eighteenth-century ‘Enlightenment Catholicism’ was keen to foster a more ethicised, spiritual practice, cleansed of ‘heterodox’, ‘superstitious’ and ‘magical’ elements that were at this time solidified into an emergent (and governable) category of ‘popular religion’, while legends, relics and miracles were increasingly subjected to historical-critical and scientific methods for the evaluation of their authenticity (Obelkevich, 1979; Brown, 1982; Schieder, 1986; Burke, 1987; Gotor, 2004). The Second Vatican Council (1962–1965) still reflected this ‘religious modernity’. In fact, while the notion of ‘popular religion’ has come under sustained critique from historians for its normative character, it continues to be alive and well within the Catholic Church. In 2001, the Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments, the Vatican body overseeing liturgical practice, published a Directory on Popular Piety and the Liturgy, providing guidelines to encourage, but also clarify and, where necessary, curb popular religious practices and to harmonise them with official liturgy. On the other hand, social scientists have increasingly questioned such paradigms of modernity and disenchantment (Latour, 1993; Meyer and Pels, 2003; Freytag and Sawicki, 2006). With the re-assessment of ‘modernity’ comes a re-assessment of its supposedly ocular-centric logic. Pattison (2007: 29) points out that ‘there are other scopic regimes, ways of seeing, and ways of understanding seeing, for example, religious seeing. In the past, for prepsychological selves, the worlds of visionary seeing and ordinary seeing overlapped and were not firmly separated from one another.’ Consequently, curatorial strategies have also begun to adopt alternative approaches to the display of objects, resulting in a ‘relative shifting of the balance from science to magic’ (Macdonald, 2005: 216), accepting the potential of objects to evade and subvert totalising rationalistic practices. But it is possibly private collectors who can most easily question the assumed alterity of their ‘objects’. Not bound by institutional regimes, they have the option to exercise a ‘right of [to?] idiosyncrasy’. Acting on their own preferences, they may choose methods of storing, handling and display based on their personal criteria, rather than codes of professional conduct, mission statements, scientific and scholarly standards of curatorship, or politically and economically motivated assessment exercises.

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A good example is the collection of Louis Peters. A lawyer from Cologne, he began collecting relics in the 1970s, eventually amassing one of the largest collections in lay hands. It was acquired a few years ago by the French government when it grew too large for Peters to house and safeguard, and will possibly be put on display in a specifically dedicated museum at some point in the future. During the 1980s and 1990s, the collection had been shown in a number of exhibitions around Germany and Austria. Peters has regularly made sure that visitors to these exhibitions would have the possibility not just to see, but also to handle some of the relics, stressing that relics are objects of touch at least as much as of sight. When I spoke to Peters, he was harshly critical of the Catholic hierarchy for the neglect of its own religious material culture and called for greater sensitivity towards relics, but he was equally unsympathetic to ‘overprotective’ curators and the ‘fixation of our art historians and conservators who would much prefer to let their objects rot in deserted rooms, protected from light and breath’. They overlook that ‘our relic and shrine culture is utterly a cult of touch, badly in need of rejuvenation’ (Peters, 1994, 104; translation my own). Such direct physical contact may entail the destruction of the relic over time through wear and tear, yet as I have argued elsewhere (Geisbusch, 2007: 84), ‘perhaps we can contemplate the possibility that using up an object in this way is not simply the museum’s loss, but also the visitors’ profit’.

The uses of sacrilege Certainly in the Christian West, and certainly for the people I have come across during my research, money and the sacred have a troubling, yet curiously entangled relationship that stubbornly refuses to untie into cleanly separate spheres (see, for example, Parry and Bloch, 1989; Comaroff and Comaroff, 2005). Money, it seems, is a problem, even more so when it is used to purchase sacred objects and this applies to devout Catholics as much as to (presumably less devout) anthropologists: ‘the old anthropological model does have one great virtue: it keeps the money off the table. It forces the fabrication of some nexus other than cash. With an exhibition to be mounted, all that changes. Objects with no exchange value … become commodities which may be worth two dollars, or two thousand dollars’ (Cosentino, 2000: 104). As Keane (2001) has argued, such contestations reflect and substantiate how the relationship between persons and objects is structured in a given society, respectively how human relationships are patterned insofar as possession and access to objects has profound implications on the social position of individuals. Anthropology, in this respect, has for a long time seen money as the ‘great leveller’, the opposite to ‘traditional’ or ‘ritual’ exchange-based gift giving and barter, emblematic of modernity and economic rationality, yet also a threat to community cohesion and custom. Following Parry and Bloch (1989), I would question such an easy dichotomy. Instead, I want to highlight the social, material,

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sensory and praxeological aspects inherent in the transgression of these dichotomies. The auction website eBay is a space of such transgression as it neatly, if controversially, brings together collecting practices and the sacred. It is the borderline at which relics become extreme objects. Even though the vast majority of eBay’s turnover is generated through mundane consumer goods like cars, clothing and electronics, collectibles act as ‘a kind of advance brigade of publicity that attracts a volume of site visitors far in excess of any proportional relationship to these listings’ commercial value’ (Hillis, 2006: 168). It has also attracted the ire of Catholic ministries seeking to prevent the sale of relics through eBay, albeit so far with very limited success.4 Exchanging sacred objects through a decentralised, yet commercial network such as eBay draws attention to the questions of who may or may not own a relic, how their circulation is organised, or the construction and contestation of value and values, the complex relations and translations between money and morality. The moral wrangling over the relic trade draws together a plethora of often conflicting motives and actors: collectors, dealers, devotees, some aiming to make money, others to save a cultural heritage from neglect or holy objects from defilement, gain access to the sacred, express and perform their understanding of Catholic piety, or educate others on the uses and abuses of material religion in general. It is my argument that in drawing together these various practices in a single platform, eBay can influence and modify collecting practices. For a long time, relics’ social life tended to be a sleepy one, remaining in Thompson’s (1979) limbo between socio-economic and physical decay. Certain specimens would make it into museum collections, but only if they could be framed within the criteria of other discursive regimes, such as history, art history or fine arts. This applies, for example, to relics set within reliquaries of high material value or exceptional artistic quality (in the process displacing significance from the relic to its container). Yet such a logic of connoisseurship excludes the majority of relics – unexceptional, of low value, meant for private devotion – from the art and antiquities markets relegating them to a marginal position within Clifford’s (1988) art-culture system. Such relics would occasionally turn up at estate sales or petty antiques shops, to be picked up by the odd enthusiast. Kept in churches, relics either stayed put, despite having lost much devotional and liturgical significance, or were moved out of sight by pastors eager to modernise, left in the church attic or the sacristy, often enough to be forgotten. This situation changed with the development of eBay and other connected technologies, such as faster internet connections and digital imaging (Hillis, 2006). Where 20 years ago a few relics, discovered in a clearance sale, might simply have been disposed of for lack of a viable sales outlet, such finds can now fairly easily be offered to millions of potential buyers. eBay thus radically opened up new sources of supply and connected them to a radically expanded audience of potential buyers, transcending physical location and

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offering an integrated, low-cost platform to professional dealers as well as amateurs while at the same time bringing down entrance thresholds for potential buyers in practical, social and economic terms. In this way, the exclusionary practices of museological as well as Church authorities can be sidelined. To some degree, eBay instigated a process of delegitimisation of established hierarchies within collecting as well as devotional practices. The traditional museum system is organised through the exercise of a canon of taste or the expertise of specialists who deem an object noteworthy or exemplary; Church authorities will exhort certain teachings and devotional practices, while discouraging others. By contrast, the internet appears as an open system with a far more fluid diffusion of rankings or classifications – a relic may not be ‘museum material’ or it may be liturgically unusable, but still hold great value and fascination for a ‘devotee’ (a word that usefully reflects a semantic indeterminacy between sacred and profane and highlights the affective against the contemplative). Boundaries of public and private are at the heart of the Catholic Church, a hierarchical community in which the ruling echelons control access, circulation and use of the sacred. The modern museum, Edwards et al. (2006: 19) argue, functions along similar lines where ‘privileged access’ to its objects ‘is accorded to a new priesthood of curators and museum professionals. The expert status and superior knowledge these experts claim is created through and distinguished by their freedom to touch, manipulate, sound, and even sometimes wear the artifacts.’ These boundaries are being called into question by internet communication as argued already by Derrida (1996). Since then, this process has only gained ground with more recent internet applications: the picture hosting site Flickr, for example, operates in important ways like an archive – collecting and categorising images on a vast scale – while at the same time subverting this potential through its openness to comment and tagging, and the constant reconfiguration of uploaded images. Social networking sites such as MySpace, Facebook and Twitter are also explicitly predicated on a blurring of private and public, inviting and producing a steady stream of thoughts, images and communications to be disseminated across the internet. Wikipedia is conceptualised as a collective endeavour of writing and re-writing factual knowledge. Scholars and religious communities alike have recognised the importance of the internet for religious practices (of any faith). For the latter, such technological development is a double-edged sword, mixing possibilities of wider outreach with a potential loss of authority (see, for example, Brasher, 2001; Miller and Slater, 2000: chapter 7). Museums, too, admit the internet’s potential for widening access through institutional websites and searchable databases, yet they also have to confront its challenges to curatorial and interpretative authority and to disciplinary coherence (Cameron and Mengler, 2009). Even medical authority and control can be challenged in this way, as shown by internet pharmacies which have become significant distributors of

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drugs despite warnings by medical practitioners and the attempts of health authorities to impose legal restrictions (Guardian, 2008). The comparison with internet pharmacies in particular is instructive – pharmaceuticals, like relics, are ‘active substances’ the agentive potential of which is usually controlled and not freely available. Both have an instrumental, functional and sensory dimension as healing agents (see, for example McDannell (1995) on Lourdes water or the swallowing of devotional pictures; or, as already mentioned in note 3, the traditional use of water or wine in which a relic has been immersed, a practice now strongly discouraged by the Church [Harvolk, 1990]). The internet thus opens a space in which participants may operate partly outside traditional structures of expertise, control and hierarchy. In this process, authority becomes dispersed and is opened up to broader discussion. It also impacts on objects themselves: as physical location becomes less important, at least in terms of access and distribution, the exotic becomes mundane, the object of reflection becomes an object of practice. For the relic this would seem appropriate – it is an object of public devotion, of prayer and meditation. Within a museum it is an object of study, perhaps of wonder and curiosity. But it is also an object of bodily engagement – to be held, fondled, kissed, worn – and an object of instrumental reason rather than disinterested satisfaction as devotees may expect good luck, health, protection or salvation from their interaction with it. The fact that eBay operates as a commercial entity adds another layer of complexity to these discussions. Some Catholic critics accuse eBay of aiding and abetting simony. The Vatican, partly in response to the trade on eBay, has made it virtually impossible for lay people to obtain relics from its official relic depository, the so-called Lipsanoteca. To argue over such questions is to argue over the boundaries of the sacred and the profane, the human and the divine, the immanent and the transcendent, subject and object, even though current anthropological theory on materiality may seek to undermine these dichotomies and transcend them. Commenting on this critical endeavour, Miller (2005: 14) reminds us that anthropological practice must not avoid ethnographic empathy with the ‘common sense’ of our informants, and, indeed, for most of my informants these dichotomies are not only unquestionably ‘there’, but also of the utmost importance. On the other hand, the anthropologist cannot and, I believe, should not, sidestep his or her own engagement with the material at hand. It could therefore be argued that in simony, human agency is shown to invade the sacred and thus to reveal the extent to which the sacred itself is part of the ambit of social creativity. What eBay, or more specifically what the trade in relics does, is to question certain forms of social agency and certain demarcations of structural domains – religion, economy, society, science – though without necessarily rendering them impotent. An informant once branded the activities on eBay as ‘mercenary’. As an expression of his anguish and revulsion, I accept this description and one might want to keep

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sentiments such as this in mind when placing relics outside their immediate religious context, such as a collection, whether private or institutional. Yet by the same token it invites us to examine the interplay between structural domains and the diversity of possible practices. To the extent that Western philosophy (and anthropology) has its roots in Christianity, such a critique could throw light on the premises of modernity and secular practices as well. As Latour (1993: 52) has argued, modern social sciences operate on a parallel kind of dichotomy between matter and non-matter, object and subject, for at least since Durkheim ‘the price of entry into the sociology profession’ has been ‘to realize that the inner properties of objects do not count, that they are mere receptacles for human categories’. Modernity is at heart a project committed to immateriality, a withdrawal from messy social realities and their attendant materiality. Despite its alleged drive towards disenchantment, it holds on to a surprisingly wide range of ‘taboos’ in which the sacred has assumed secular form: we may think here of notions such as the right to life, the right to freedom or the patenting of genes. Another example with clear implications for museological practices is the right to a cultural identity (and property), especially given the entanglement of Western museums in the colonial encounter and the concomitant abduction of objects from indigenous groups. Indeed, some of the eBay critics have adopted terms that play on discourses of cultural rights and repatriation, as eBay regulations forbid the sale of human remains and tissue, a directive aimed at organ trade, but also to prevent the sale of culturally sensitive objects that would fall foul of export regulations or legal acts such as the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA). By monitoring listings and lodging complaints against those that explicitly identify a relic as bone, flesh or hair, ministries such as the International Crusade for Holy Relics USA (ICHRUSA) have been able to disrupt trading, at least to some extent.

Conclusion Relics are extreme objects in that they challenge our conceptions of boundaries and definitions: what is religion, what is magic, what is rationality? How do we, how should we engage with material objects? What are the ‘demands’ of these objects? What role can collections, private or institutional, play in addressing these questions? Relics, the boundaries they highlight and the arguments they throw up point at wider issues. As objects with cosmological significance – as contact points between heaven and earth – relics are hedged by restrictions that curtail their circulation, while at the same time they need to flow and mingle to do their work. The emergence of the museum has added another domain through which relics may float or in which they can become stuck. As the Catholic Church has partly abrogated its traditional practices in its engagement with modernity, a significant share of its material, cultural and devotional heritage has become unfastened. Technologies such

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as eBay have latched on to this free-floating ‘debris’, creating a curious and contradictory mix, combining the open, unrestricted and individual with the closed and hieratic, the commercial with the sacred, reflection with sensory experience. Extreme collecting is collecting at the borderlines of practical, technical, ethical, disciplinary or epistemological settlements. Whether for private collectors or for museums, the acquisition and display of sacred objects such as relics thus remains a touchy issue, as does the exploration of religious, social and scholarly preconceptions.

Notes 1. A so-called ‘notable’ relic, a now antiquated legal term of the 1917 Code of Canon Law, canon 1281, §2: ‘Notable relics of the Saints and Blessed are the body, head, arm, forearm, heart, tongue, hand, shin or that part of the body which has suffered martyrdom, provided it be whole and not small’ (Catholic Church, 1917). 2. The Church officials overseeing individual canonisation processes. 3. For example, relics could be dipped in water or wine to produce a therapeutic infusion (Harvolk, 1990); regarding smell, many relics were (and sometimes still are) said to emit an ‘odour of sanctity’, a particular heavenly scent. 4. See, for example, the International Crusade for Holy Relics USA (ICHRUSA), the most vociferous of these groups (www.ichrusa.com), or For All The Saints, which takes a more tempered approach (www.forallthesaints.info).

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Canon Law Society of Great Britain and Ireland (ed.) 1983. The Code of Canon Law: In English Translation, London. Catholic Church (ed.) 1917. Codex Iuris Canonici Pii X Pontificis Maximi iussu digestus, Benedicti Papae XV auctoritate promulgatus, Rome. Clifford, J. 1988. The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth-Century Ethnography, Literature, and Art, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Comaroff, J. and Comaroff, J.L. 2005. ‘Colonizing Currencies: Beasts, Banknotes, and the Colour of Money in South Africa’, in W.M.J. van Binsbergen and P.L. Geschiere (eds), Commodification: Things, Agency, and Identities (The Social Life of Things revisited), Münster: Lit Verlag, pp. 145–73. Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments. 2001. Directory on Popular Piety and the Liturgy, London. Cosentino, D. 2000. ‘Mounting Controversy: The Sacred Arts of Haitian Vodou’, in C. Paine (ed.), Godly Things: Museums, Objects and Religion, London: Leicester University Press, pp. 97–106. Derrida, J. 1996. Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Dipper, C. 1986. ‘Volksreligiosität und Obrigkeit im 18. Jahrhundert’, in W. Schieder (ed.), Volksreligiosität in der modernen Sozialgeschichte, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, pp. 73–96. Douglas, M. 2003 [1970]. Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology, London: Routledge. Duncan, C. 1995. Civilizing Rituals: Inside Public Art Museums, London: Routledge. Durrans, B. 2000. ‘(Not) Religion in Museums’, in C. Paine (ed.), Godly Things: Museums, Objects and Religion, London: Leicester University Press, pp. 57–79. Edwards, E., Gosden, C. and Phillips, R.B. (eds) 2006. Sensible Objects: Colonialism, Museums and Material Culture, Oxford: Berg. Fabian, J. 2007. Memory Against Culture, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Freytag, N. and Sawicki, D. (eds) 2006. Wunderwelten: Religiöse Ekstase und Magie in der Moderne, München: Wilhelm Fink Verlag. Geisbusch, J. 2007. ‘For Your Eyes Only? The Magic Touch of Relics’, in E. Pye (ed.), The Power of Touch: Handling Objects in Museum and Heritage Contexts, Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, pp. 73–88. Gotor, M. 2004. Chiesa e santità nell’Italia moderna, Rome and Bari: Laterza. Guardian. 2008. ‘A Toxic Combination’, 28 August. Available at: http:// www.guardian.co.uk/society/2008/aug/28/health.medicalresearch (accessed 9 January 2009). Guardian. 2009. ‘Let the Credulous Kiss their Relics. It’s No Weirder than Idolising Beckham’, 17 September. Available at: http://www.guardian.

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co.uk/commentisfree/2009/sep/17/st-therese-relics-wormwood-scrubs (accessed 9 January 2011). Harvolk, E. 1990. ‘“Volksbarocke” Heiligenverehrung und jesuitische Kultpropaganda’, in P. Dinzelbacher and D.R. Bauer (eds), Heiligenverehrung in Geschichte und Gegenwart, Ostfildern: Schwabenverlag, pp. 262–78. Hillis, K. 2006. ‘Auctioning the Authentic: eBay, Narrative Effect, and the Superfluity of Memory’, in K. Hillis and M. Petit (eds), with N.S. Epley, Everyday eBay: Culture, Collecting, and Desire, London: Routledge, pp. 167–85. Karp, I. and Lavine, S.D. (eds) 1991. Exhibiting Cultures: The Poetics and Politics of Museum Representation, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. Keane, W. 2001. ‘Money Is No Object: Materiality, Desire, and Modernity in an Indonesian Society’, in F.R. Myers (ed.), The Empire of Things: Regimes of Value and Material Culture, Santa Fe, NM: SAR Press, pp. 65–90.   2006.‘Anxious Transcendence’, in F. Cannell (ed.), The Anthropology of Christianity, Durham, NC: Duke University Press, pp. 308–23. Latour, B. 1993. We Have Never Been Modern, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Livingstone, E.A. (ed.) 1996. Oxford Concise Dictionary of the Christian Church, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Macdonald, S. 2005. ‘Enchantment and Its Dilemmas: The Museum as a Ritual Site’, in M. Bouquet and N. Porto (eds), Science, Magic and Religion: The Ritual Processes of Museum Magic, Oxford: Berghahn Books, pp. 209–28. McDannell, C. 1995. Material Christianity: Religion and Popular Culture in America, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Meyer, B. and Pels, P. (eds) 2003. Magic and Modernity: Interfaces of Revelation and Concealment, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Miller, D. 2005. ‘Materiality: An Introduction’, in D. Miller (ed.), Materiality, Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1–50. Miller, D. and Slater, D. 2000. The Internet: An Ethnographic Approach, Oxford: Berg. Musée d’Art Sacré du Gard. 2000. Reliquaires: Du reliquaire de SaintCesaire d’Arles aux paperoles des moniales provençales (exhibition catalogue), Nîmes. Obelkevich, J. (ed.) 1979. Religion and the People, 800–1700, Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Parry, J. and Bloch, M. (eds) 1989. Money and the Morality of Exchange, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pattison, S. 2007. Seeing Things: Deepening Relations with Visual Artefacts, London: SCM Press.

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Peters, L. 1994. ‘Reliquien und ihr Publikum’, in Heilige und Heiltum: Eine rheinische Privatsammlung und die Reliquienverehrung der Barockzeit in Westfalen (exhibition catalogue), Paderborn: Diözesanmuseum Paderborn, pp. 103–5. Schieder, W. (ed.) 1986. Volksreligiosität in der modernen Sozialgeschichte, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Schopen, G. 1998. ‘Relic’, in M.C. Taylor (ed.), Critical Terms for Religious Studies, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, pp. 256–68. Stewart, S. 1993. On Longing: Narratives of the Miniature, the Gigantic, the Souvenir, the Collection, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Sullivan, L. 1990. ‘Putting an End to the Text as Primary’, in F.E. Reynolds and S.L. Burkhalter (eds), Beyond the Classics? Essays in Religious Studies and Liberal Education, Atlanta: Scholars Press, pp. 41–59. Tambiah, S.J. 1990. Magic, Science, Religion, and the Scope of Rationality, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Thompson, M. 1979. Rubbish Theory: The Creation and Destruction of Value, Oxford: Clarendon Press. The Times. 2009. ‘St Therese of Lisieux: Come out, Atheists, and Fight’, 17 September. Available at: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/matthew_parris/article6837533.ece (accessed 9 January 2011). van Os, H. 2001. Der Weg zum Himmel: Reliquienverehrung im Mittelalter, Regensburg: Schnell + Steiner. Weber, M. 2001 [1930]. The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, London: Routledge.

9 Great Expectations and Modest Transactions

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Art, Commodity and Collecting

Henrietta Lidchi

Introduction This chapter considers questions that arise when collecting is undertaken in an environment determined by the vigour and dynamism of an art market and a flourishing tourist trade. The location for this discussion is the American Southwest whose status as a cultural destination has been firmly established for more than a hundred years, and whose current success remains inextricably linked to popular perceptions of Arcadian landscapes and ethnic diversity. The particular arena of interest is Southwestern jewellery, one of the most iconic Native American crafts (Figure 9.1), and an artistic domain of compelling interest to public institutions, but more especially private individuals. The case study revolves around a turquoise and coral necklace purchased in 1998, in my second year of field collecting, acquired from a trading store in Gallup, in the heart of the ‘Land of Enchantment’ (New Mexico). The necklace was collected for the British Museum whilst exploring wider research questions about the role of commodities, and the specific merits and attributes of Southwestern jewellery as an art made for sale, but equally gifted (see Lidchi, 2005). Subsequently it became the focus for an exploration of distinctions concerning value and authenticity, because, by being rather unassuming it submits these distinctions to scrutiny, revealing their dynamism in a cultural and social context where the enactment of taste differentiates the connoisseur from the tourist, the insider from the outsider. Markets and tourism are culturally generative and

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have fascinating but chaotic impacts on material culture and perceptions of authenticity. Associated with greed, covetousness and cupidity, they place the methodology of collecting, which is popularly conceived as a process involving lengthy cogitation and connoisseurship, under pressure. As a collector working for a public museum, operating in such a commercially enterprising environment requires a careful weighing up of choices and necessitates reflection on what to collect and what constitutes a collection – how a public responsibility, as opposed to a private passion, can create a material legacy that registers a different kind of aspiration (see Lidchi, 2003). From markets spring all manner of material goods, from the superlative through the mundane, to the fake and badly made. It is the leitmotif of this chapter that all manner of goods can be used as ‘fences or bridges’ (Douglas and Isherwood, 1979: xiv): active matter participating in the creation of realms of exclusion and inclusion. There is consequently a presumption that the role of the ethnographer/collector is to observe and record this within the structure of collecting, however extreme the environment.

Portable property In Great Expectations, Charles Dickens (1950) writes about wealth and the nature and expectations of the gift. When the protagonist, Pip, is mysteriously blessed with property halfway through his apprenticeship and whisked off

Figure 9.1. Navajo jewellery stamp issued by the United States Postal Service in August 2004, part of an American design series and painted on the basis of a necklace dated 1940s–1950s in a private collection. It features one of the most iconic designs: the turquoise and silver squashblossom necklace with a crescent shaped pendant (of najah or nâzhâhi). Copyright US Postal Service.

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to London, he fails to appreciate the cycle of indebtedness of which he has become part. Burdened by fortune and confused by its anonymity, his gratitude is clouded by fantasies of bloodline and his self-presentation as a man of means. Being a moral tale, there are characters who throw Pip’s prejudices and delusions into sharp relief, one of whom is the legal clerk Mr Wemmick. A person of great heart and meagre income, Wemmick is introduced to the reader bedecked in jewellery: wearing brooches, mourning rings and a watch chain overflowing with seals (Dickens, 1950: 171). His trinkets are given by the convicts, condemned or otherwise, that come through the legal practice where he works. Wemmick explains: These are all gifts of that kind. One brings another, you see; that is the way of it. I always take ’em. They’re curiosities. And they’re property. They may not be worth much, but after all, they are property and they are portable … my guidingstar always is. Get hold of portable property. (Dickens, 1950: 202)

From this we learn that Wemmick is the receiver of gifts; gifts which are never refused but automatically added to his existing collection. The individual ornaments, incorporated into the larger whole, are conspicuous symbols of Wemmick’s identity, connoting the nature of his profession and embodying his social connections. On the one hand, as jewellery, each has pragmatic monetary value. In holding onto this eminently portable property, Wemmick has exercised a sanguine judgement: it can, when the need arises, be selectively liquidated. On the other hand, each fragment is a memento, a material surrogate for memories and the overall assemblage is invested with a value which derives from the enduring association of individual histories. Dickens describes Wemmick as ‘laden with remembrances of departed friends’ (1950: 171). Each ornament binds giver to receiver, although by virtue of death or deportation it is, in addition, ‘a vestige to the human subject(s) it has outlived’ (Pointon, 2001: 68). This contextualisation reveals Wemmick to be a tolerant and moral man, who while connecting with those less fortunate than himself, is fatalistic and sanguine about his own prospects. In this characterisation, there is an oscillation between objects and subjects, between commodity and gift, with the assemblage functioning both literally and metaphorically, as both burden and wealth. The reference to Dickens may seem farfetched in a paper about contemporary Native American jewellery, but this description of value is evocative of the manner in which I have seen jewellery layered when it has been primarily acquired as a gift (see Figure 9.6), even without the specific links to memorialisation. Native American jewellery is one of the most prolific, iconic and mimicked of all Southwestern craft industries, one where questions of value and authenticity are paramount and relentlessly shifting. Oddly, given this fact, it lacks sustained anthropological description.1 So this fictional passage is used as a springboard to argue for the revelatory power of context. Beyond this, there are three principal anthropological and museological themes that this opening vignette brings into play that are discussed in the

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rest of the chapter. The first is the supposed dichotomy between gift and commodity exchange, a topic that has exercised those interested in theories of value and consumption (see, for instance, Myers, 2001a). It reflects how recent literature on material culture and commodities has taken the form of Maussian revisionism (Miller, 2001: 92) and elicited an active debate about the alienable and inalienable vested in the circulation of material culture (Weiner, 1985, 1994; Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, 2001; Townsend-Gault, 2004). The second is the role of jewellery as a form of ornamentation that both engages with the body and acts as signifier. The wearing of adornment presupposes and animates a visual debate between maker (or giver), wearer and the viewer (Goring, 2006). It is important to retain a perspective that regards adornment as a form of sophisticated semiotic deployment where object and personhood are physically and symbolically intertwined (Pointon, 1999; Townsend-Gault, 2004; Goring, 2006). Finally, this chapter touches on questions of consumption and connoisseurship within collecting. By this I mean the qualities of an assemblage versus a collection and the difference between the private consumer and the institutional collector – distinctions which often revolve around notions of lasting value and thus the manner in which material legacies are formed and disposed of.

‘Indian Jewelry Capital of the World’ If, as Rothman (2003: 4) contends, the Southwest was developed as the proving ground for cultural tourism in America, then for the contemporary visitor it is experienced as land of signs and wonders. Home to the immense landscape of the American West, including its most recognised topographical features – Monument Valley and the Grand Canyon – the Southwest is one of the regions in the United States with a great density of Native American communities. As a result, it operates as a ‘panoramic dreamscape for the nation’ (Rothman, 2003: 4) with pervasive international currency. Lippard writes, ‘history created, re-created, [and sanitised] is the mother-lode of tourism’ (1999: 154 my insertion). In the Southwest the combined mythic impact of breathtaking landscape, continuous indigenous inhabitation and tri-cultural harmony mask the grittier side of the historical encounter at the hands of both Spanish and American colonisers – internment, displacement and forced acculturation (see, for example, Wilson, 1997, 2003). By the close of the nineteenth century, American annexation and the end of the American Civil War paved the way for the rapid economic expansion in present day Arizona and New Mexico. This was a combination of government endeavour – the military ‘pacification’ of native communities and in the granting of mining concessions – and private enterprise in the shape of the Atchinson, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad (later Railway), which completed its transcontinental link in 1887. By 1895, the Santa Fe Railway and its preferred concessionaire, the Fred Harvey Company, changed focus from prospective settlers to tourists with the result that by

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the early twentieth century the Southwest was promoted, and secured, as a highly desirable destination (Poling-Kempes, 1991: 11–28). Native communities that called this area their homeland occupied a central role in the transformation of this sparsely settled region. Their lively and decorative material culture, their spectacular and seemingly unchanged traditions were key to marketing the exotic scenic package (see Weigle, 1989; Howard and Pardue, 1995; Dilworth, 1996; Weigle and Babcock, 1996; Archambault, 2002). In the twentieth century the focused promotion of a defined range of traditional arts – weaving, jewellery, pottery and Pueblo carvings – through the vehicles of tourism, trading and philanthropic patronage had a profound economic impact. By 1912, the Navajo blanket industry helped to replace the ration system which still existed on other reservations (Schrader, 1983: 8); by the 1930s, arts and crafts made up 25% of the Navajo yearly income and 16% of those of Pueblo communities (Schrader, 1983: 7, 44–45). Today, the Southwest as physical and cultural space is present in the mind’s eye long before it is ever actually encountered – it is at one and the same time powerfully exotic and familiar.2 As a private and public activity undertaken by those external to the communities of making, collecting native art is a highly differentiated activity. Phillips (1995) identifies four collecting archetypes: the fine art collector, the ethnographer, the collector-agent and the tourist. In the Southwest, the market is stratified ‘along axes of consumer demand’ (Parezo, 1990: 572), and there is no lack of opportunities to buy. For the fine art collector the elegant regional art centres of Santa Fe, New Mexico and Scottsdale, Arizona, are obvious destinations, whereas for the more transient tourist or chancer there is always Gallup (Figure 9.2). In the 1880s Gallup was a ‘rough and ready camp for railway workers’ (Archambault, 2002: 139) and has for many years enjoyed a less than salubrious reputation. Today, lying on Historic Route 66 and Interstate 40, it proudly publicises itself as, alternately, the ‘Gateway to Indian Country’, ‘Indian Jewelry Capital of the World’, or ‘Indian Capital of the World’.

Figure 9.2. Historic Route 66, Gallup, New Mexico showing shops and trading stores, February 2007 (photo by Henrietta Lidchi).

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Gallup is a relatively small town,3 but with motels, pawnshops, ‘trading posts’ and big jewellery supply companies, it is also a hub. It is a place where tourists and truckers invariably find a bed and where residents of outlying Reservations and Pueblos can pawn and sell jewellery, buy supplies (as well as do their washing, pick up groceries and catch a movie). There have been significant efforts to change the reputation of the town (Figure 9.3), but there is a continuing ambivalence. A Navajo jeweller poetically expressed why he never dwelled in Gallup: ‘Gallup isn’t hell, but you can see it from there.’ For the peripatetic jewellery collector and researcher, Gallup has its charms, and there are good reasons to spend time there. At the end of September 1998, breaking the journey to Shiprock for the Navajo Fair, I found myself once again in Gallup. On this pleasant autumn day I was looking around in the compact downtown area. I wandered into a trading store on a whim. I had no expectations of being seduced or surprised, but was curious as to the jewellery available: I had passed it several times casting an eye over their inventory – Native American Church material, as well as beading supplies. Whilst browsing the tabletop glass cases I happened upon an intriguing necklace. The necklace in question was composed of four strands of coral beads off of which hung a teardrop-shaped pendant of purple spiny oyster and twenty

Figure 9.3. Gallup Inter-tribal Ceremonial mural, painted by Irving Bahe on 202 West Coal Avenue. In 2005, Gallup city commissioned a mural project to liven up the Downtown area and to encourage walking tours, February 2007 (photo by Henrietta Lidchi).

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loops of turquoise beads arranged in ten pairs (Figure 9.4). The loops of turquoise discs had two white wedge-shaped beads at the bottom of the curve and coral beads at the top. These turquoise loops are most commonly known by the transliteration of the Navajo term as jaclah, jackla, jacklo, jocla or jatl’oł.4 Turquoise discoidal beads have been a traditional form of ornamentation throughout the Southwest for thousands of years, a fact that is well documented through the archaeological record (Jernigan, 1978). Jatl’oł are habitually associated with the Navajo: earrings worn by women or necklace pendants worn by men, even though they are a constituent part of a larger range of adornment worn throughout the Southwest and arise directly out of the lapidary work, a continuing craft tradition amongst the Pueblos. A ticket was attached suggesting its prior owner was Zuni and identifying the necklace as ‘dead’ pawn. The distinctions in pawn are subtle ones, the most relevant differentiation being between ‘dead’ and ‘old’ pawn. The former means that the piece is past due in terms of payment and is on the point, or beyond the point, of foreclosure. Whilst ‘live’ pawn is still largely kept in a back room, ‘dead’ pawn is usually brought to the front and made visible, possibly as a reminder to the owner who may have forgotten or be passing through, or to attract a new owner. ‘Old’ pawn carries the suggestion

Figure 9.4. Coral, turquoise, glass, plastic and mother of pearl necklace purchased in Gallup for the British Museum, 1998. Zuni worn, Santo Domingo made. [BM collection number AOA 1998, 06.42]. Earrings of turquoise and spiney oyster by Chris Chavez (Santo Domingo) [BM collection number AOA 1998, 06.39 and AOA 1998, 06.40] (Courtesy of the Trustees of the British Museum).

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of antiquity and value in a quite distinct way, channelling the possibility that this is an ‘heirloom’ piece, passed down before being definitively transformed into a commodity. There is a clear role for Gallup in relation to the present functioning of the pawn system, and the promise of finding a prize piece through this means is a consistent attraction to visitors and the reason trading concerns in Gallup continue to enjoy a certain charisma.5 I asked whether I could see and handle the necklace more closely. I held it up, assessed its weight, considered the way it was strung, how it hung, then examined and felt the beads, taking a good look at the turquoise. The turquoise seemed natural, though the colour was bright and saturated, a robin’s-egg blue, generally indicative of some form of artificial enhancement or treating, endemic to Southwest jewellery and generally eschewed by collectors. I noticed that there were glass and plastic beads, as well as smaller, lighter coloured and more irregular beads interspersed throughout, though concentrated in the central jatl’oł. The Navajo assistant in the trading store was chatty and helpful. Her explanations of the piece included that it was Zuni and a man’s necklace worn for a Buffalo dance, and that it had been strung so as not to break. She speculated that it would have been made for someone, not bought, possibly strung from bought beads (rather than handmade) and that it would have been blessed before dancing. She added that if someone pawned such a necklace and did not have money to retrieve the whole thing, they would let it go rather than retrieve part of it. She commented that the numbers ten and four were significant and said she had not seen a necklace like this pawned before in her years working at the store. The telling of this story was sympathetic and captivating in manner and content – these were a series of helpful remarks rather than a marketing patter. I asked to confirm details with the owner/trader. He was less forthcoming and his comments sparse: the necklace was unusual, it had been restrung, and some of the turquoise was old. Gallup is overrun by commercial concerns which operate according to a variety of business practices and the buyer should, at all times, beware. It is advisable to balance evidence against discourse. I was tempted and intrigued, some months into my second season of field collecting but needed to weigh up the options, so I devised some criteria to gauge museum relevance, authenticity and value for money. A few weeks prior, I had attended public dances at Walpi, on First Mesa on the Hopi Reservation. Here, as on many occasions before, I had seen similar necklaces being danced (though more choker-like in style, see Figure 9.6). Moreover, there were many items for sale from Santo Domingo makers, including pairs of jatl’oł to be worn as earrings. Some I knew to be made of stabilised (enhanced), or reconstituted, turquoise, as well as synthetic turquoise known as ‘block’. I had nevertheless enquired as to their cost. This was now useful, since some simple arithmetic of cumulative amount added to a notional sum for the coral strings brought the total to one that compared well with the asking price. These adjustments

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were in the necklace’s favour. I bought it whilst resolving that the matter was not concluded.

Knowledge, materials and value Knowledge of, and information on, Southwestern jewellery is most clearly situated amongst those who are deeply embedded in the region’s dynamic market. The Southwest is teeming with makers, traders, dealers and curators, continuously handling and re-assessing the value of contemporary and historic jewellery whose views are not unified. This necklace seemed a good way of fleshing out discrepancies in taste and valuation amongst these different constituencies. It was known that I was purchasing for the British Museum, and friends and acquaintances were generally curious as to my choices, so I submitted this acquisition to a wider judgement. Over the course of the next weeks, as I continued to travel, I showed the necklace to a range of people whose valuations proved progressively enlightening. A dozen people viewed it and in essence what emerged was an enunciation of different regimes of value (Appadurai, 1986: 4). Comments were made in terms of style, use, provenance and materials, which were effectively judgements as to what was perceived as alienable or inalienable in the necklace. I showed the piece to Zuni, Cochiti, Hopi, Navajo and Santo Domingo jewellers. In general they responded first and foremost to it as a symbolic and transacted object; one that had clear local resonances and hastened memories of wearing, dancing, owning, making. It would prompt reminiscences of family members making turquoise beads and qualifications might follow as to the necklace’s comparative quality in relation to items they possessed, which in one instance were brought out to show me. They were consistent in identifying it as Santo Domingo made, but Zuni worn. Zuni makers identified it as ‘old style’. One older Zuni maker was prompted to give a fuller account pointing out that it should have had two central pairs of jatl’oł and thus was essentially missing one. This same maker identified the central pendant of purple spiny oyster as uncommon: a purposeful addition of the original owner and wearer. With one exception these native makers embedded their appreciation – generally spontaneous and enthusiastic – on the basis of the whole piece. Admiration was often accompanied by a desire to handle and look at the necklace first hand. Aspects observed included weight, the quantity of turquoise, how well this was matched overall, some discussion as to the variation in widths of beads in the jatl’oł, some being ‘skinnier’ than others, and a running through of sources of turquoise locally. The traders were a less unified group and there was something in the fact that some worked on the Navajo Reservation and others not.6 The Reservation trader described it as a ‘killer’ necklace, others were less forthcoming. What they shared was a more analytical response, moving quickly from the piece to the value and nature of its constituent parts. Part

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of this assessment included the quality of the raw material and its age, in which the turquoise was key, and the coral generally acknowledged to be low standard. Here, a consideration was whether the turquoise was natural, gem quality or low grade,7 and how it had been drilled. Often an early question was where I had purchased it, which in one instance elicited a sharp sucking-in of breath. There was curiosity as to how much I had paid, which I often answered by batting back the question through an invitation to calculate the cost, thus indirectly providing an idea of its potential for re-sale in traders’ terms. Two traders had mentally dismantled the necklace, sold off the jatl’oł and dispensed with the unimpressive coral strands fairly early into the conversation. Performing to type, the greatest sceptic was the curator whose first move was to try to identify the turquoise, looking at the necklace more closely than anyone. Indeed, by this point the attitudinal difference between those who held up the necklace to see its effect as opposed to those who laid it down to look at each bead was striking. The curator quickly identified that the greatest proportion of beads were drilled mechanically, and thus lacked age, but that a proportion of the lighter coloured turquoise was likely natural and had been traditionally drilled (with a pump or drill resulting in an hour glass shaped hole). He posited some sources for the turquoise, the first being Chinese, which is systematically imported today and the largest source worldwide (Lowry and Lowry, 2002: 8), or citing Cerrillos (New Mexico), Morenci (Arizona) or Lone Mountain (Nevada) mines as possible American sources. He noted the glass and trade beads used to substitute for turquoise. A museum-based trader tried to identify the turquoise and guessed Chinese, though he prevaricated as to whether it was natural or stabilised. Finally I showed it to two native jewellers who have helped me in many ways over the years and whose own work is highly dependent on recognition of natural stone. They puzzled over the different types of beads, and initially proposed multiple sources for the turquoise. They, like a Reservation-based trader, noted the odd profile of the jatl’oł because there was no graduation in width of turquoise, as is more usually the case with jatl’oł, where the loops are thicker at the centre and taper towards the end. They remarked particularly on the circular wedge-shaped form of the central beads or ‘corn’. On older pieces these are often smoother kernel- or tab-shaped (Figure 9.5); here they were flatter. Then they remembered seeing very similar strings of ‘natural’ turquoise beads imported from the Philippines at the Rock and Gem show in Tucson. Looking again at the ‘corn’, they spotted that these resembled modified mother of pearl buttons, and recalled someone selling beads like this in the 1970s in Santo Domingo. Ultimately this encapsulated the complexity of fixing value in the Southwest in a commercially dynamic context where un-provenanced jewellery – old or new – comes without guarantees. For some, its utility was appraised critically in terms of its lack of authenticity and art value,

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as represented by materials and age. Others assessed it as being part of a sphere of exchange more akin to the gift, where value was modified by enchantment and recognition, including a respect for the dexterity, patience and investment traditionally required to make such a necklace, and an acknowledgement of its continuing ceremonial and performative use. Several of the native jewellers and traders qualified value by speaking of the piece’s beauty through reference to the labour that would have been necessary to produce such beads, what Gell calls the ‘halo effect’ of technical difficulty (1999: 166). Others alluded to traditional exchange values: a Hopi jeweller jokingly told me that I could go trading across the Navajo Reservation for weeks on jatl’oł, referring to the fact that turquoise has value and that jatl’oł were purportedly stable and tradeable units of currency before the cash economy. Traders explicitly calculated commodity value (cost). However, they did this, interestingly, not in terms of the external market, but in terms of native and local consumers, because the desire to have the right jewellery is not automatically measured in terms of guaranteed authenticity and antiquity of material (in this case high grade turquoise), but in terms of local availability and context of use (Ostler et al., 1996: 34–35). Realistically, this piece was not going to be sold to tourists because it is not one of the more recognisable styles, and therefore not perceived as wearable and maybe a

Figure 9.5. Five pairs of jatl’oł of natural turquoise, shell and coral, showing the tapering quality of the turquoise and the more rounded and kernel-shaped ‘corn’. Private collection, February 2007 (photo by Henrietta Lidchi).

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little beyond a tourist’s price bracket. Conversely, it was neither old enough nor expensive enough to be specifically appealing to connoisseurs. The curatorial judgement that it was fun I took as a tacit recommendation not to put it in a public collection, even if recognised by native consumers as something worn and valued, because of the uncertainty of materials, unclear aesthetics and its lack of age and wear. The act of virtual circulation allowed a better understanding into the process of making and use, allowing a more intimate glimpse into the necklace’s materiality, and thus its innate potential for future transactions. It was a means to understand aspects of semiotic deployment – the sheer excess of meaning that could be bestowed on it – whilst additionally allowing for the object’s agency in constituting different agents and persons (Myers 2001b: 22–23). Ironically, its current status as a museum object creates a certain cachet: its irreversible removal from a market bestows a new type of inalienability enhancing its perceived value. Townsend-Gault (2004) has explored the status of the inalienable in pressured market conditions in relation to the broad category of Northwest Coast art. Invoking Weiner, she argues that even the most widely circulated goods can be the means for retaining native agency through the withholding of aspects of culture: preserving the inalienable, whilst appearing to relinquish it. This keeping-while-giving is the nub of much discussion of how commodities safeguard their value and objects preserve their agency for those who use and make them, when they work in intense and ethnically defined art markets. In looking at this necklace those native viewers were seeing beyond the object, focussing on what Pointon has described as its ‘stellar’ (2001: 68) qualities, having the ability to imagine it not only on the body but as an integral part of the body. In terms of source and style, it signified traditional relationships of trade between Pueblo and Navajo communities, shared aspects of material culture and ceremonialism, as well as mutually acknowledged cultural markers.8 I concluded that for a number of intermediaries and actors local to the Southwest, it was seen concurrently as a commodity and gift, and that it moved between these states, and thus between regimes of value. As a used ornament, the necklace incorporated components (jatl’oł) traditionally part of the economic system, whilst also objectifying, through style, use and material, aspects of social and cultural life beyond the realm of economic exchange (see Miller, 2001; Keane, 2001). Its potential for shifting between states was sealed early by being jewellery, as Witherspoon (1981: 47) notes in relation to Navajo culture that ‘turquoise has ceremonial and religious value, as well as economic and aesthetic value’. Within this local market, for example, it is interesting to consider how the production of silver and turquoise jewellery has been key to the functioning of the trading and pawn system in the Southwest, when the whole structure of the pawn system is an unusual and dynamic interpretation of the principles of keeping-whilegiving. In the Southwest, trading lore argues that pawning was the means

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by which traders and native communities established patterns of mutual indebtedness (particularly on the Navajo Reservation). The pawn system historically depended on the interchangeability of states between the inalienable (the family possession) and the commodity (the pawned good). The reasoning goes that it worked optimally when there was familiarity and a continuous cycle of lending and redeeming, and thus of obligations (financial and otherwise). Traders were the safe-keepers of heirlooms, with the trading post being, at one and the same time, a safety deposit box, a credit card and a proxy bank (Powers, 2001: 125–48).9 This dialectic between gift and commodity operated within a local context, in which native taste and use was the driver creating value, and integration into the cash economy through the use of coinage provided silversmiths with ingot silver for jewellery, that could be converted back through the trading system and pawn into money. That, ultimately, this turquoise and coral necklace was judged by some to be an unstable candidate for collecting was symptomatic of larger ‘truths’ I have come to perceive about Southwestern jewellery. Even when the largest consumers were native communities, jewellery performed the dual functions of symbols of wealth and identity, thus equally commodity as gift. If prior to the twentieth century, jewellery was largely targeted towards an indigenous regime of tastes, today its status as a market-driven commodity has pejorative associations which are repeatedly answered by the desire to re-assert its autonomy as art – the restoration of inalienability in Western terms, even though art carries explicit market value (Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, 2001: 260). The jewellery market or industry may cater to a number of clienteles from art collector to casual tourist, but in the midst of this, jewellery represents a particular form of object-subject entanglement and it is important to understand the movement and accumulation of jewellery – the ‘giving, receiving and owning’ (Pointon, 2001: 67) of it – at any given place and time. It is regularly made, consumed and gifted by native consumers for their own purposes and in accordance with their own aesthetics and needs. The relative conformity of styles and consistent use of colour, as well as mimicry of traditional natural materials, to allow use in greater abundance, signifies continuing salience of jewellery to the pattern of ceremonial life in the Southwest. The same year I purchased the necklace I attended Santo Domingo Labour Day Fair in 1998, and watched members of Newatsa, a Zuni performance group, dance for non-native and native people alike. Unlike the public performance at the Museum of Northern Arizona which I attended (and photographed), at Santo Domingo, the dancers were publicly presented with jewellery as gifts. This followed the performances and short speeches. Necklaces, brooches and earrings were bestowed upon the male and female dancers, in recognition of the dedication of the young Zuni dancers to maintaining traditions and for their skill. They were given in thanks and friendship, and received with pride, automatically added to an assemblage

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already densely layered (Figure 9.6). Earlier I had asked where the dancers acquired their jewellery; the answer was that they were almost always gifts. If one considers jewellery to be some form of visual language, it is a complex one in which many constituencies with contradictory schemas are drawn into the visual debate. Jewellery is simultaneously a particularised (hierarchical/differentiated) and heteromorphic10 object and sign.

Figure 9.6. Necklaces and brooches worn by dancer in Newatsa, a Zuni dance group, taken at the end of a performance at the Museum of Northern Arizona, Flagstaff, September 1998 (Courtesy of the Trustees of the British Museum/Henrietta Lidchi).

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Choices and dilemmas The purchase marked a key moment for me in terms of collecting practice, as at the time, to be perfectly honest, it felt somewhat risky. It encapsulated all that can be problematical and uncertain about buying jewellery in the Southwest once one deviates from the tried and tested, including issues of disclosure, authenticity of material (in this instance turquoise) and the general ethics and meaning of buying pawned goods. Keane writes that ‘market economies do not do away with inalienables so much as re-order the regimes of value in which they function’ (2001: 66) namely, they create excess and contradiction in the meaning of objects and the exchanges in which they take part. In such circumstances it is easy to see why the emphasis in collecting practice for both private individuals and public institutions in the Southwest is to buy art jewellery – the reliable products of the past, and the identifiable products of the present. In his 1969 guide to Field Collecting of Ethnographic Specimens, Sturtevant promotes the practice of collecting by providing an elegant series of answers to the perennial questions: why collect?, how to collect? and what to collect? Setting out the case for collecting as a means of understanding human cultures at specific points in place and time, Sturtevant argues for an intrinsically virtuous relationship between fieldwork and collecting: the best ethnographic collections are those made in the field and the best means of getting to know the field is through collecting (1969: 1). Proposing a long list of twenty-one artefact types with up to twenty-five sub-categories, Sturtevant acknowledges that for the casual ethnographer concentrating on one, possibly arbitrarily chosen artefact type, it is advisable to achieve a level of focus and documentation that is advocated (because of the thoroughness of his criteria). He comments that some types of artefacts are ‘rarely present in museum collections, but should nevertheless be collected’ (Sturtevant, 1969: 26). Amongst these are items made for export, such as tourist and airport art. It is classified in the catch-all term of ‘trade goods’ (category twenty-one) (Sturtevant, 1969: 24). Whilst I possessed and read this guide prior to doing fieldwork in the Southwest, I am not conscious of deliberately obeying its precepts. It was some relief to find post-facto many of its recommendations followed, particularly with regard to documentation and focus. In all, the British Museum sponsored three collecting trips, intensive and time limited: two three-month seasons in 1997 and 1998, and a short threeweek season in 2001. Building a collection for a permanent gallery was the stated reason for going to the Southwest, but collecting matured as part of a wider research agenda, one that has itself become more determining and continues regardless of specific changes in institutional mandate. In answer to the question of how to collect ethnographically in a potentially duplicitous, but fascinating and enterprising market, I decided to reflect the market in the collection. I used the ethnographic method to map industry

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and meaning, whilst at the same time buying items that I thought were aesthetically strong enough to be displayed, either as individual pieces or as assemblages. My hope is that this material legacy works synchronically and diachronically, with themes and narratives – around individuals, around styles, around families of makers, around authenticity of materials – embedded within (see Lidchi, 2003). The collection has to be read alongside the documentation and with the field images, as well as the collection images (see Lidchi, 2009). Collecting is an art which is essentially learnt, though to some it comes more easily and intuitively, and my collecting practice has definitely improved over the years. Although affiliated to the Museum of Northern Arizona, my strategy was to be multi-local: to move on and off Reservation, visiting trading stores and shops, going to fairs or shows which featured makers. I started at the Gallup Intertribal Ceremonial and then went to the Santa Fe Indian Market, the oldest and most prestigious showcase for contemporary Native American Art, and New Mexico’s second largest tourist event (after the Albuquerque Balloon Festival). I consulted curators and dealers and tried to identify trends and artists, popping up again and again. Such is the nature of the Southwest that the casual visitor is too frequent a phenomenon to be noticed, so there is virtue in persistence, to be often present and return. I soon realised that one of the features of this marketplace was that those who live through selling do not typically sit on their inventory, waiting for a foreign museum to discover it, so acting decisively and acquiring items when they were available for sale was a necessity, though initially a giddy one. The majority of the time I bought ready-made pieces, only in two instances did I commission items, where the jewellers controlled their inventory to the extent that there was nothing available for spontaneous purchase. Whether I bought pieces directly or through a third party (trader or museum shop),11 it was in the hope of meeting the jeweller concerned, visiting them at home, looking at their workshop, interviewing and photographing them, if permitted. I collected jewellers that are well published and who can determine the value of their work as well as those who are more dependent on others to fix its value, and potentially more conformist in their chosen design. In 1998, I collected families of jewellers as a result of a burgeoning interest in styles, and in issues of distinction and taste. With an accent and a camera I was easy to spot in tourist venues like Gallup and I could engage in easy conversation usually purchasing small items to oil the wheels. I collected a toolbox, semi-made pieces, uncut natural and substitute materials, trinkets, blanks and fakes. I bought small items of tourist jewellery to illustrate the minimising of iconic forms as well as to record claims made. For example, during another Gallup visit in 1998, I purchased two button covers (popular items at the time) in a Zuni cluster work style that declared themselves to be ‘non-native made, non-natural stone’. This prompted a conversation, as I was bemused as to their attraction given this rhetoric, whilst acknowledging that it highlighted the impact of the US 1990

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Indian Arts and Crafts Act (PL 101-644) which regulates those who trade in Indian arts and crafts (or at least has the provision to prosecute those who do not comply). I wrote long notes, bought out of date ephemera, collected journals, trade magazines and guides, visited supply stores and under the tutelage of three generous jewellers made rings in their style. I formally and informally interviewed traders, dealers and makers, photographed signs and selling, took portraits of people making jewellery. An integral part of the collection is imagery: the slides and photographs are objects and a collection in their own right, not simply archival documents (Lidchi, 2009). In retrospect, the Southwestern jewellery collection can be read as a cluster of different collections, made by me inhabiting the varied personae of art collector, ethnographer and tourist, under the one mandate of curator. The final tally of pieces collected is around 152 items,12 including a historic collection that the British Museum acquired partially as a gift in 1998/1999. This provided additional depth to the collection as a whole, adding pieces from the early to middle part of the twentieth century which reflected the early impact of trading, tourism and artistic patronage on jewellery production. The field collection as a whole subsumes purchases and gifts, including a personal donation. Whilst the British Museum funded three collecting trips and two research trips, I have been to the Southwest almost every year since 1996, sometimes on personal time, other times with institutional support. In a mercurial arts and crafts market of the reach and complexity of the Southwest, change is continuous and potentially revolutionary. The only way to keep abreast of what is going on is to be there. In 2007, I dedicated more time to thinking about turquoise, which is the subject of much local lore, but few reliable methods of identification. During this visit I was alerted to two new ‘types’ of turquoise on the market. The oxymoronic ‘white buffalo turquoise’, sold in some of the trickier trading concerns in the Southwest, and a white veined stone more properly known as howlite, though sometimes dyed blue to imitate turquoise. My other find was in a ‘rock shop’ in Scottsdale: ‘turqualite’, a blue-dyed granite created to be affordable to sell to children (Figure 9.7). These new material travesties are part of the larger cautionary tale, reflecting the appetite in the Southwest for relatively rare and novel semi-precious stones, and the impact of rapid changes in fashion. They follow prior trends. When I was in the Southwest in the 1990s many people were using gaspeite, a neon-coloured green stone, which is now seldom seen. One of the most profound changes is happening in trading, with some trading families moving into the virtual world, establishing high-end gallery brands for a discerning clientele. Indeed, the virtual world provides a fruitful new expression for the inventive impact of commerce on Southwestern jewellery. Searching on eBay recently I found an unspectacular necklace described by a string of potent semiotic markers: ‘dead pawn/vintage/squash blossom/ peyote bird/signed’, assuring the buyer authenticity and age through a variety of means.

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Figure 9.7. ‘Turqualite’ shown in a Scottsdale gem shop, February 2007 (photo by Henrietta Lidchi).

Expectations and transactions Globally, it is becoming difficult to resist exchange, and the hegemony of the inalienable possessions remains partial and limited. (Weiner, 1994: 401)

In her 1994 essay, Weiner explores the realm of inalienable possessions, looking at the resistance of some items to appropriation whilst being firmly placed within the realm of exchange. Weiner sketches out a number of problematics and blurred boundaries, arguing that local context for the movement of material culture is salient, but so is its penetration in larger globalised systems, and the transformation that ensues. For Weiner, objects of whatever kind are potentially dense, or, as Edwards (1999: 222) remarks, have a ‘specific gravity’, a repressed expression that allows them to captivate and move unpredictably. This perspective argues for the perception of strategies that resist exchange, even when seeming to indulge in it, to consider the dialectic between gift and commodity, keeping-while-giving. Such a perspective provides a refreshing take on those relations present in an environment as culturally and economically multifaceted as the Southwest. Having worked now with several historical collections, I am encouraged to posit a classification of my own for elements in public collections, depending on scale, quality and narrative structure. These material legacies, it seems to me, come in one of three forms: anachronistic, episodic or sustained.

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Sustained collections have an easily perceptible clarity of purpose over the long term, usually supported by dedicated funds or imagination. The episodic – where I place the Southwestern jewellery collection – are finite moments of extraction; if properly done they hold within themselves the capability of future enhancement. The anachronistic lasts only if individual items are well chosen and significant. It is here that quality matters most. In its worst manifestation the anachronistic collection is a rogue signifier, a jumble of signs with no destination and little purchase. It is easy in the Southwest to select anachronistically, making a collection of tourist arts or picking only the known artists, thereby duplicating collections from elsewhere. The challenge is for a more textured picture, to question material, object, sign and meaning. Williams (2005: 200) writes ‘[w]e cannot abstract desire. It is always desire for something specific, in specifically impelling circumstances’. Collections, whether personal or private, are sublimations of some type of desire, whilst also extractions, but in certain fields they are particular representations. It seems to me that under these extreme circumstances, it is essential to document and reflect on the meaning of what one is buying. In 1998, I was sitting in a booth at Indian Market socialising with two native jewellers, jewellers at the height of their profession, historians of their craft, and collectors of new materials and fakes. A known customer came over, wearing recently purchased earrings which she excitedly asked them to identify. As they moved from hand to hand, I noted that they were straightforward pear-shaped slices of material and a deep red colour. Eagerly anticipating their response, the buyer proposed that the colour intensity denoted good quality coral, as had been suggested to her. The jewellers’ eyes lowered as they conferred, handling the earrings. Discretely, one murmured plastic, while the other said ‘block’. They resorted to gentle humour, replying it was ‘Laguna coral’. The woman understood the joke, Laguna Pueblo, New Mexico, is located far, far from the ocean, but she was visibly disappointed. She wanted a bargain, and had bought lipstick to match. In response, one jeweller complimented her on her choice of colour and added that it might help to know that pieces of coral that large would be heavier and more expensive. He commented the most important thing was to like the earrings: she should enjoy wearing them. For some authors this interchange would be an example of the cupidity of tourists driven by the search for authenticity and provides clear evidence why markets are tournaments of value and tense encounters (Rothman, 1998). I agree that it has metaphorical relevance, but disagree with this restricted interpretation of interaction defined by ‘tricksterism’ (Evans-Pritchard, 1989: 94), preferring to read a greater sincerity into the encounter (see Olsen, 2002: 177). The earrings were pretty, representative of an item frequently made and sold. The buyer was deflated because she placed value in terms of material and rarity (connoting authenticity), although ultimately she was unwilling to pay for either. The makers, more nuanced and experienced, were sanguine, likely familiar with the fact that this material and these

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earrings are not only consumed by tourists in the Southwest. They can have other uses and purposes; bought, sold and exchanged within the native communities nearby. I interpret this as meaning that for them authenticity in materials, while desirable, is not essential to their ability to see these items as having intangible value. In the interchange they sympathetically tried to restore value by telling the buyer to enjoy the jewellery that she owned and invest in the memory and experience of purchasing it. Straightforwardly, they were counselling her not to have too great an expectation of a modest transaction.

Notes   1. A clear emphasis on the private collector is signalled by the available literature on Southwestern jewellery, which privileges the collector by classifying styles and providing short biographies of popular artists. The notable exceptions are the late nineteenth-century work of Matthews (1968), Adair’s (1944) work on Navajo and Pueblo jewellery, Woodard (1971) and Wright’s (1991) work on Navajo and Hopi jewellery, respectively, as well as Witherspoon’s (1977, 1981) work on Navajo aesthetics. This makes the initial parallel drawn with mourning jewellery seem more salient because, as Pointon (2001: 66) notes, like the less collectible items of Southwestern jewellery it is ‘often ignored by jewellery historians as it seems clumsy, conventional, and mass produced’. A more recent publication by Batkin (2008) on the curio trade attempts to redress this by documenting the social history and products of the trade in the Southwest.   2. It is difficult to get reliable statistics regarding the current economic power of Indian arts and crafts in the Southwest. A report by Abeita (2000), submitted to the United States Senate, used statistical data relating to the impact of the arts and crafts industry on the Southwest gathered in the late 1970s and the 1990s. Abeita (2000) argued that Navajo and Pueblo communities featured centrally in a Bureau of Indian Affairs 1979 survey which identified that 85% of families’ primary or secondary income was generated through arts and crafts. Abeita’s report claimed that 80% of United States Indian arts and crafts came from New Mexico and Arizona, thus claiming the lion’s share of the gross annual revenue estimated at US$1.2 billion in 1997. This broad assessment of income generation has been subsequently used in Padilla (2008).   3. The 2000 census gives the Gallup population as 20,209, with roughly 40% of the population declaring themselves white, 36.6% of the population declaring themselves American Indian or Alaskan Native and 33% declaring themselves Hispanic or Latino, with 94% declaring themselves to be one race only. This, therefore, gives some statistical support to the image of a tri-cultural population so central to New Mexican identity. More recent data shows a population decrease of 4% and a cost of living 15.4% below the national US average (Sperling’s Best Places, n.d.).   4. The transliteration jatl’oł comes from the Franciscan Fathers, missionaries and ethnologists of the Navajo people stationed in St Michaels near Gallup. They list jatl’oł as meaning ‘turquoise ear pendant’ (Franciscan Fathers, 1968: 301).   5. The 2009 visitor guide to Gallup, for instance, includes an article on ‘Gallup Pawn’ (New Mexico Tourism Department, 2009: 22–23), while Conroy, writing in the 1970s, argues that the most of the ‘old pawn’ on the market is of recent vintage, concluding that the mystique of pawn is ‘one of the most lucrative frauds in the business’ (Conroy, 1975: 56).   6. These identities are, obviously, somewhat more complex, as one jeweller also had a trading outlet.

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  7. Turquoise is notoriously difficult to identify, as the most highly desired in the Southwest is American ‘gem quality’ natural stone. A semi-precious stone, it is evaluated according to the hardness, intensity of colour, matrix and rarity. Low-grade turquoise is essentially soft, chalky and lacks colour depth, but this can be substantially enhanced by a variety of means that improve hardness and intensity of colour, mostly by impregnation with epoxy and dyeing (‘stabilised’). The variety of processes can be grouped together under the overall category of ‘treating’ (see Lowry and Lowry, 2002: 34–41).   8. See Bsumek (2006: 48–49) for a similar discussion in relation to the Navajo textile industry.   9. As discussed elsewhere (Lidchi, 2005), this rather rosy description of the trading system does not reflect the alternative interpretations in which traders are seen as more ambivalent intermediaries driven by a healthy dose of guile. 10. Heteromorphy is used here in the entomological sense, meaning the inhabiting of different forms at different points in the life cycle. This definition evokes KirshenblattGimblett’s (2001: 264) argument about art, namely that ‘alienability and inalienability are stages in the social life of art’. 11. Museum shops in the Southwest are frequently run by people with a background in trading. They often stock emerging or established jewellers, and may buy unsold inventory after shows. 12. I use ‘around’ as it includes multiple items registered in sequences, most especially a series of cut turquoise and a toolbox which are registered as single objects. Moreover, a small number of items were collected in 1996 during a short trip, and later by British Museum colleagues to enhance the collection.

References Abeita, A.P. 2000. ‘Testimony of the Council for Indigenous Art and Culture. Submitted to The United States Senate Committee on Indian Affairs Oversight Hearing on the Implementation of the American Indian Arts and Crafts Protection Act, Public Law 101-644’. Available at: http:// indian.senate.gov/2000hrgs/arts_0517/abeita.pdf (accessed 17 May 2009). Adair, J. 1944. The Navajo and Pueblo Silversmiths, Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press. Appadurai, A. 1986. ‘Introduction: Commodities and the Politics of Value’, in A. Appadurai (ed.), The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 3–63. Archambault, J. 2002. ‘Indian Imagery and the Development of Tourism in the Southwest’, in W. Merrill and I. Goddard (eds), Anthropology, History and American Indians: Essays in Honor of William Curtis Sturtevant, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, pp. 139–47. Batkin, J. 2008. The Native American Curio Trade in New Mexico, Santa Fe, NM: Wheelwright Museum of the American Indian. Bsumek, E.M. 2006. ‘Value Added in the Production and Trade of Navajo Textiles: Local Culture and Global Demand’, in A.G. Hopkins (ed.), Global History: Interactions between the Universal and the Local, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 39–65.

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Conroy, K. 1975. What You Should Know About Authentic Indian Jewellery, Denver, CO: The Gro-Pub Group. Dickens, C. 1950. Great Expectations, London: Penguin. Dilworth, L. 1996. Imagining Indians in the Southwest: Persistent Visions of a Primitive Past, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. Douglas, M. and Isherwood, B. 1979. The World of Goods: Towards an Anthropology of Consumption, London: Routledge. Edwards, E.E. 1999. ‘Photographs as Objects of Memory’, in M. Kwint, C. Breward and J. Aynsley (eds), Material Memories: Design and Evocation, Oxford: Berg, pp. 221–36. Evans-Pritchard, D. 1989. ‘How “They” see “Us”: Native American Images of Tourists’, Annals of Tourism Research 16: 89–105. Franciscan Fathers, 1968. An Ethnologic Dictionary of the Navajo Language, St Michael’s, AZ: St Michael’s Press. Gell, A. 1999. The Art of Anthropology: Essays and Diagrams, ed. A. Hirsch, London: Athlone Press. Goring, E. 2006. ‘Jewelry and Communication: Breaking the Code, Juried Exhibition in Print’, Metalsmith 26(4): 6–9. Howard, K. and Pardue, D. 1995. Inventing the Southwest: The Fred Harvey Company and Native American Art, Flagstaff, AZ: Northland Publishing. Jernigan, W.E. 1978. Jewelry of the Prehistoric Southwest, Santa Fe, NM: SAR Press. Keane, W. 2001. ‘Money Is No Object: Materiality, Desire and Modernity in an Indonesian Society’, in F. Myers (ed.), The Empire of Things: Regimes of Value and Material Culture, Santa Fe, NM: SAR Press, pp. 65–90. Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, B. 2001. ‘Reflections’, in F. Myers (ed.), The Empire of Things: Regimes of Value and Material Culture, Santa Fe, NM: SAR Press, pp. 257–68. Lidchi, H. 2003. ‘Detached Mastery or Private Passion: Collecting in the American Southwest’, Journal of Museum Ethnography 15: 67–81.   2005. ‘Guilty Pleasures: Selling American Indian Arts and Crafts’, European Review of Native American Studies 19(1): 35–44.   2009. ‘Museums and the Creation of Visual Memories’, in H. Lidchi and H.J. Tsinhnahjinnie (eds), Visual Currencies: Reflections on Native Photography, Edinburgh: National Museums of Scotland, pp. 55–75. Lippard, L. 1999. On the Beaten Track: Tourism, Art and Place, New York: The New Press. Lowry, J.D. and Lowry, J.P. 2002. Turquoise Unearthed: An Illustrated Guide, Tucson, AZ: Rio Nuevo Publishers. Matthews, W. 1968. ‘Navajo Silversmiths’, in W. Matthews (ed.), Navajo Weavers, Navajo Silversmiths, Palmer Lake, CO: Filter Press.

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Miller, D. 2001. ‘Alienable Gifts and Inalienable Commodities’, in F. Myers (ed.), The Empire of Things: Regimes of Value and Material Culture, Santa Fe, NM: SAR Press, pp. 91–118. Myers, F. (ed.) 2001a. The Empire of Things: Regimes of Value and Material Culture, Santa Fe, NM: SAR Press. Myers, F. 2001b. ‘Introduction: The Empire of Things’, in F. Myers (ed.), The Empire of Things: Regimes of Value and Material Culture, Santa Fe, NM: SAR Press, pp. 3–61. New Mexico Tourism Department (ed.) 2009. Gallup Visitor Guide, Santa Fe, NM. Olsen, K. 2002. ‘Authenticity as a Concept in Tourism Research: The Social Organisation of the Experience of Authenticity’, Tourist Studies 2(2): 159–82. Ostler, J., Rodee, M. and Nahohai, M. 1996. Zuni: A Village of Silversmiths, Zuni, NM: Zuni a:Shiwi Publishing. Padilla, H.B. 2008. ‘Combating Fake Indian Arts and Crafts: A Proposal for Action’, Indian Country Today, 14 October. Available at: http://www. indiancountrytoday.com/opinion/30945294.html Parezo, N.J. 1990. ‘A Multitude of Markets’, Journal of the Southwest 32: 563–75. Phillips, R. 1995. ‘Why not Tourist Art? Significant Silences in Native American Representation’, in G. Prakash (ed.), After Colonialism: Imperial Histories and Post-Colonial Placements, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, pp. 98–125. Pointon, M. 1999. ‘Materializing Mourning: Hair, Jewellery and the Body’, in M. Kwint, C. Breward and J. Aynsley (eds), Material Memories: Design and Evocation, Oxford: Berg, pp. 39–57.   2001. ‘Wearing Memory: Mourning, Jewellery and the Body’, in G. Ecker (ed.), Trauer tragen – Trauer zeigen: Inszenierungen der Geschlechter, Munich: Fink Verlag, pp. 65–81. Poling-Kempes, L. 1991. The Harvey Girls: Women Who Opened the West, New York: Marlowe and Company. Powers, W.R. 2001. Navajo Trading: The End of an Era, Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press. Rothman, H.K. 1998. Devil’s Bargains: Tourism in the Twentieth-Century American West, Laurence, KS: University Press of Kansas.   2003. ‘Introduction: Tourism and the Future’, in H.K. Rothman (ed.), The Culture of Tourism, the Tourism of Culture, Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, pp. 1–11. Schrader, R.F. 1983. The Indian Arts and Crafts Board, Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press. Sperling’s Best Places. n.d. ‘Gallup, New Mexico’. Available at: http://www. bestplaces.net/city/Gallup-New_Mexico.aspx. Sturtevant, W.C. 1969. Guide to Field Collecting of Ethnographic Specimens: Information Leaflet 503, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution.

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Townsend-Gault, C. 2004. ‘Circulating Aboriginality’, Journal of Material Culture 9(2): 183–202. Weigle, M. 1989. ‘From Desert to Disney World: The Santa Fe Railway and the Fred Harvey Company Display the Indian Southwest’, Journal of Anthropological Research 45(1): 115–37. Weigle, M. and Babcock, B.A. (eds) 1996. The Great Southwest of the Fred Harvey Company and the Santa Fe Railway, Phoenix, AZ: Heard Museum. Weiner, A. 1985. ‘Inalienable Wealth’, American Ethnologist: Journal of the American Anthropological Association 12: 52–65.   1994. ‘Cultural Difference and the Density of Objects’, American Anthropologist 21(1): 391–403. Williams, R. 2005. Culture and Materialism, London: Verso. Wilson, C. 1997. The Myth of Santa Fe: Creating a Modern Regional Tradition, Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press.   2003. ‘Ethnic and Sexual Personas in Tri-Cultural New Mexico’, in H.K. Rothman (ed.), The Culture of Tourism, the Tourism of Culture, Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, pp. 12–37. Witherspoon, G. 1977. Language and Art in the Navajo Universe, Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press.   1981. ‘Silver and Turquoise Jewelry in the Navajo World’, in Heard Museum (ed.), White Metal Universe: Navajo Silver from the Fred Harvey Collection, Phoenix, AZ: Heard Museum, pp. 47–50. Woodard, A. 1971. Navajo Silver: A Brief History of Navajo Silversmithing, Flagstaff, AZ: Northland Publishing. Wright, M.N. 1991. Hopi Silver: A History and Hallmarks of Hopi Silversmithing, Flagstaff, AZ: Northland Publishing.

Part III

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Extreme Matters

10 Extremes of Collecting at the Imperial War Museum 1917–2009

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Struggles with the Large and the Ephemeral

Paul Cornish

Introduction Large objects are a self-evident ‘extreme’ in the context of museum collections, while a less obvious but equally significant extreme is provided by ephemeral material (which may also be large). Of course, all museum objects have finite life spans – even if the deterioration of many of them moves at an exceedingly slow pace. So, while no museum can hope to preserve its collections in perpetuity, most are obliged to grapple with the problems inherent in collecting items which, by intent or by virtue of their composition, are of a potentially evanescent nature. The Imperial War Museum (IWM) has, since its inception, been obliged to come to grips with items both large and ephemeral. The Lambeth Road and Trafford sites feature vehicles, ordnance and aircraft in their main exhibition spaces, while Duxford Airfield was wholly founded on the precept of displaying such large items. Then, of course, there is HMS Belfast – an entire cruiser – and one might certainly describe the physical confines of the Cabinet War Rooms (now part of the Churchill War Museum) as an exhibit in their own right. Meanwhile the Museum’s galleries and stores contain many ephemeral or potentially ephemeral exhibits. These include such delights as pressed poppies from the Western Front (EPH 3938, EPH 9411, EPH 9960), a desiccated gerbil (EPH 1332), considerately sent by a Second World War soldier to his sister, and a latex foam dog toy in the shape of Saddam Hussein (EPH 207).

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IWM origins and ‘mission’ The origins of this situation lie in the early history of the Museum. Collecting began in 1917 – over three years before the Museum actually opened. Even at this early stage the Director General Designate, Sir Martin Conway, laid down a novel vision for the proposed institution. It was, of necessity, innovative, as no museum of its type had ever before been created. He wrote: It is the purpose of the Museum to be a place which they [war veterans] can visit with their comrades, their friends, or their children, and there revive the past and behold again the great guns and other weapons with which they fought, the uniforms they wore, pictures and models of the ships and trenches and dug-outs in which weary hours were spent, or of positions which they carried and ground every yard of it memorable to them. They will be glad to recall also the occupations of their hours of leisure. (Kavanagh, 1994: 129)

As if this was not a tall enough order, he also intended that the Museum should be ‘as comprehensive as possible, and to obtain not only every type of gun, but a type of each gun in the various stages of its development’. Similarly Major Henry Beckles Willson, tasked with gathering ‘trophies’ from the Front, wrote: ‘I gather that it is the desire of the Committee that to begin with one or two examples of every variety of enemy ordnance should be procured’ (IWM CF: A4/4). Not surprisingly, in hindsight, such ambitions were doomed to defeat by the very wealth of materiel to which the Great War gave birth. The Museum did, however, acquire many large exhibits as a result of these policies – guns, aircraft and vehicles. It was of course not only the collecting of large exhibits which was implicit in Conway’s ‘mission statement’. Items of personal relevance are specifically mentioned, in what was again a conscious ‘divergence from the accepted museum idea’, as Conway put it in a letter to the editor of the Daily Telegraph (IWM CF: A4/1). Intrinsic to the proposed process was the need to acquire items which would previously have been regarded as ephemeral and, indeed, unworthy of preservation in a museum. It was the decision to collect this sort of object that made the IWM (in the words of one recent commentator) ‘less a museum for the study of war than an ethnographic collection for the display of the British nation-in-arms’ (Malvern, 2000: 188). Gaynor Kavanagh, a historian of the early days of the museum, noted that ‘Its achievements in terms of contemporary collecting and its pioneer work in this respect has never been fully acknowledged by British museum curators’ (Kavanagh, 1986: 28). Indeed, so unique was this work, that even now it is not easy to place it within the structure of modern analyses of collecting. It has been claimed, with justification, that the IWM ‘could even be said to invert many of the most fundamental assumptions about museums and the enlightenment’ (Malvern, 2000: 178). The story of the use of objects by the museum – particularly those which might be considered to represent the ‘extremes’ of collecting – is therefore as significant as it is curious.

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Extremes of collecting – extremes of display Exhibits both large and ephemeral suffered from the surroundings in which they were originally displayed. The straitened economic circumstances of the post-war era meant that no funds were available for the creation of a purpose-built home for the Imperial War Museum. Thus, in order to get its collections on public display, it was obliged to take up residence in the Crystal Palace. This glass and iron structure, created for the Great Exhibition of 1851, had been relocated to the suburbs of South London, where it functioned as what would today be called a ‘leisure attraction’. Within the Crystal Palace there was only limited case space available for small or perishable items. Environmental conditions were appalling, with a temperature range of 1 to 46 degrees Celsius. No figures are available for the relative humidity, but the greenhouse-like architecture does not suggest that it would have been stable. Moreover, the presence of potted palms, fountains and aviaries among the exhibits would hardly have been likely to assist in this respect. The floors were not designed to support large exhibits and had to be specially strengthened to accept the artillery pieces. Meanwhile the tanks had to be left outside in the open air, where they became a target for vandals and souvenir hunters. The museum secretary, Charles ffoulkes reported to the Times that ‘the interest and inquisitiveness of the general public was so insistent and forcible that it was absolutely impossible to protect the tanks from internal damage, in spite of the use of many hundreds of yards of barbed wire which apparently presented no obstacle to the youthful visitor’ (IWM CF: A4/1). Thus, ironically, the tanks had to be protected with the very wire which they had been designed to overcome. A new problem afflicted the large exhibits when the Museum transferred to the Imperial Institute in South Kensington in 1923. Accommodation at the new location was very limited in size. This resulted in the disposal of many of the Museum’s exhibits, now considered, in the words of ffoulkes, to be ‘redundant or of little interest’ (ffoulkes, 1938: 137). The destruction, at this time, of exceptionally rare items, such as one of only three German A7V tanks surviving at that time, has been a source of anguish to later generations of curators. Nor did smaller items escape this cull – many being sold for scrap, as the Museum’s registers attest. However, due to the cramped conditions at the Imperial Institute, large items such as guns dominated the displays in the same way that they had done (for different reasons) in the Crystal Palace (see Cornish, 2004). One outcome of the difficulty associated with the display of large objects continues to have an influence on the Museum’s displays to this day: namely, the use of models. These were seen as an answer to displaying the undisplayable – with a prime motivation being the representation of the Royal Navy, given that it was obviously impractical to display whole ships. However, the use of models soon extended beyond this, to incorporate, for instance, depictions of war work, topographical representations of sectors of the war fronts, and a

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life-sized wooden replica of an 18-inch naval gun (Figure 10.1). The latter was an acknowledged ‘extreme’, as it was the largest weapon in British service. Not everyone was pleased with this use of models. In 1924, one reviewer was to write with reference to the ship models that ‘there is a ludicrous aspect of the toy about them which destroys the illusion of strength’ (IWM CF: A3/2). Such detractors evidently found no sympathetic ear within the IWM. The 1938 guide to the museum features a number of models, including a whole gallery of topographical models (IWM 1938: 29–30). Ironically, in view of their function of reducing terrain or weaponry to manageable proportions, many of these models suffered damage from German bombs during the Second World War, as they proved too cumbersome to be moved to safety (War History I: 14). The IWM had laid plans to evacuate parts of its collection prior to the outbreak of war. However, these efforts were focused on the Art Collection (War History I: 4–6). In common with the models, large objects were mostly obliged to take their chances in the Blitz – although twelve naval and four army guns were ‘returned to war service’ in 1940 (War History I: 7). Once the war had ended, the Museum recommenced collecting. This was evidently a haphazard procedure, although once again involving extremes. The chronicler of the IWM’s War History records that ‘we never knew from day to day what might arrive – it might be half a Lancaster fuselage, an Italian human torpedo, or a Commando kit’ (War History II: 23). The proposed new exhibitions were in fact frequently re-designed to accommodate large exhibits as they arrived.

Figure 10.1. Wooden replica of an 18-inch naval gun arriving at the Crystal Palace, 1920. Photograph courtesy of the Imperial War Museum London, Neg No. Q20528. By permission of the Imperial War Museum.

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The large In the 1970s the Imperial War Museum’s collecting of large items received a major impetus when it took control of Duxford Airfield in Cambridgeshire, and HMS Belfast, a preserved wartime cruiser, moored on the Thames. The latter remains the biggest ‘object’ in the IWM’s collections, although attempts to acquire other large marine vessels have been made. Hopes of acquiring a nuclear submarine were abandoned because of radiological issues, while an extraordinary plan to salvage the German submarine U48 from the Goodwin Sands was thwarted by shifting sands and tides (IWM CF 6 (b) (i)). Apart from the acquisition of HMS Belfast, the most celebrated additions to the IWM’s collection of naval exhibits had arrived in 1968, when two 15-inch guns (formerly fitted in the Battleships HMS Ramillies and HMS Resolution) were installed on a plinth in front of the Museum’s main entrance. In a good example of the symbolic ‘power’ of large objects, these guns have since become iconic of the Imperial War Museum as a whole – featuring on posters and in virtually every exterior photograph of the building. Duxford offered new opportunities for the collecting of aircraft and vehicles. Many such acquisitions did indeed take place during the 1970s and 1980s – unfortunately to such an extent that the Museum eventually possessed more aircraft than it could adequately care for (IWM CF 6 (a) (viii)). The fundamental problem was that the British climate does not permit the display of such items in the open without severely compromising their condition. Even hangars need to be provided with a controlled environment if aircraft are to be properly preserved within them. The development of Duxford over the past two decades has therefore been aimed at achieving the correct conditions for the display or storage of large objects. This has resulted in three major additions to the airfield’s original buildings: the socalled ‘Super-Hangar’ (now redeveloped as ‘AirSpace’), the Land Warfare Hall and the American Air Museum. In 1989, the Imperial War Museum re-opened after a major redevelopment. The main attraction of the ‘new’ Museum was its ‘atrium’. This had been constructed within the internal courtyard of the original building. Its capacious floor area was eminently suited to the display of large objects – armoured vehicles, pieces of ordnance and even miniature submarines – while the high roof was designed to facilitate the suspension of aircraft. With good lighting (publicity photography tended to be done after dark) it looked most striking and, to use a contemporaneously fashionable phrase: ‘state of the art’. Due to the phased nature of the re-opening, only a single gallery of smaller exhibits (covering the inter-war era and the Second World War) was operative at this time; a second (covering the First World War) was to open in the following year. Thus, although marketed as the ‘new’ Imperial War Museum, the dominant presence of large objects echoed the layout of earlier iterations of the Museum in the Crystal Palace and the Imperial Institute (see Cornish, 2004). Even the arched glass roof was evocative of the IWM’s original home.

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The atrium, with its large exhibits, has followed a similar path to that of the 15-inch naval guns in becoming emblematic of the Imperial War Museum as a whole. It is by far the most frequently reproduced interior view. The requirements of information, signage and trading have conspired to reduce the number of large items on display since 1989, but as recently as 2009 silhouettes of the large objects in the atrium were used in an IWM poster advertising campaign. According to the marketing department, this was a response to surveys which indicated that these were the most attractive element of the IWM’s collections to children. This recalls an early critique of the redeveloped museum, which characterised the atrium area as the ‘biggest boy’s bedroom in the world’ – a phrase which has been repeated so often that its origins have been lost. It was a comment possibly warranted by the fact that the interpretation of the large exhibits – via caption boards and video – was strictly limited to the technology on show, rather than its context. However, it missed the point that, in order to discharge its remit, the Imperial War Museum is obliged to collect large pieces of military technology. One cannot attempt to represent modern conflict without showing the weaponsystems used to wage it. The industrialisation of war was the salient feature of both world wars – it was technological and industrial progress that gave them their shockingly lethal character and permitted them to be waged on such an unparalleled scale. Thus today, as much as in 1917, large objects remain fundamental to the IWM’s terms of reference. In fact, these large items can also carry more subtle messages. In 2000, the Imperial War Museum opened its Holocaust gallery. Some sought to contrast the restrained representation of this most ghastly aspect of twentieth-century conflict with the (by comparison) exuberant arrangement of large weapons in the atrium, through which the visitor must pass before entering the Holocaust gallery. It should not be forgotten, however, that without the availability of some of the ‘boy’s toys’ displayed in the atrium, there may have been no survivors to tell the tale of the Holocaust. Furthermore, two of the exhibits (the V1 flying bomb and V2 rocket) were manufactured by the slave labour of concentration camp prisoners working in the most appalling conditions. Thus large pieces of ‘kit’ frequently share the multiple resonances of smaller and more personal items. In the context of this chapter, it is interesting to note that one of the most prominent and, indeed, most admired elements of the Holocaust exhibition itself is in fact a model. As with earlier models, its purpose is to represent the undisplayable – in this case a section of the death camp at Auschwitz-Birkenau (see http://www.gerryjudah.com/installations/imperial-war-museum). The ghostly-white model made by artist Gerry Judah is huge, but teems with tiny figures – representing the ‘processing’ of a single ‘transport’ of Ruthenian Jews. It succeeds in emotionally engaging the viewer without resorting to any form of sensationalism. Its immediacy tempts one to speculate as to whether the topographical models of sections of the Western Front evoked a similar response in war veterans and their families, who viewed them during the

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1920s and 1930s. None of the latter models are currently on display, although several remain in the Museum’s collections, along with other early models. In many cases these have taken on an additional level of meaning during their lifetime; becoming historical artefacts in their own right by virtue of the circumstances of their creation. The most prominent examples are the plaster models of ‘women’s war work’, which were commissioned from female artists between 1917 and 1920 (IWM CF: EN1/3). Meanwhile, the ship models made by Norman Ough continue to attract public interest because their maker enjoys celebrity status among the ship-modelling fraternity. A recent example of the importance of large objects is offered by the Museum’s Manchester branch, which opened in 2002. IWM North consciously envisaged itself as departing from the well-established format followed by exhibitions at Lambeth Road. This was signalled by its radical architecture and the use of sound and vision, ‘The Big Picture Show’, in its main exhibition space. However, in reality, IWMN to a great extent adheres to the IWM convention of small objects (many of them ‘ephemeral’) in wallcases, with large objects centrally placed in the exhibition area. Since the new museum’s creation, members of its staff have striven to introduce more large objects into its main exhibition space. To some extent this has put them in ‘competition’ with their colleagues at Lambeth Road and Duxford: there are only a limited number of suitably iconic large objects to go around!

The ephemeral The Oxford English Dictionary definition of ‘ephemeral’ is: ‘lasting or living for a very short time’. ‘Ephemera’ is defined as: ‘items of short-lived interest or usefulness’. Ostensibly, one would not suppose that these terms would be likely to apply to objects considered worthy of preservation in museums. Nevertheless, in all museums, objects which would have been considered ephemeral by their creators, owners and users are preserved. Indeed, the point has been well made that artefacts which can be classified as ‘rubbish’ or ‘transient’ are in fact elevated out of these categories and made ‘durable’ by the very fact of their inclusion in a museum collection (Pearce, 1992: 34–35). In the specific case of the Imperial War Museum, it might be argued that, originally, a high proportion of its collections – particularly the threedimensional objects – would have been perceived as ephemeral in nature. They were items manufactured purely to further the prosecution of wars which were finite (albeit unpredictably so) in duration. That this perception did not evaporate with the coming of peace is amply demonstrated by the fact that, as noted above, within three years of the Museum opening, a significant element of its collections could be sold off as ‘redundant or of little interest’. Indeed, there were evidently some tensions among the staff of the early IWM with regard to the value judgements which such collecting (and disposal) entailed. In his memoirs, Charles ffoulkes complained, with reference to his former staff, that ‘their natural inclinations were to collect “souvenirs” with but little

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perspective vision. But one had to consider that while such things might be of transitory value for the moment our business was to make history, or rather record history’ (ffoulkes, 1938: 109–10). Thus, in addition to the obvious preservation and conservation problems associated with collecting ephemeral material, the philosophy underlying its acquisition has always been a concern – albeit a largely unspoken one – within the Imperial War Museum. From a preservation standpoint, ephemera is, in fact, frequently more durable than the term suggests. For example, a remarkable quantity of foodstuff survives in the IWM’s collections – well past its use-by date in almost every case, of course. Its longevity can be surprising. I can personally recall my regret at having to dispose of some very wholesome smelling turtle soup dating from before the First World War. This was due to the most common problem presented by packaged foodstuffs – the degradation or corrosion of the packaging, rather than the decomposition of the contents. Finally in this context, mention must be made of the most common comestible in the IWM’s collections – the British Army biscuit – which exhibits a durability that would shame many armoured vehicles. This point is neatly made by a pair of biscuits of First World War vintage, which have been converted into photograph frames (EPH 1512, EPH 1513) (see Figure 10.2). Ironically, it is frequently the case that objects intended by their makers to have a certain amount of longevity prove to be the most perishable. The example of items made from rubber, such as gas masks or diving suits, comes readily to mind, the degeneration of rubber being, effectively, irreversible. Non-organic items can also present preservation challenges. The most prominent example is offered by old film stock. The collecting of film was another instance of the early IWM’s innovative acquisition policy. However, this meant that, until the 1980s, the holdings of the Museum’s Department of Film (now the Film and Video Archive) were dominated by footage recorded

Figure 10.2. British Army biscuit converted into a photograph frame. Photograph courtesy of the Imperial War Museum London, Neg No. EPH001513. By permission of the Imperial War Museum.

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on highly unstable nitrate stock, which was not only prone to deterioration, but also highly flammable. Transfer of such footage to safety film continues to this day. Another example, arising from a similar cause, is the potential fate of items made from cellulose nitrate based plastic. Due to their composition, these have an inbuilt urge to self-destruct. Their vapours may also harm other material, notably card or paper, stored with them (Quye and Williamson, 1999: 111–35). To delay this degradation, it is necessary to keep such material in a cool environment and away from direct sources of light (Quye and Williamson, 1999: 92f). Consequently, they are difficult to put on display. Conservation considerations pertaining to perishable materials of these sorts oblige curators to make difficult ethical decisions. As a general principle, the Museum cannot consider accessioning material which it cannot guarantee to preserve in the long term. The IWM’s Department of Exhibits maintains a distinct collection of ‘Ephemera and Miscellanea’. The second part of its name was added during the 1990s, when it was realised that the term ‘Ephemera’, in the context of collecting and collections, was generally assumed to refer to printed matter. The collection was constituted to house all those items which do not readily fit into the more easily defined areas of the department’s purview. It is noteworthy that the resulting large and heterogeneous body of material is the most heavily used of the department’s collections, both in terms of exhibitions and public interaction. The chief reason for this is that, above all others, it is the Ephemera Collection which contains objects associated with personal experiences of conflict. These items are the legacy of the Imperial War Museum’s innovative collecting policy of 1917. Those who guide the Museum’s display policy would endorse Nicholas Saunders’ suggestion that objects of this sort ‘connect directly to people’s lives in ways that Neolithic flints, Roman amphorae and medieval sculptures cannot’ (Saunders, 2007: 177). Such items will continue to be collected despite their ephemerality (actual or conceptual), for they are perceived as being central to the remit of the Museum. The importance of this collection was underlined when it became the subject of a major documentation and storage programme between 2004 and 2007.

Difficult decisions With regard to official Imperial War Museum policy on the acquisition of ephemeral objects, there is but scant documentary material to be found. The Museum’s acquisition registers are testimony to the fact that such material was accepted as being part of the institution’s collecting remit. However, I have not found any specific discussion of ephemera and potential problems relating to its long-term preservation in the Museum Archive. With regard to large objects, some official paperwork does exist, for these objects are the ones which were habitually featured in acquisitions policies and guidelines. There is good reason for this, as the larger the object, the greater

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the resource implications for the Museum. Foremost among the ramifications of acquiring a large object is the question of space. Curators are naturally acutely aware of this consideration and do not willingly attempt to collect what they cannot store. However, their good intentions can be undermined by the appearance of important large objects which either emerge unexpectedly from private ownership, or which become available as a result of unforeseen political or military events. For example, the 1982 Falklands Conflict, the end of the Cold War after 1989 and the 1991 Gulf War all resulted in significant additions of vehicles and aircraft to the Museum’s collections. One former Director General of the Museum drew the conclusion, which is hard to dispute, that continuing to collect new large objects ineluctably entailed the disposal of others. He opined that ‘physical space and financial resources will continue to be restricted. I can foresee a time when all museums will have to consider disposals as the only way of continuing their collecting activity’ (Borg, 1991: 29). As he succinctly put it, ‘Large objects help to focus the general issues of disposal quite precisely’ (Borg, 1991: 29). The IWM now operates an Acquisition and Disposal policy aimed at coming to grips with this thorny issue, although it is still too early to judge its progress at time of writing. Thus the extremes of collecting remain very much a live issue at the IWM – as much as in what is rejected as in what is collected. For instance, the Museum receives regular calls from members of the public, asking it to preserve murals painted on the walls of former barracks and POW camps – items which contrive to be at once un-transportably large and ephemeral by both design and nature. Paradoxically, the Museum recently acquired a vast, tiled mural of Saddam Hussein. However, this was re-mounted on an aluminium framework; thus disposing of several awkward tons of masonry. Representation of naval warfare continues to be an issue (especially as it is now prohibitively expensive to commission large ship models). In the 1990s, a feasibility study was conducted regarding the possibility of transporting a Royal Navy Minesweeper to Duxford, by road! This was just the most notable of a number of coastal craft that have been considered for acquisition over the years. Finally, the Museum has even found itself knowingly acquiring ephemera possessed of a clearly finite life-span. In 2007 the Department of Exhibits was asked to acquire a large latex puppet of former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher (EPH 9800) – a relic of the ‘Spitting Image’ television programme. This was purchased in full knowledge that the medium of its construction ensured the impossibility of its long-term survival. As I hope this chapter has shown, unpredictable opportunities and unexpected requirements of this kind are part of the history of the IWM. Furthermore, the nature of the Museum’s remit means that their incidence is unlikely to abate in the future. Thus, whatever the acquisition policy applied, it can be safely assumed that the Imperial War Museum will remain, of necessity, a leader in the field of ‘extreme collecting’.

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References Borg, A. 1991. ‘Confronting Disposal’, Museums Journal 91(9): 29–31. Cornish, P. 2004. ‘Sacred Relics: Objects in the Imperial War Museum 1917– 39’, in N.J. Saunders (ed.), Matters of Conflict, London: Routledge, pp. 35–50. ffoulkes, C. 1938. Arms and the Tower, London: J. Murray. Kavanagh, G. 1986. Museum as Memorial: The Origins of the Imperial War Museum, University of Leicester. 1994. Museums and the First World War: A Social History, Leicester: Leicester University Press. Malvern, S. 2000. ‘War, Memory and Museums: Art and Artefact in the Imperial War Museum’, History Workshop Journal. 49: 177–203. Pearce, S.M. 1992. Museum Objects and Collections: A Cultural Study, Leicester: Leicester University Press. Quye, A. and Williamson, C. 1999. Plastics: Collecting and Conserving, Edinburgh: NMS Publishing. Saunders, N.J. 2007. Killing Time: Archaeology and the First World War, Stroud: Sutton. Imperial War Museum Archive 6 (a) (viii) Aircraft Collecting Policy 6 (b) (i) Aircraft Collecting Policy A3/2 Armistice Days A4/1 Press Notices 1917–19 A4/1 Press Notices 1919–23 A4/4 Trophies Army: Major Beckles Willson’s Correspondence EN1/3 Women’s Work War History of the Imperial War Museum. Part I 1933–1943 War History of the Imperial War Museum. Part II 1944–1946 Imperial War Museum. 1918. The Imperial War Exhibition, Burlington House, 1918, Souvenir, London. Imperial War Museum. 1922. Short Guide to the Imperial War Museum, London. Imperial War Museum. 1938. Short Guide to the Imperial War Museum, London. Imperial War Museum. 1968. Imperial War Museum Trustees Report 1968, London.

11 Plastics – Why Not?

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A Perspective from the Museum of Design in Plastics

Susan Lambert

Everyone has something to say about plastics, sometimes good, sometimes bad. It was predicted by scientists in a rousing ending to the first popular book on plastics, written during the Second World War, that ‘When the dust and smoke of the present conflict have blown away and rebuilding has begun, science will return with new powers and resources to its proper creative task. Then we shall see growing up a new, brighter, cleaner and more beautiful world … the Plastics Age’ (Yarsley and Couzens, 1941: 152). By contrast, what this science led to was, for the novelist Norman Mailer, among the world’s main enemies. He likened plastics to the psychology of the mass murderer (Campbell, 2007). Students at the Arts University College at Bournemouth, of which the Museum of Design in Plastics (MoDiP) is a research resource, likewise have different views on the value of plastic things as museum objects. Their reviews of a MoDiP exhibition1 showed that some really liked the re-contextualisation of the everyday that putting such objects in glass cases achieves. For example, one student wrote: ‘I saw objects I use in day-to-day life that I never thought I would see in a museum, which for me is the best thing about it’. But another found ‘the museum was commercialised; all the things you can see in the museum are just from your local supermarket’. But what most of them agreed was that one way or another: ‘It just shows how much plastics are used in everyday life’. As this is the case, I was surprised to be asked to present a paper about plastics at a workshop about ‘extreme collecting’, defined as ‘the process of collecting that challenges the bounds of normally acceptable practice’.

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According to the International Council for Museums (ICOM) a museum is an institution ‘which acquires, conserves, researches, communicates and exhibits the tangible and intangible heritage of humanity and its environment for the purposes of education, study, and enjoyment’ and, self-evidently, plastic things are a part of that heritage. Indeed, the modern world is made of plastics. Few advances in domestic, industrial, commercial or technological design could have been achieved without the properties of plastics (Lyungberg, 2007), and since the 1970s, plastics, of one kind or another, have been the materials with the most uses in the world (Cascini and Rissone, 2004). Applications have encompassed such different entities as cinematic film, the flag that Neil Armstrong planted on the moon, Concorde’s distinctive nose, contact lenses, and so-called ‘rubber’ washing-up gloves. The story of design in plastics represents a huge slice of the tangible heritage of twentieth- and twenty-first-century humanity and its environment. For this reason plastics have, in fact, been widely collected. Today, all museums and galleries engaged with this period of time, whatever their subject specialism, have plastics in their collections, either as objects in their own right or as components of composite objects – common examples of which are cutlery, vehicles and most electrical equipment. A look at plastics holdings in just a few leading London museums suggests the extent to which such artefacts have been collected. As relatively long ago in plastics’ development as 1990, the Science Museum identified 1,500 items (Mossman, 1991); in 1993, a survey of the V&A’s collections found 4,500 items (Then and Oakley, 1993); and in 1995 the British Museum identified 3,032 plastic-containing objects (Shashoua and Ward, 1995). Currently, the Imperial War Museum is aware of 2,530 such exhibits, excluding tapes, negatives and film, and vehicles and aircraft with plastic components (Holbrook, 2009); and Tate currently has some 300 such sculptures and installations excluding most sound, film and video works and all paintings, prints and photos on polyester, or those using acrylic, PVA and alkyd paints (Pullen, 2009). In both cases, had the excluded works been included the number would be very much greater. What distinguishes the thinking underpinning the acquisition of these objects from those in MoDiP is that they were not acquired because they are made of plastics. They may even have been acquired in spite of it. In this sense, perhaps, MoDiP is extreme: it is the only accredited museum in the UK with such a focus. However, that this is the case in terms of industrial, applied, and decorative arts museums is an accident of timing. Such museums, like the Victoria & Albert Museum, burgeoned in the second half of the nineteenth century; more than twenty were developed between 1867 and 1888 in Germany alone (Burton, 1999: 112f), and they tended to organise their collections according to the system worked out by the architect and architectural historian, Gottfried Semper (1803–1879). Semper argued that form was determined by materials and that it followed therefore that the ideal organisation for such collections was not by chronology or aesthetic

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significance, as was usual at the time, but by the various arts as dictated by the four primordial techniques of making: the woven, carpentry, ceramic and metalworking arts (Hvattum and Hermansen, 2004: 128f). Thus, textile, wooden, ceramic and metal artefacts were and are collected as examples of achievement in the particular material/technique. Plastics were, however, only just appearing. The 1851 Great Exhibition, itself influenced by this Semperian order, had few exhibitors showing plastics-related products, in the semi-synthetic sense, and although by the 1862 exhibition there were over fifty such exhibitors, the potential functionality of their wares tended to be exaggerated and remained, proportionally, unimportant (Quye and Williamson, 1999: 11). The first truly synthetic plastic, phenol formaldehyde (of which Bakelite is a famous trade name), was not invented until 1907. Even so, it was only when plastics developed for use in the Second World War were channelled into other uses post-1945 that the full global potential of plastics began to be imagined. As a former curator at the Victoria & Albert Museum, I can provide anecdotal evidence that the collecting of plastics remained hampered by the Museum’s materials-based departmental structure as late as 1992. I was given a small fund to acquire objects not already in the collection that were considered vital for the 20th Century Gallery, a gallery of world design that opened that year.2 These included products such as a Swatch watch, a Dyson vacuum cleaner, a Walkman stereo, an Ideo phone and a Casio calculator. What they all had in common, as well as being things that require a source of energy to work, were their plastic casings. Finding long-term homes within the curatorial departments for these objects required feats of negotiation as well as directives from on high. Most of them ended up in what was then the Metalwork Department, for no better reason than vacuum cleaners and watches (at least) had traditionally been made of metal, and as the responsibility of a curator selected as his expertise extended to contemporary practice – but in silver, not plastics. In such circumstances it is not surprising that a year or two later Brenda Keneghan, the V&A’s polymer scientist, encountered what she diagnosed as ‘plastics denial syndrome’ among her curatorial colleagues (Keneghan, 1996). But why was nothing done to accommodate these objects more appropriately? The answer must lie in the ‘extreme’ connotations that surround plastic artefacts within the museum context. Certainly the collecting of plastics presents its specific challenges. It is a subject area with no widely agreed corpus or given history, no historiography or critical literature recognised as having common scholarly methodologies, and no geography. Plastic is a global material that can be used to make almost anything and there is such a lot of it. How can sense be made of such a mixture of stuff that is not widely valued? At MoDiP, we address this through our acquisition policy. Everything we collect has to meet at least two criteria, one to do with the material and the other to do with adding value. In terms of material, an artefact has

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to be made either of some form of plastic, or have plastic components, or provide context for such an artefact. Thus, having bought the English-made wipe-clean cellulose nitrate collar, we were delighted to be given the small advertisement (Figure 11.1) showing that the same wares were available in France. One of the value-adding criteria is that the object throws light on the use of plastic materials and processes of manufacture. Two examples demonstrating very different ways in which this criterion can be met are the ‘Gaydon’ cups (Figure 11.2) and ‘Fresh Fat Easy Chair’ (Figure 11.3). The cups provide an early example of the use of a split mould. To emulate porcelain, they were given a white inner lining in an innovative two-stage process (Akhurst, 2004). The chair, made from one continuous piece of extruded plastic, challenges preconceptions of plastic as a mass-produced throwaway material, for it was hand-woven. These chairs are only made to order and each chair is unique.

Figure 11.1. ‘Edinburgh’-style collar, made in England, by British Xylonite, c.1890. Cellulose nitrate sheet, cut and folded, with a French advertisement for similar wares made by the same company, c.1890. Xylonite is a trade name for cellulose nitrate.

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Figure 11.2. ‘Gaydon’ cups and saucers designed by A.H. ‘Woody’ Woodfull and made by British Industrial Plastics, Ltd. Compression moulded melamine formaldehyde.

Figure 11.3. Fresh Fat Easy Chair, designed and made by Tom Dixon, first produced in 2003. Extruded and hand-woven polyethylene terepthalate glycol. Reproduction: Tom Dixon.

Another value-adding criterion is that the object is evocative of, or provides insight into, the society of which it was a part. Such a current issue is sustainability/recycling, exemplified here by the loft insulation (Figure 11.4) and handbag (Figure 11.5), objects that approach the issue from very different perspectives. It is said that if everyone topped up their loft insulation to 270mm, over £700 million would be saved each year in fuel costs. That is enough money to pay the annual fuel bills of around 550,000 families. But the B&Q loft insulation, promoted as part of their ‘One Planet Living Campaign’ to help consumers make environmentally sound choices, has a double win as it is itself made from 90 per cent recycled plastic bottles. The bag was handcrafted; it has a compact disc as its base and shower hosing as its handle. Its body is made from bottle tops and

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pharmaceutical packaging waste. None of its ingredients have been used before, for all are the result of overproduction by the various industries. Had they not been used in this way, they would have gone into landfill. A substantial group of objects made from recycled plastics including Marks & Spencer’s school uniforms, supermarket bags, a guitar and fancy lights have also been acquired. An earlier example of such an issue in the years following the Second World War was the use of plastics to cope with the servant problem and reduce the grind of household chores. Examples are easy-clean decorative laminate surfaces like Formica; Tupperware, which made it easier to store food hygienically; squeezable bottles delivering flavour to meals and liquid to wash the plates thereafter in an appealing and easy-to-use throw away manner; and wash-and-wear clothes. The third value-adding criterion is that the object is well documented, something that few plastics are, and in a way that adds to an understanding of the history of plastics. Examples are traceability to an identified factory, having a provenance that contributes to an understanding of the consumption of plastic things, being precisely dateable or accompanied by facts and figures relating to production or sales. Indeed, collection of the documentation around an artefact is as important as collecting the artefact itself. This chapter was first presented during the workshop that concentrated on ‘Scale, Size and the Ephemeral’, and it was on the latter of these themes, the ephemeral or at least unstable nature of plastics, that the discussion

Figure 11.4. B&Q recycled plastic loft insulation, 2009. Extruded polyethylene terephthalate with 10% polyester.

Figure 11.5. Rhoda Bag designed and made by Sarah Bayley, 2009. Injection moulded polycarbonate, acrylic, low-density polyethylene, polypropylene and polyvinyl chloride with aluminium.

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among participants focused. Again I was surprised, for until the late 1970s plastics were widely believed to last forever, a belief fuelled by the plastics industry’s claims for the durability of their products (Morgan, 1994). Deterioration and conservation of plastic objects in museums has only been recognised formally as an area of research since 1991 (Shashoua, 2008: ix) and it remains the case that plastics are most often in the news on account of their relative permanence and the damage they can do if disposed of carelessly. A recent example is the plastic contents, including toothbrushes, bottle tops and cigarette lighters, found in the carcass of a fledgling albatross, featured in the Guardian (Carus, 2009) and on the cover of a theme issue of the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B on ‘Plastics, the environment and human health’ (Royal Society, 2009) (Figure 11.6). Nonetheless, it is indeed true that in theory no plastics are stable and that it is hard to predict how plastics will age. The crucial factors are the recipe of the plastic and the conditions the artefact has experienced. All plastics are made with additives and as a result the behaviour of what is essentially the same plastic may differ. For example, the pigment used to colour an otherwise identical object can cause objects to age differently. Equally, different conditions will lead to different ageing, and degradation can happen very fast. ‘Jay’ (Figures 11.7 and 11.8), an articulated figurine of that character from the films by Kevin Smith, collected as an evocative example of popular culture with an accompanying graphic novel, was photographed when it entered the Museum in June 2008, appearing to be in tiptop condition. By July 2009 the doll had developed spots on its face. Once such a process of breaking down has begun it can only be slowed down; it cannot be stopped.

Figure 11.6. Plastics from the carcass of a fledgling albatross, arranged by Dr Cynthia Vanderlip, Division of Forestry and Wildlife, Hawaii. Photograph: Rebecca Hosking FLPA.

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Figure 11.7. Jay, an articulated figurine of the character from the films by Kevin Smith, made for View Askew Prod. Inc., 1998. Injection moulded unidentified plastic. When pressed, the figure plays catch phrases from the film.

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Figure 11.8. Same figurine as in Figure 11.7, showing degradation which appeared within a year.

‘Extreme’, however, as such a situation sounds, it is (to date) mainly different in practice. Investigations to establish the conservation requirements of plastics-containing collections in the V&A and British Museum in the early 1990s suggested that only around one per cent of objects were actively degrading and that this instability was limited to objects containing four particular plastics: cellulose nitrate, cellulose acetate, plasticised polyvinyl chloride (PVC), and polyurethane foams (Shashoua, 2008: 8f). Cellulose nitrate and cellulose acetate are among the very oldest plastics and are no longer widely used. Of the ninety-four objects made of or including these materials in the care of MoDiP, only one object is visibly degrading, a pair of spectacles, of which the metal bits are corroding as a result of contamination from the plastic off-gassing. PVC, the material of window frames, fake leather upholstery (especially in cars), cable insulation, blood bags and the Mary Quant ‘wet look’, and polyurethane foam, now widely used in furniture, are likely to present a larger problem in the future, but we are only aware of one such object in the collection that is currently in trouble, a pair of pink jelly shoes. But the fact that some objects made of these materials are actively degrading does not imply that all of them will in the future, especially if they are properly looked after. Indeed, how any plastic artefact is looked after is the single factor that has the greatest impact on its life expectancy.

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Good practice for most plastics means keeping them in a dark, cool, dry and well-ventilated space with the temperature restricted to 20 degrees Celsius and relative humidity of 30 to 50 per cent. Sharp fluctuations in heat and relative humidity are especially damaging. Ultra-violet should be filtered out from any light to which plastics are exposed. However, even ultra-violetfiltered light is bad for plastics so they should not be on permanent display. Requirements for the four more problematic materials mentioned above are more stringent. Relative humidity should be kept between 20 to 30 per cent; polyurethane should be stored at 20 degrees Celsius, polyvinyl chloride at 5 degrees Celsius, and cellulose nitrate and cellulose acetate at between 2 and 5 degrees Celsius (Plastics Network, n.d.: 28–35). It is vital, also, that plastic artefacts are monitored for degradation. One degrading object can contaminate all those around it. Such conditions and vigilance are hard to find outside the museum environment, which, arguably, means there is a greater case for plastics to be collected by museums than materials that are inherently more stable. However, the possibility or even probability that an object will cease to exist is not a good reason, in words taken from ICOM’s definition of a museum, not to ‘acquire, conserve, research, communicate and exhibit it’ while it is with us. It is only if we do this that there will be a record of it for the future. However, as is noted in A Companion to Museum Studies, ‘a volume that is intended … to contribute to and develop crossdisciplinary dialogue about museums’ (Macdonald, 2006: 1), ‘the museum is an institution of recognition and identity par excellence. It selects cultural products for official safe-keeping for posterity and public display – a process which recognizes and affirms some identities, and omits to recognize and affirm others’ (Macdonald, 2006: 4). The question is why are plastics among the identities that have been omitted from recognition and affirmation? Plastic things are at odds with the popular idea of a museum. The word museum comes from the Greek ‘mouseion’: a temple, seat or shrine of the Muses. Thus, museums are associated with inspiration and things that are rare, things from far away places, things that are precious and valuable, and things from the past. Whereas plastics are all around us – they are associated with the everyday, the cheap, tacky and new. The Beatles’ Polythene Pam ‘was the kind of girl who makes the News of the World’ (from the album Abbey Road), not Country Life, and Polystyrene was a punk, singing about ‘the day the world turned day-glo’ (from the album Germ Free Adolescents by X-Ray Spex) rather than an opera singer addressing love and intrigue within the seams of the establishment. Notions of authenticity are also an issue. At the time the first semisynthetic plastics were developing, William Morris expressed concerns about the authenticity of other materials, making a link between materials and ‘good art’. He promulgated a hierarchy of materials using the criterion of ‘nobility’, stone being the most ‘noble’, followed by wood and then brick, which he described as a ‘makeshift’ (quoted in Fisher, 2008: 148). Was his problem with bricks that, like plastics, they are manmade? A recent article

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on ‘Museums and Authenticity’ states: ‘People increasingly see the world in terms of real or fake, and want to buy the real from the genuine … Authenticity is becoming, in other words, the new consumer sensibility’ (Pine and Gilmore, 2007: 76). ‘Good’ museums must provide the ‘authentic’. Reach Advisors asked over 5,000 visitors to outdoor history museums in the USA to share their thoughts, and 3,000 raised authenticity as an imperative. A quarter of these felt that meant being presented with the real thing and when asked to describe what was not authentic used words like ‘fake stuff’, ‘commercialised’, ‘made in China’, ‘Disney’ and, of special importance to the argument being put forward here, ‘plastic’ (Reach Advisors, 2008). For some, thus, the term plastic is synonymous with inauthentic and therefore certainly challenges the bounds of acceptable museum practice. The significant impact plastics have on the way we live is not to do with their ability to imitate the appearance of other materials, but nonetheless this potential was a characteristic of which early producers were especially proud. British Xylonite, the manufacturers of the celluloid nitrate starched collar look-alike, had as their trademark a tortoise and an elephant, inspired by the potential of the material to substitute also for the more luxurious tortoiseshell and ivory (Figure 11.9). And plastics have been taken up

Figure 11.9. A selection of combs imitating pearl, jet, tortoiseshell and ivory, made in Europe from c.1900 to 1930; the pearl comb from the second half of the twentieth century. Compression moulded cellulose nitrate.

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especially by super-realist artists like Duane Hanson because of their ability to imitate the appearance of the human body, for which reason they are also used in the manufacture of prostheses. Faking can have good applications, but much faking is seen as outright deceitful or at least trying to get away with appearing ‘better’ than you are. The apparently starched linen collar is an early example. Others, still more or less current, are fake fur (although there is also a positive story here), fake silk and fake, never dying but ever fading, flowers. Having no shared form, these examples of commercially successful plastic products make it clear that plastics do not sit comfortably with the much-repeated maxims about truth to materials in good design in the way they were traditionally understood. And, echoing the other words picked by the Research Advisors’ (2008) interviewees to describe the inauthentic, plastic products are often commercialised and often made in China. Such prejudices do not do justice to the value of plastics to today’s world, but they do contribute to an understanding of current attitudes to their value as museum artefacts. As stated also in the previously mentioned A Companion to Museum Studies, ‘Museums are a primary way that a society represents itself: to its own members, and to the larger world. Exhibitions solidify culture, science, history, identity, and world-views. There is a great deal at stake here. Museums commonly present the real thing: art, objects, and artefacts that bear the aura of the authentic. They endow the ideas within any exhibition with tangibility and weight’ (Dubin 2006: 479). These words anticipate those of the Research Advisors’ (2008) interviewees and, taken together, suggest that the issue with plastic artefacts is attitudinal. Although plastics now have more uses than any other material group, people/curators do not want to have their society ‘represented’ by a plethora of plastics or to have their ‘culture, science, history, identity and world-views’ solidified by narratives in plastics. This, rather than any conservation challenges that plastics may raise, is the reason why plastics are not usually ‘recognised and affirmed’ in the museum context. It is because the collection is focused specifically on the contribution of a single group of materials that is not widely valued across all human endeavour touched by design rather than, as is more common, on a discrete subject area regardless of material, that the Museum of Design in Plastics is seen to be an example of extreme collecting.

Notes 1. Eat in or Take out: Plastics for Portability, an exhibition on the impact of different types of plastics on people’s eating habits, winter 2007/08. 2. It was dismantled in 2009.

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References Akhurst, S. 2004. ‘The Rise and Fall of Melamine Tableware’, Plastiquarian 32: 8–13. Burton, A. 1999. Vision and Accident: The Story of the Victoria & Albert Museum, London: V&A Publications. Campbell, J. 2007. ‘Norman Mailer’, Guardian, 10 November. Available at: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2007/nov/10/culture.obituaries. Carus, F. 2009. ‘Albatross Chick’s Storm Warning About Plastic’, Guardian, 16 June. Available at: http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/ blog/2009/jun/16/pollution-waste. Cascini, G. and Rissone, P. 2004. ‘Plastics Design: Integrating TRIZ Creativity and Semantic Knowledge Portals’, Journal of Engineering Design 15(4): 405–24. Dubin, S.C. 2006. ‘Incivilities in Civil(ized) Places: “Culture Wars” in Comparative Perspective’, in S. Macdonald (ed.), A Companion to Museum Studies, Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, pp. 477–93. Fisher, T. 2008. ‘Plastics in Everyday Life: Polymorphous (In)Authenticity’, in B. Keneghan and L. Egan (eds), Plastic: Looking at the Future and Learning from the Past, London: Archetype Books, pp. 145–53. Holbrook, A. 2009. Collections Management, Imperial War Museum, personal communication, 24 August. Hvattum, M. and Hermansen, C. (eds) 2004. Tracing Modernity: Manifestations of the Modern in Architecture and the City, London: Routledge. Keneghan, B. 1996. ‘Plastics? – Not in My Collection’, V&A Conservation Journal 26: 4–6. Lyungberg, L.Y. 2007. ‘Materials Selection and Design for Development of Sustainable Products’, Materials and Design 28(2): 466–79. Macdonald, S. 2006. ‘Expanding Museum Studies: An Introduction’, in S. Macdonald (ed.), A Companion to Museum Studies, Oxford: WileyBlackwell, pp. 1–12. Morgan, J. 1994. A Survey of Plastics in Historical Collections, Plastics Historical Society and The Conservation Unit of Museums and Galleries Commission. Available at: http://www.plastiquarian.com/survey/survey. htm (cached) (accessed 7 August 2009). Mossman, S. 1991. ‘Plastics in the Science Museum, London: A Curator’s View’, in D. Grattan (ed.), Postprints of Saving the Twentieth Century: The Conservation of Modern Materials, Ottawa: Canadian Conservation Institute, pp. 25–35. Pine, B.J. and Gilmore, J.H. 2007. ‘Museums and Authenticity’, Museum News May/June: 76–93. Available at: http://www.aam-us.org/pubs/mn/ authenticity.cfm (accessed 17 August 2009).

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Plastics Network. n.d. ‘Make the Most of Your Plastics’. Available at: http:// www.collectionslink.org.uk/find_a_network/subject_specialists/plastics (accessed 24 August 2009). Pullen, D. 2009. Head of Sculpture Conservation, Tate, personal communication, 17 August. Quye, A. and Williamson, C. 1999. Plastics: Collecting and Conserving, Edinburgh: NMS Publishing. Reach Advisors. 2008. ‘Authenticity and Museums’, 7 April. Available at: http://reachadvisors.typepad.com/museum-audience-insight/2008/04/ authenticiy-an.html (accessed 17 August 2009). Royal Society. 2009. Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B, 364(1526), 29 July. Available at: http://rstb.royalsocietypublishing.org/ content/364/1526. Shashoua, Y. 2008. Conservation of Plastics: Materials Science, Degradation and Preservation, Oxford: Butterworth-Heinemann. Shashoua, Y. and Ward, C. 1995. ‘Plastics: Modern Resins with Aging Problems’, in M.M. Wright and J.H. Townsend (eds), Preprints of the SSRC Conference ‘Resins Ancient and Modern’, Edinburgh: Scottish Society for Conservation and Restoration, pp. 33–37. Then, E. and Oakley, V. 1993. ‘A Survey of Plastic Objects in the Victoria and Albert Museum’, V&A Conservation Journal 6: 11–14. Yarsley, V.E. and Couzens, E.G. 1941. Plastics, Harmondsworth: Penguin.

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Time Capsules as Extreme Collecting

Brian Durrans

[…] I am thinking that when I am old and rotting I will think of this and die laughing […]. (Message from a young American to the year 3000, AOL Millennium Time Capsule, 2000)

Introduction: time capsules and museums Gift-wrapped and addressed to the future, time capsules exemplify ‘extreme collecting’ mainly because their purported benefit is deferred. This chapter considers what they signify in the present. As a museum curator, I was first attracted to time capsules as parallels to ethnographic exhibitions: how accurately do they represent their subjects (‘the present’, ‘a culture’) to their audience (‘the future’, ‘the visitor’), and – above all – how might that audience detect or compensate for gaps in the record or the bias of the presenter (‘compiler’, ‘curator’)? It was striking how inconsistently time capsule compilers influence each other. Most ignore elementary conservation advice; ambitious or eccentric examples generate more prosaic imitators; and, in the opposite direction, even ‘official’ ones, particularly when sponsored as a public relations exercise, may steal a leaf from their more down-market counterparts to include ephemera like today’s sports headlines or lists of favourite soap operas. This suggested another parallel in respect of debates about ‘high’ and ‘low’ art and selecting or collecting exhibits according to aesthetic or other criteria not necessarily meaningful to their makers.

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Like museums, time capsules are widely familiar if not to everyone’s taste. Some people are casually interested; far fewer are enthusiastic enough to compile a time capsule themselves; and contrary views span benign embarrassment to contempt that people should squander resources to such dubious effect. Seen as trivial or naïve, time capsules are overshadowed by the superior rationality of museums’ own collecting policies. But equivocal or negative opinions, even more than positive ones, can suggest that something interesting is going on. A time capsule anticipates its future retrieval; but a museum – perhaps more nervous about tempting fate because it has more at stake – rarely invokes posterity except as a rhetorical figure when making ritualistic claims to high-mindedness. From the point of view of a museum, ‘the future’ and ‘the public’ are defined in modernist terms to serve as the twin axes between which to conduct and represent its business. Sometimes oxymoronically called ‘forward planning’ or ‘planning ahead’, strategic planning by museums in casino economies is not, paradoxically, conducive to putting long-term thinking into practice. Even the most regular and enthusiastic visitors are rarely active partners in a truly collaborative enterprise. Frustrated by such disjunctions, museums strive to democratise their appeal. Although resisted by the modernist paradigm itself, in which future and public are abstract points of reference and deference rather than concretised as persons to get entangled with, such effort nonetheless extends educational and cultural benefit far wider than if museums were content merely to trade on past prestige. It is through such extension that the limits of modernism are tested and, in due course, possibly transcended. In the meantime, few museums can remain consistently confident in their future or their ability to engage the broadest spectrum of society. Tempted at such moments to blame the planning cycle, government policy or competing media favoured by the millions who rarely or never visit, the hapless institution refocuses on its core offer, sheds dead wood, and, misjudging modernism’s failure for its own, ignores the very advice that could, if everyone followed it, pull us all out of the mire: that ‘[i]n institutions built so as to endure for ages you must have relaxation’ (Chesterton, 1958: 212). For relaxation is not available to one institution if not also to its competitors. Speaking to as many as it can about its own interpretation of the world, a museum is struck silent by the idea of reflecting openly on the contentious context of such activity: competing for resources, negotiating with sponsors, nurturing a ‘public image’, assessing failures as well as successes. The immanent future is too enmeshed in the necessary discretion and rivalry of present practice to be clearly distinguishable as a subject; only as a further-off (modernist) abstraction can it be focused on at all,1 as a subject in a science museum. But if museums in this sense avoid altogether the present significance of the future, time capsules apparently seize it with both hands. That is both their appeal and their absurdity. Asked to lighten up, modernism dourly responds with abstraction and measurement in

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terms of abstract units – ‘relevance’, ‘impact’ and the like, summarised in ‘audit culture’. This is consistent with the ‘calendrical’ version of the future, which has sought to displace a more informal, uncoordinated Providence since before the Enlightenment, an invasive process now so sedimented into experience that we are aware of its current manifestations only in their surface expression, such as digital displacement of analogue, and encroaching virtuality (discussed in more detail below). If it is increasingly difficult to imagine the non-modernist social time of lives and generations, this is only because dominant technologies construct modernist time as the only time imaginable. Museums are well equipped to contest this view by presenting evidence of different ways of framing social life, but time capsules exist for no other purpose. To the extent that they can merely criticise, never displace, the abstract modernist future by prefiguring it as detached, time capsules are a hopeless cause; but what redeems them is that, by the same token, they rehearse an alternative ontology against the grain of modernist supremacism. In a gesture both metonymic and metaphorical, time capsules unite the present’s future and that future’s past. Yet their compilers do not necessarily take seriously the promise of time capsules to signify in the future by virtue of what they represent in (and of) the present. This underpins the time capsule’s secondary but more obvious eccentricities, such as their quirky or enervating contents that the media like to mock. But comical particulars alone cannot explain the embarrassment which time capsules typically elicit and the mockery seems to express. These objects are embarrassing because they are ontologically ambiguous. For a perspective on how time capsules negotiate the future, it might be helpful to look first at how less extreme collections do so. Most orthodox collections, perhaps wisely, give the far future a wide berth, but some occasionally feel confident enough to flirt with it. One example of the latter (or perhaps more accurately a collection of collections) is the British Museum, which serves to point up the radical alterity of time capsules and also to suggest what they and ordinary collections may share in common.

Invoking the future Its reputation and longevity should mean that the British Museum can be excused for making claims to immortality even if they cannot be taken literally. But the habit may be harder to break because it began before the Museum itself was born. Here is what Frederic, Prince of Wales, is reported to have said about Sir Hans Sloane’s collection during a visit to him in 1748, before Sloane committed himself to bequeathing it to the nation as the founding collection of the British Museum: ‘[H]ow great an honour will redound to Britain, to have [so magnificent a collection] established for publick use to the latest posterity’ (quoted in Wilson, 2002: 19; emphasis added). As former British Museum director Sir David Wilson suggests,

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the prince’s words may have helped (and were probably meant) to secure Sloane’s bequest to the nation. Although Sloane had already indicated this intention in his first will of 1739, the bird was not quite yet in the hand (Wilson, 2002: 18–19). To enhance an argument for improved understanding and government support, David Wilson himself wrote, near the end of the twentieth century, that with adequate funding the British Museum ‘can serve the international community […] for ever’ (Wilson, 1989: 126; emphasis added). The Prince of Wales’s statement is the more circumspect, neither asserting nor necessarily emphasising that the collection will last to ‘the latest posterity’, and was almost certainly meant to convey his public-spiritedness rather than to be taken literally. And Wilson’s ‘for ever’ seems to register a similar commitment, given that by 1989 the bird and its descendants have been long in the aviary, if short of birdseed. The future as a rhetorical figure fits the focus of both statements on the Museum’s public engagement rather than on the building or the collections it contains. Consider as a parallel a tattoo where ‘for ever’ follows the name of your favourite person or football team. It is not a truth-claim but, unless commissioned while drunk, declares a commitment that was probably sincere at the time. ‘Latest posterity’ (furthest generation) approximates to this socially orientated figure while ‘for ever’ detaches from it. Whether or not this reveals an idiomatic shift over two centuries, modernism prefers its time abstract and unadorned rather than humanised in life-spans. In the same book that includes the above-quoted ‘for ever’ statement, Wilson also states that ‘Britain should be proud to hold such an institution in trust for all time’; and the Museum is responsible for ‘holding material in trust for mankind throughout the foreseeable future’ (Wilson, 1989: 104, 116; emphases added). The latter are words few tattooists have been asked to inscribe, for although ‘throughout’ connotes ongoing engagement, ‘foreseeable’ only questions its sincerity in a context where the modernist abstraction ‘for ever’ or ‘for all time’ is surely a metaphor for social commitment. This co-option of an ‘objective’ idiom for a subjective purpose recalls E.M. Forster’s devastating if unintended exposé of modernist ontology when he declared life bearable only by believing that one is immortal and society eternal, despite knowing neither of these beliefs is true.2 This is the reductio ad absurdum of the modernist abandonment of ‘engaged dwelling’ through its creation of objects for detached contemplation, and not even an intellectual is capable of applying it. The solution to Forster’s modernist dilemma, which time capsules halfrecognise, is not to be ‘modern’. Goaded yet beguiled by such uncertainty, they seal their contents against revision and decay, and address themselves explicitly, if always problematically, to the future. In the rest of this chapter, after an overview of the genre, I explore four key dimensions of the ‘extreme’ collecting characteristic of time capsules, and illustrate the last three of them with examples. These dimensions are: ontology, contents, performance and time-span. The chapter concludes with a suggestion that certain kinds of

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environmentalist time capsules, together with a renewed critique and active dismantling of modernism, could promise a more embodied and creatively immanent future; though whether museums as modernist institutions could practise or survive the self-analysis presupposed by that scenario is open to question.

Time capsules: an overview The term ‘time capsule’ was first coined in 1938 for the Westinghouse Company’s phallic container created for the New York World’s Fair, one of only a handful of ‘stay-puts’ – in Atlanta (Figure 12.1), New York (two examples), Osaka and Castle Howard – that, for the sake of a more than token effort to sample their times, are seriously meant to survive predictable disasters beyond a millennium. Because of their expensive technology and marketing, and scepticism towards their impossible efforts to encompass or précis the world, these overblown projects inspire a desire to supplement their messages or capture their allure: but even if collecting a different, more local sample of the present, other capsules directly or indirectly, and always selectively, follow the normative model of millennial examples in compiling, adding written messages, sealing and burying them with appropriate ritual. Delivering excitement to its compilers, rather than (or rather than only) a message to the future, is a function not of the message a time capsule contains but of the message a time capsule is. Conventional understandings of the genre take its message as the capsule’s raison d’être, valued objectively and yielding data, rather than valued subjectively and offering experience. By bringing these two values into a complementary relationship, a time capsule allows their mutual endorsement as each is represented in terms of the other. A desire to recapture locally something of the excitement of engaging with the future in this distinctive way may generate as many new examples as an urge to ‘correct’, ‘democratise’ or flatter by imitation a message freighted with official authority. This subjective manoeuvre involves primarily the manipulation of ideas and gestures rather than the rewriting of messages, but some (objective) message is necessary even if for this purpose its actual content is irrelevant. From a ‘supplementing’ perspective, the objective message is more important than the excitement of compiling, sealing or burying, yet its purpose is better served by doing well even those things it values less, if, for instance, this helps attract sponsorship or contributions to the payload or, through the publicity such activities allow, improves the chances of future retrieval, for such projects are generally as un-photogenic as they are indifferently documented. From an ‘excitement’ perspective, this subjective dimension is not only primary but also cheaper and less trouble to achieve since it is not calibrated to an external standard. So in what does this excitement consist? The idea of a time capsule is commonly projected backwards, suggesting that something discovered after being long undisturbed was meant to be found. There may be no evidence

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for this, but the idea seems to enhance the excitement of discovery or in some circumstances to allay a guilty feeling of unwarranted intrusion into the past. Projecting backwards is commonly counter-balanced by also projecting forwards, dissolving two separate time periods, one of the sender, the other of the receiver, in the same object-brokered moment (Cherry, 1989), the medium counting for more than the message, if there is one. Anticipating the future discovery of a message from the present in the same terms as the present discovers the past, a time capsule constructs its compiler as a mediator between past and future, which some seem to value independently of the contents or the time frame concerned. For ‘time capsule’ a search engine yields fewer real examples than metaphorical ones (currently including a piece of Apple computer hardware), which indicates a widespread awareness of what time capsules are about. If publicity about them encourages other time capsules it also encourages the idea of connecting time zones without the need for an object like a time capsule at all. This may have no need for ‘other people’ in the usual sense. In his poem Remembrance, Ray Bradbury (1973) creates a time-loop paradox of a kind widely favoured in science fiction, including his own. Here, time (or at least cause-and-effect) is dramatically reversed, so that Bradbury the boy writes ‘I remember you’ on a scrap of paper later retrieved by the man he became. Paradox aside, this privileges remembrance itself above any particular attributes for which one may wish to be remembered. To the extent that older and younger selves are different people, such memories or anticipations could also be regarded as instances of social exchange. Time capsules, then, may facilitate or substitute for sociability but always acknowledge it. Whatever the payload, they allow an exciting anticipation of future discovery. That such capsules might prove as big a disappointment in the future as those foundation deposits of the past (which rarely disclose much more than coins and old newspapers) does not diminish their popularity.

Ontology In order to grasp the significance of time capsules as a form of collecting, we need to look beyond the messages they may send and the excitement they may offer. Any collection, whether a time capsule or a museum, defines that portion of the universe in which it is interested for the purpose of acquiring objects or data. This ‘framing’ presupposes a point of view but also an ontology of detachment, creating the world and ourselves in it as objects of contemplation rather than as active participants in mutual engagement (e.g. Ingold, 2004: 26–7). Museums and time capsules approach this difficult matter of detachment in differently ambiguous ways. Whether the collection is a normal one or a time capsule, however, the specifics of the collection being compiled can make a big difference.

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All collections strike a practical balance in terms of the size and durability of objects to acquire and how these can best represent more than themselves, whether other kinds of objects in the same category (as ‘type specimens’) or intangible phases of their contexts to which they always complexly refer. Storage space, funding and relevant expertise comprise one set of factors informing such decisions; a sense of purpose and awareness of other collections, another. Although the purpose of those compiling time capsules is critical to understanding why these objects take the form they do, and to assessing their significance, not all aspects of a time capsule, whether container, collection or project, bear equal witness to the conscious imperatives of their compilers, for tacit assumptions are always involved. Those responsible for millennial time capsules sometimes envisage giving a helping hand should a backsliding (assumedly modernist) posterity need it. Michael Swann, chairman of the committee that organised the BBC’s 60th anniversary time capsule buried at Castle Howard in 1982, argued that what he called ‘this record of the totality of our civilization’ was worth passing on to the year 3983 partly because that civilisation was intrinsically worthwhile and partly because it might be ‘conceivably a help to a civilization that has either fallen backwards or is not as greatly advanced as ours’ (Moncrieff, 1984: 15). The committee, however, did not envisage that commitment to Western techno-science itself might yield to more sustainable modes of living, an assumption more likely to be questioned from anthropology – or from science fiction. In a short story set in the late eighth millennium CE, a band of post-nuclear holocaust nomads extract the 1938 Westinghouse millennial time capsule from its vault beneath Flushing Meadow in New York and open it up. Inside, they find magnetic recording tape but, unfamiliar with its intended purpose, throw it on a fire to acquire wisdom by inhaling the fumes (Farley, 1941). In a paper written as from 2029, Christopher Pinney (1992) imagines a world of saturated virtuality for which, roughly midway between these two dates, we are still waiting. The part of his argument that bears most closely on time capsules concerns a consequence of Virtual Reality (VR): the loss of visual and temporal ‘frames’ that previously constitute the normative experience of seeing and (the transitive verb here making its object) travelling the world. If framed easel paintings visualised control for those who framed the law in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, while ‘the temporal framing provided by the journey was crucial to the framing of certain Western subjectivities’ (1992: 49), these visual and subjectivised props to power are forfeit when (in this prediction) VR jettisons the frames on which they depend. As a bounded assemblage of objects gathered together, then consigned to an imagined receiver, a time capsule anchors abstract futurity, embodying or de-modernising the modernist future by familiarising it as (necessarily one-way) ‘gift exchange’. In that ‘exchange’, the time capsule acts as its compiler’s agent or prosthetic ‘extension’ (cf. Gell, 1998). But the time capsule remains a modernist artefact, unable to ‘resolve’ abstract

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futurity, for this abstraction can be embodied only in the imagination. Embodiment is not some treatment to which abstract modernist futurity can be subjected and through which it can be overcome or transcended; on the contrary, an embodied or de-abstracted future is a different kind of future altogether. What the imagination can and does do, however, is handle this irreconcilable difference by serving not as a formula but as a set of activities. Like theatre, time capsules enact rather than contemplate experience in ways that anticipate or overlap with virtual reality in the contemporary, technological sense. Pinney cites Paul Virilio’s idea that in the VR era the now-frameless ‘traveller arrived without having to set out and [that] one result of this was that cultural distance came to shed its temporal aspects’ (Pinney, 1992: 49). This resonates strongly with time capsule experience, where the ‘journey’ is likewise static, although the result is opposite to that described – temporal ‘distance’ in this case shedding its cultural aspects as capsule compilers typically locate themselves and their unknown future audience in the same cultural (or sub-cultural) milieu. This is crucial to the whole enterprise since it constructs the receiver as someone likely to understand and be interested in this message or gesture.3 If in terms of pre-VR travel, however, as Pinney and others argue, the (static, spatial) destination is framed by (dynamic, temporal) outward and return journeys, then for a time capsule the terms are reversed: it reaches its (dynamic, temporal) destination at the point of retrieval via a (static, spatial) journey which ‘frames’ or at least ‘introduces’ it. On the one hand, the time capsule’s destination is temporal rather than static because it is in ‘this place, only later’; and it is dynamic in the important sense of being ‘in the making’ (its creation anticipating retrieval and therefore being completed only at that moment) even if it is imagined by compilers as detached from the present. On the other hand, the time capsule’s journey is static because it is meant neither to change nor to ‘go’ anywhere: it persists (‘travels in time’) in only one place: its journey ‘takes’ place just as travelling by ship or car ‘takes’ time. Routine expressions such as ‘getting through the day’, or other examples of ‘moving through’ or ‘along’ units of time as if they were units of space, also signal an interchangeability of time and space in a sensibility increasingly shaped by VR experience. The time capsule’s destination (if by this future we mean those who will eventually retrieve it in their own context) is ‘in the making’ in the sense of being immanent, both as an unpredictable unfolding of the present world-at-large and as a much more predictable effect of the actions of time capsule compilers themselves in their own narrower compass, who not only act to affect the future but also imagine and anticipate the results of their actions. So it is striking that a time capsule denies the open-endedness of this process of ‘becoming’ by insulating itself from it (sealing itself closed) in order to arrive unchanged from when it left. At first glance, this insulation from interim process resembles modernist detachment from the real world

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of experience in favour of its token, framed representation. But that is not the whole story, for although their contents are almost always sealed in this way, time capsules often engage more wholeheartedly with the messy or incoherent quotidian than most open-ended collections ever do, albeit only during the specific periods of compilation, sealing and deposition. Moreover, most time capsules seem to be more captivated by the idea of predicting materialisation, or materialising prediction, than with actually achieving it. These paradoxes which time capsules routinely articulate (Durrans, 1992) are symptoms of their ontological hybridity, which describes their deployment of ideas and actions of variably modernist and non-modernist character.4 Ordering the world by means of spatial/visual and temporal ‘framing’, albeit reversing some of their terms to fit a static vehicle, sets the time capsule firmly on a modernist agenda, but a non-modernist sensibility is suggested by its facilitating rehearsals of social interaction which betray impatience with modernist categories of class, status and the authority of knowledge or expertise. Most remarkably, many time capsules pay lip service to formal rules of collecting and preservation, while disregarding them in practice, thus binding modernist and pre-modernist attributes so closely together that only a term like hybrid can do justice to it. Despite the interest and effort invested in compiling contents, and claims that time capsules are meant for the future, few encapsulators appear to collect with preservation seriously in mind, or to seal the capsule or record its burialsite, or the exercise itself, as diligently as might be expected. Taking such inconsistency as a function rather than a failure of time capsules – something their hybridity permits rather than something their incompetence cannot prevent – makes hybridity the basis of both their vernacular appeal and their negative reputation from the viewpoint of normative collecting, and also explains why these contrary attitudes of enthusiasm and dismissal feed off each other. In the remaining sections, I discuss details of a few actual time capsules (or their close relatives) to bring out features suggested by this idea that time capsules are ontological hybrids or unstable articulations of futurity. My selection from the random sample of time capsules I am aware of is itself random and, in keeping with the subject, tends to the extreme.

Contents If museums are known for their collections, most time capsules are hardly known for their contents since these are generally known, if at all, only before the capsule is sealed and after it is opened, and the proportion of known to unknown is unknowable.5 In 1904, Fred Bower, a socialist stonemason from the Wirral, wrote a message full of hope for the future, along with copies of the Clarion and the Labour Leader, and enclosed them in a tin container in the foundations of Liverpool’s Anglican Cathedral, exactly beneath where an official

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‘foundation deposit’ would be ceremonially placed three weeks later by King Edward VII. The ‘secret of the stone’ (as he called it) was revealed only in Bower’s autobiography published thirty-two years later (Bower, 1936), which also included the text of his message, although to be read in the original it will have to outlast the cathedral itself. The aura of Bower’s letter is a function not just of its content or of the surreptitious way it was ‘posted’ but also of its physical inaccessibility, which in turn sanctions ideas of its continuing or potential significance. In 1971, to mark the completion of the new St James’s Square development in Edinburgh (which consisted of offices, shops and a hotel), a copy of The Scotsman newspaper, a telephone directory, and a copy of building trade regulations were among several items buried in a casket at the site, but when the Lord Provost laid the foundation stone the next day, building workers, protesting against unemployment and the lack of plans for improving working-class housing in the city (also an issue in Liverpool which had earlier concerned Fred Bower), ‘hurled leaflets [...] which fluttered down on the guests’ (‘Builders protest as foundation laid at St James’s Square’ [unsigned news item], The Scotsman, 16 October 1971). These two gestures – one in Liverpool, the other in Edinburgh – underscore the formulaic character of civic rituals in religious and secular establishments. Such rituals, and the equally formulaic time capsules or foundation deposits with which they are sometimes associated, are ideologically normative not just by performing ‘historical continuity’ in actions and symbols in a building whose career is measured in centuries, or at a construction site where the past is most blatantly superseded, but by being repeated on the many occasions for which commemoration or ‘development’ provides an opportunity, so that it becomes standardised and taken for granted. It was only its revelation in his autobiography that gave Bower’s gesture an ironic reprise when it was linked, albeit in defiant counterpoint, to the official celebration of the cathedral’s centenary in 2004, which thus recast the closed potential of the original secret as an open reminder of past dissent and thus as inspiration.6 The copy of The Scotsman sealed into the St James’s Square casket was not of course the one reporting the protest two days later. So, as both examples illustrate, a casket or capsule is not necessarily ‘representative’ of the whole of society, but by implying that it is, a given time capsule’s or deposit’s gestures to the future perform normatively in the present. Paying lip service to the future in this way identifies such an exercise as modernist and its subversion as nonmodernist. Beyond its immediate, explicit objective (such as investment in housing rather than retail), political action acknowledges the social division that ‘official’ time capsules efface; ultimately and implicitly, such opposition also asserts the immanence and therefore the constructability of the future in the present. Official time capsules are so ritualised, however, as seldom to provoke protest; and when they do, it simply takes the opportunity offered by a time capsule or related activity to criticise something else about capsule-

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burying institutions or their officials. The routineness of their performance parallels the sealed character of their contents (they are usually buried) to confirm the time capsule’s standard hegemonic function. But this remains an incomplete reading of time capsules. Many examples which do not routinely follow the official model described above, whether compiled by individuals or groups, imagine present and future in more richly complicated ways. Most remarkably, some so compromise the rule about sealing the contents, refuse to treat the future as ‘official’ or abstract, are unselfconsciously altruistic, or enthusiastically embrace mystery, as to amount not merely to an enactment of modernism’s ambiguities but to a poignant (because hopeless) challenge to modernism itself. In 1988, SJ from Cheshire, then in his early seventies, secretly buried a piece of a cloth puggaree (hat band) from a pith helmet beneath a paving stone at Ladysmith Barracks, then scheduled for closure (for examples of possibly comparable behaviour, albeit inside buildings, see Eastop, 2006). This was addressed in prayer to a personalised providential future and was not only altruistic but appears to have been thought of as a magical act and the piece of cloth as indexical of its former owner, Pte. Cottier, 2nd V.B. in [possibly] the Boer War. ‘Now it might have had sentimental value to someone I don’t know [ambiguity in original] I thought it had survived all this time. Someone must have cared for it. I couldn’t throw it out.’ Reading about the proposed development of the barracks, SJ decided to bury the item there, wrapped in

Figure 12.1. The Crypt of Civilization, Oglethorpe University, Atlanta (GA), USA, shortly before it was sealed in 1940; it is due to be opened in 8113. Photograph © Oglethorpe University; courtesy Oglethorpe University Archives.

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plastic and dispatched with a prayer, which was later reported as something like: ‘Right old pal didn’t know you but if you were at Ladysmith you[’re] all right by me God bless sleep on Who knows we may even meet one day. This is the ideal place for your last remaining item to be laid to rest’. But the barracks were later reprieved. As SJ put it: ‘[i]t was nearly 12 month[s] after my secret little burial took place that the story of Ladysmith Barracks being saved broke.’ He admitted he did not mention any of this to others lest they ‘think I’m going dotty in my old age’. Although not strictly a time capsule, this example shares important features with many of them: burial is often charged with religious or quasi-religious feeling which may extend to the burial place itself; contents often include personal items as well as those more broadly representative of a place, period or community; compilers usually seek no publicity for these acts of intended generosity even when they are not as secretive as this; and juggling ontologies can indeed look or feel like insanity. A more standard example, compiled at a Gloucestershire college in 1989, was explicitly to encourage students to work collaboratively and think about the present in historical terms. Meant to be opened in the presence of at least some of them in two decades’ time (in the event, none of them returned), the capsule referred to contemporary issues such as the environment, the arms race and AIDS in the hope that ‘solutions to these problems will have been found long before you open this box’ (Figure 12.2). This optimistic wish may seem more socially engaged than (for instance) the

Figure 12.2. A twenty-year time capsule shortly before it was opened in 2007 on the fortieth anniversary of the National Star College, Cheltenham, held by Students’ Union President Rachel Bury (centre) in the company of past and present members of staff. A sense of anticipation and fun often enlivens such occasions. Photograph © National Star College.

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faux-ironic commercialism of (perfume- as well as clothes-designer) Paul Smith’s contribution to the later Design Council’s Project 2045 time capsule: ‘A set of “essences” communicate to posterity only what is important: Spray on Health, Spray on Wealth, Spray on Love, Spray on Happiness and Spray on Travel’ (Design Council, 1995: 9). The college capsule remains modernist by imagining the future as a point from which to scan disengagedly for solved or persistent problems, but is pre-modernist in using the future to prompt educational collaboration in the present. Paul Smith’s own brand of ontological ambiguity modernistically promotes his business by non-modernistic means – alluding to the absurdity of a consumerist omni-fix by pretending to believe it. A photograph of Smith’s fantastic aerosols (Figure 12.3) completes the irony: spray on happiness when we still struggle with broken umbrellas? The articulation of both ontologies is often especially apparent in ‘unofficial’ time capsules. Although not a time capsule in a strict sense of being explicitly addressed to the future, the following example was certainly sealed against amendment: a production-line worker at the Hawker Siddeley Aircraft factory in Surrey habitually placed secret messages in jet fighters. He might have written anything, but chose to include quotes from famous poets, written in what a workmate describes as ‘glorious copperplate’, including Shakespeare, Marvell, Donne and others. Such sources and how their words are reproduced powerfully express a pre-modernist sensibility against the hyper-modernist capsule of the aircraft itself. This calls to mind

Figure 12.3. Paul Smith’s ‘Spray-on essences’, contributed to the UK Design Council’s Project 2045 time capsule (1995–2045). Photograph © The Design Council, courtesy of Design Council/University of Brighton Design Archives.

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the pre-modernist playfulness of dissident modern artists such as Marcel Duchamp who in 1916 created a work called With Hidden Noise by asking his patron Walter Arensberg to hide a small object inside a ball of twine between two metal plates without letting him see (Jones, 2008). This factory worker seems to have been more imaginative and less modernist than two pub landlords in Derby who, in 1988, placed a cigar-tin time capsule in the wall of the pub’s car park and an earlier one in the pub in a neighbouring village where they previously lived. Both contained similar items including a letter with an account of their family, the price of a pint of beer, who their neighbours were, a small bottle of whisky, a bus timetable and some coins. As the most self-conscious successors of the older foundation deposit tradition, civic time capsules best epitomise the combination of modernist formality (newspapers, coins, official lists, ceremonial) with more variable attempts to lighten (or de-modernise) the overall effect, first for those concerned and, often explicitly, for future finders. A newish town in Arizona, for example, planted a time capsule in 1999 and reburied it later after supplementing it with new material (2005 for 2049, the town’s halfcentury), thus circumventing the sealed message rule. Besides phone lists of town employees, carpet samples from the Development Service Building and other items of similar mind-numbing banality, contents include an essay by the organiser entitled ‘A snippet of youth remembered’; an unintended gift to a future cartoonist in a ‘Memo of horse found in [the town]’; the bizarrely random ‘Golf ball found in empty lot near earth fissure’; a sinister-sounding ‘partial Barbie doll body dated 1977 (found near original time capsule burial site)’; and, a reminder that a time capsule can also be a trash-can, ‘CD RW discs that stopped working [and] could not be read’. In another example from New Jersey (1969 for 2044), among many other items an ‘Official map of the Moon’ is accompanied by a ‘perfect “300” target’, evidencing the shooting skill of a local patrolman, and a newspaper article about a local resident’s book, What I Like About Toads. If their contents were completely bureaucratised or idiosyncratic, time capsules might be less interesting to compile, receive or hear about than if these two qualities play off each other – as in these cases – suggesting that time capsules are at their most appealing when their ontological hybridity is evident in different kinds of contents themselves.

Performance Media attention and time capsules are closely connected, but attention is stronger and more sustained, mediated or otherwise, where there is something interesting to see. This is not the case for most time capsules although the scale and grandeur of, say, a burial ceremony, or even of some of the contents, may be increased to counter perceptions of the ploddingly routine. Competition for publicity can generate examples eager for a photo opportunity. One, in a space of 100 cubic metres at Guildford Castle in

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Surrey (2000 for 3000) and claimed as the largest in Europe, includes a Mini car and life-sized photographs of singer Dame Vera Lynn. An earlier one, the Co-Design Saffron Walden (Essex) Time Capsule (1986 for 2237), includes an enlarged aerial photograph of local people who gathered for this purpose on the town common, some with banners bearing village and family names: a rare instance of photographic evidence of the collaborative nature of the project being included in the capsule itself. If ritualised aspects of their compilation or interment are performed with time capsules as their focus and vary according to the scale of the project or the prestige (and budget) of the organisation involved, in a few cases the capsule itself does a dance. The Blue Peter time capsule (BBC children’s TV) was buried in 1971, relocated in 1984 and dug up in 2000. The programme’s editor reports that they hope in due course to transfer the latest Blue Peter time capsule (2000 for 2029) from its original burial spot in London’s Shepherd’s Bush ‘to [...] near our new studios in Salford’ (email 11 October 2011). More spectacularly, a time capsule left at the North Pole in 1986 for the sea current to carry away was retrieved three years later on the coast of County Donegal, Ireland. But the most spectacular of all in terms of mobility and publicity are the time capsules associated with space exploration (Jarvis, 2002). Randomising their destinations or redistributing their payloads might make time capsules more exciting: with a time capsule you do not necessarily know where you are. Serial capsules may redistribute payloads but more often multiply or repeat them, and in any case absorb more ritual energy. Awarded as incentives to schools raising funds for the new Globe Theatre which opened in 1997 on London’s Bankside, hundreds of individual capsules were buried in batches in the basement as construction work progressed. On each occasion having someone famous present guaranteed favourable publicity, such as Prince Edward (1992), the playwright’s descendant and namesake, Sir William Shakespeare (1993) and actress Zoë Wanamaker (1994). Notwithstanding these pragmatic motives for adding performative buzz to compiling or burying, performance importantly socialises the time capsule’s embodiment of abstract futurity. As we have seen, in official or bureaucratic capsules of the foundation deposit type, this works in a hegemonic manner by endorsing established values that occlude social division. Civic or otherwise less rigidly bureaucratic examples, on the other hand, mobilise participants and wider constituencies not only to make the event more memorable but also to underline the collective nature of the capsule and its contents as representing those present and offering them all the unusual, shared experience of witnessing for the last time an object next likely to be seen well after their own deaths. In a complex and variable oscillation between modernist and pre-modernist ontologies, the time capsule concretises the abstract future, its contents embody it, and sharing the moment through performances of this kind intensifies such embodiment

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by socialising it. Even when the capsule is a very private affair, it is usually dispatched with some outward-directed thought, word or gesture, such as the prayer of the man who buried the puggaree in Cheshire.

Time-span It is engaging with the modernist future that makes time capsules disreputable and extreme. Many time capsules, however, are much more modestly addressed, aiming at twenty-five or fifty years into the future, and some only a decade ahead. For these, usually but not always involving schoolchildren, the exciting prospect of imagining future finders receiving the message after we are dead is replaced by the different but equally exciting idea that we ourselves will be physically present at the opening or even open it ourselves. This has an obvious bearing on both the message and the experience, but not on the essential strangeness of the genre, which is not simply about the time-span but about a refusal to engage with the intervening period. We have considered some ways in which such refusal is compromised, for example by opening a long-term capsule early (or earlier than planned), aiming from the outset to retrieve the capsule after only a few years or decades, supplementing it with new material, creating multiple capsules, and so on; and we have also looked at motives where the future is less a target for the message than an excuse to think ‘historically’ about the present. Much rarer but more interesting in terms of the time-span covered are serial or ‘relay’ capsules and others whose message is updated and profile maintained by regular servicing, perhaps by reburying an earlier capsule or by recruiting young people to turn up for the next big occasion, as in the case of the Washington (State) centennial time capsule of 1989 (Jarvis, 2002: 279). If all time capsules are hostages to fortune, the latter is hostage to an optimistic notion of social responsibility. But however frequently the pitstops or reminders are programmed and however diligently young ‘keepers’ update their calendars so as not to miss their appointed rendezvous, the focus remains on the capsule itself, and the future envisaged in capsule projects of this kind has a staccato rather than a flowing quality: the orientation remains modernist, geared to surveying, inventorying and predicting the future rather than to creating it now.

Conclusion: environmentalism and the immanent future Moving back from time-spans to the critical distinction between ‘insulated’ and immanent futures, I conclude by turning to ‘environmental’ time capsules, some of which come closer than any to closing the gap between modernism and pre-modernism with an urgent social commitment to disaster avoidance and sustainability. Such capsules are active political devices rather than merely passive contemplative ones; they reject both the smugness of ‘this may not amount to much but at least I’ve done my bit’

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and an unimaginative counterposing of political or environmental activism on the one hand and the impulse to address posterity in person on the other (for a self-defeating sense of the pointlessness of time capsules in a book about how to make them, see Gill 1999: 84). But before focusing on the most radical examples of this kind, I want to turn briefly to two more routine sorts of environmentally inflected time capsules whose efforts they transcend. The first kind is the conventional private or civic time capsule which registers concern about the environment as an expression of guilt or at minimum a claim to enlightened awareness. Such expressions are invested with the same mundane quality as most other mentions or mementoes of the compilers’ world. Sylvia Kantaris’s (1989) poem Package for the Distant Future incidentally (and beautifully) captures the subjective quality that most time capsules share, but is quoted here for the lilac seeds which seem to nod to ecological awareness: Enclosed you will find evidence of our existence: a skein of yellow silk; a carving of a child of unknown origin with normal limbs and features; a violin; some lilac seeds […] I hope the earth is nearly clean again. Sow the lilac seeds in damp soil And if they grow and flower, and if you can, Smell them after rain.7

In the second kind of routine environmental time capsule, a more exclusive focus on the environment signals greater seriousness, sampling and documenting it as a bequest to the future and to remind the present of its neglected obligations. Although emphatically meant as a wake-up call, this combination of environmental awareness and the traditional time capsule format narrowly avoids being misread as a suicide note. In 1985, at Kew Gardens, Sir David Attenborough placed the ‘Seeds for the Future’ time capsule in the foundations of the new tropical conservatory later named after the Princess of Wales. It contains ten seeds of basic crops and endangered species from the Kew Seed Bank including garden peas, rice, bluebells, cowslips and six books on the subject, all vacuum-sealed. Endorsing its worthiness, Earthlife News described it as ‘the Gaia Capsule’, after the Gaia concept developed by James Lovelock (2000 [1979]). Quite different in principle from these other kinds of environmental time capsules is the environmental ‘time capsule-as-activist’. Instead of reproducing a modernist, distant future by revealing in its contents how present actions will affect that future, the future itself is made immanent in the action taken to put the capsule together, via wider actions prompted by

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the time capsule experience. The capsule does not merely harness ‘the future’ to an educational exercise in the present, but through this exercise the future becomes the present. Two of the best examples of this kind of project, which transcend the usual limits of a time capsule altogether while retaining some of its key characteristics, are predictably international in scope. One is the already-mentioned Kew Seed Bank, properly the Millennium Seed Bank at the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew/Wakehurst Place. This major, multiinstitutional enterprise is based on the principle of preserving samples of seeds from economically and environmentally important plants from around the world threatened by habitat degradation. But in the process of collecting and preserving them, project staff are ‘actively involved in reintroduction and restoration programmes worldwide [… while …] [h]abitat restoration and species re-introductions will become increasingly important technologies as the effects of climate change become more marked’ (Royal Botanical Gardens, Kew, n.d.). Focused by a time capsule-like ‘insurance policy’, awareness of the connection between present action/inaction and likely future consequences is thus linked in a feedback loop to remedial counter-measures. Complementing this high-end initiative is another – the Environment Time Capsule Project 1994–2044 (www.ecotimecapsule.com) – which calibrates its efforts in generational terms and engages energetically with young people, in part because of its emphasis on the environmental case for population control. The original time capsules in this project were buried on or around World Environment Day in June 1994, at Ness Botanic Gardens in South Wirral, at Kew Gardens (Figure 12.4), and also in Mexico, South Africa, the Seychelles and Australia, with subsequent World Environment Days providing a regular opportunity to recollect and renew their message (Guillebaud, 2004). The contents of these capsules consist almost wholly of environmentally related texts and images, with a heavy influence on apology, although the Ness capsule also includes a bicycle pump and a packet of contraceptive pills, both presumably symbolic rather than meant for the finders to use. Unlike the Kew Seed Bank or Sylvia Kantaris’s ‘package’, the several capsules in the Environment Time Capsule Project therefore largely exclude the environment itself, even symbolically. This is consistent with the emphasis on actions and attitudes in the meantime – the objective being, as the project’s originator puts it, to make apologies to our grandchildren superfluous (Guillebaud, 2004: 6). Extending the reach of such high-profile projects by imitating their ‘presentist’ engagement not only furthers their own environmental mission but could also shift the ground for more informal entanglements with futurity itself. One group of enthusiasts in Teesside, for example, deposited over thirty capsules in or around their local community between 1977 and the end of the century. Such messages serve as reminders of the significance of where they are buried, in which the interest may be variably historical, environmental or simply light-hearted. Whereas in normal time capsule

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projects the site is chosen for the message, here the message is chosen for the site. The Teesside capsules say more and are more suitable for long-term preservation than most (even if their organisers’ estimate that they would last to ‘infinity’ is over-optimistic), but as a rule projects of these kinds make little effort to tell the future anything special and hardly more to preserve the contents. The impulse here is symbolic rather than archival: it articulates a strong sense of connection to place and, at least for the encapsulators themselves, of the pre-modernist idea of the future unfolding out of the present, even if those local people who cannot ignore it might find in this dense seeding of capsules a less welcome reminder of their own mortality. The environmental movement has done more than any other in recent years to popularise awareness of the consequences of present actions and policies and to encourage a deeper sense of social – and future social – responsibility. As post-triumphalist capitalism stumbles into a period of uncertainty, resurgent activism with environmental concerns coming to

Figure 12.4. Burying an environmental time capsule at the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, June 1994, for 2044. Left to right: Environment Time Capsule Project initiator Prof. John Guillebaud, RBGK Director Sir Ghillean Prance, environmentalist David Bellamy, Richmond Borough Mayor Cllr. Tony Manners, and actress Susan Hampshire. Photograph © Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew.

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the fore could begin seriously to undermine the abstraction of a modernist futurity whose waning self-confidence time capsules are peculiarly well placed to monitor. To cite just two examples: the AOL (Internet provider) millennial time capsule, a vast list of virtual messages originally planned to stay online, was instead committed to a DVD and buried in traditional fashion. And using means that parallel those of some environmental time capsules, but applying them to an ultra-modernist objective, a time capsule ‘marker’, laden with messages unavailable in earthbound copies, is proposed in due course to commemorate the human colonisation of Mars; yet it is presented primarily, even cynically, as a way of marshalling public support for the huge investment which this enterprise would require (Rodwell, 2008). To hazard a prediction: however many existing time capsules will be harvested in the years to come, new ones are likely to replace them for as long as the modernist future oscillates, with appropriate uncertainty, between contestation and confirmation.

Acknowledgements I am grateful to Sylvia Kantaris for permission to quote from one of her poems and to Ron Noon for information about Fred Bower. For help with illustrations, thanks are also due to Laura Masce, Anne A. Salter and Paul S. Hudson in Atlanta; Caroline Annfield and Sue Davison in Cheltenham; Andrew McRobb at Kew; Prof. John Guillebaud in Oxford; Jim O’Neil in the Wirral; and Sue Breakall and Sirpa Kutilainen in Brighton.

Notes   1. By this modernist future I mean a point or period of time from two or three generations ‘down the line’, including the end of the line, and at any rate beyond the range of most institutional planning horizons. It is ‘calendrical’ (or ‘cartographic’) in the sense of spatialised and fixed by coordinates – ‘A-series’ time (e.g. Gell, 1992) – a map-like abstraction for disembodied navigation. Calendars on desks, and especially on computers, are usually just words and numbers (modernist efficiency); those on kitchen walls, more attuned to everyday engagement, tend to allocate more space to pictures and often leave insufficient room for writing notes or reminders by the dates themselves (non-modernist inefficiency).   2. The full quotation is: One must behave as if one is immortal, and as if civilization is eternal. Both statements are false – I shall not survive, no more will the great globe itself – both of them must be assumed to be true if we are to go on eating and working and travelling, and keep open some breathing holes for the human spirit. (Forster, 1936: 67)   3. Since in exchange terms a time capsule is altruistic rather than reciprocal, there is plainly no need for the difference between partners on which normal exchange is predicated (Weiner, 1992). More positively, an assumption that the receiver is similar enough to the sender to appreciate the gift is essential if the altruism is to be taken seriously.

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  4. The idea that rival ontologies might coexist in the same society is uncontroversial, but the ‘non-modernist other’ is more often imagined elsewhere than closer to home, or identified with ethnicity rather than gender, age, class, occupation, region or phases of everyday experience. If labels like ‘the Enlightenment’ or ‘modernism’ do not describe completely reconstructed grounds of being even in their heartlands, some behaviour may make more sense in terms of an alternative ontology never quite dislodged. This is to recognise that effective hegemony does not need total sign-up, but always leaves space for the residual or subaltern – or, when it falters, for the counter-hegemonic. It is easy to underestimate how much space that can be, or how serious the faltering.   5. Most examples mentioned here derive from an archive of time capsule notes and miscellanea currently being catalogued in the Science Museum in London.   6. On both the official and unofficial celebrations, see David Charters, ‘Unveiling the secret of the stone: the city’s poor’, Liverpool Daily Post, June 23, 2004 (also available at . Even the ‘unofficial’ commemoration of Bower’s original message was more formalised than the ‘hurried’ and surreptitious way it was written and deposited, but his own account of the latter (Bower, 1936: 121–22) is probably more accurate than Charters’.   7. By speculating on what a specific individual in the distant future will think of her, Kantaris’ poem echoes James Elroy Flecker’s ‘To a Poet a Thousand Years Hence’ (Flecker, 1911). Focusing on assumed continuities of ‘nature’ or the mundane, these poems are ‘self-reflexive’ conceptualisations of a time capsule (Kantaris) or quasitime capsule (Flecker), addressed to a concrete rather than an abstract futurity. A non- or even anti-modernist sensibility is evident in their quiet refusal of grandiose self-importance, which P.B. Shelley, for example, thinly disguising it as ancient hubris, had eloquently trashed a century before in ‘Ozymandias’ (1817).

References Bower, J.F. 1936. Rolling Stonemason: An Autobiography, London: Jonathan Cape. Bradbury, R. 1973. When Elephants Last in the Dooryard Bloomed: Celebrations for Almost Any Day of the Year, New York: Knopf. Cherry, C. 1989. ‘How Can We Seize the Past?’, Philosophy 64: 67–78. Chesterton, G.K. 1958. ‘Shaw the Puritan’, in Essays and Poems, ed. W. Sheed, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Design Council. 1995. Project 2045 Exhibition, booklet, London: The Design Council. Durrans, B. 1992. ‘Posterity and Paradox: Some Uses of Time Capsules’, in S. Wallman (ed.), Contemporary Futures: Perspectives from Social Anthropology [ASA monographs, no. 30], London: Routledge, pp. 51–67. Eastop, D. 2006. ‘Outside In: Making Sense of the Deliberate Concealment of Garments Within Buildings’, Textile, The Journal of Cloth and Culture 4(3): 238–55. Farley, R.M. 1941. ‘The Time Capsule’, Astonishing Stories 2(4): 26–34. Flecker, J.E. 1911. Forty-two poems, London: J.M. Dent. Forster, E.M. 1936. Abinger Harvest, London: Edward Arnold.

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Gell, A. 1992. The Anthropology of Time: Cultural Construction of Temporal Maps and Images, Oxford: Berg.   1998. Art and Agency, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Gill, G.P. ed. 1999. The Dead Good Time Capsule Book, Ulverson, Cumbria. Guillebaud, J. 2004. ‘Time Capsules With a Difference’, in The Promise. Available at: http://www.ecotimecapsule.com/pdfs/thepromise.pdf. Ingold, T. 2004. ‘A Circumpolar Night’s Dream’, in J. Clammer, S. Poirier and E. Schwimmer (eds), Figured Worlds: Ontological Obstacles in Intercultural Relations, Toronto: University of Toronto Press, pp. 25–57. Jarvis, W.E. 2002. Time Capsules: A Cultural History, Jefferson, NC: McFarland and Co. Jones, J. 2008. ‘Reinventing the Wheel’, Guardian, 9 February. Available at: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2008/feb/09/art. Kantaris, S. 1989. Dirty Washing: New & Selected Poems, Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books. Lovelock, J. 2000 [1979]. Gaia: A New Look at Life on Earth, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Moncrieff, A. 1984. Messages to the Future: The Story of the BBC Time Capsule, London: Futura. Pinney, C. 1992. ‘Future Travel: Anthropology and Cultural Distance in an Age of Virtual Reality; Or, a Past Seen From a Possible Future’, Visual Anthropology Review 8(1): 38–55. Rodwell, T. 2008. ‘Messages for the Future: The Concept for a First Human Landing Marker on Mars’, in Colin Pain (ed.), Proceedings of the 8th Australian Mars Exploration Conference, Clifton Hill, Victoria: Mars Society Australia, pp. 41–49. Available at: http://www.marssociety.org.au. Royal Botanical Gardens, Kew. n.d. ‘The Future of Kew’s Millennium Seed Bank Partnership’. Available at: http://www.kew.org/msbp/intro/ future.htm. Wilson, D.M. 1989. The British Museum: Purpose and Politics, London: British Museum Press.   2002. The British Museum: A History, London: British Museum Press. Weiner, A.B. 1992. Inalienable Possessions: The Paradox of Keeping-whileGiving, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

13 Canning Cans – a Brand New Way of Looking at History

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Robert Opie in conversation with J.C.H. King

Robert Opie opened the Museum of Brands, Packaging and Advertising in December 2005 in Notting Hill, London. The Museum exhibits over 12,000 items. A further 500,000 items, including contemporary and historic advertising and packaging, collected in the last 40 years, is stored as a reference database. In the following discussion, recorded in 2009, Jonathan King talks to Robert Opie about the importance of this form of extreme collecting.1 How do you discipline yourself? How do you decide what to collect? That is the great debate. When I’m in Tesco’s and look at the huge number of items that there are there, it is, well, difficult. There may be a hundred thousand items in shops that I should be saving, but clearly to save them all is extreme beyond any reasonable point. What I do is select the items that are going to typify this moment of time. These will tend to be items that have new design, or update a storyline. They will show the development of five hundred brands that I try to follow. So, the latest cornflakes packet, the latest fish finger packet, the latest whatever. Brands or products that have contemporary connections like a fish finger packet with David Beckham promoting it, or a new type of TV programme on the pack, a new design, a new way of packaging, a new technological wonder, whatever it is that typifies this moment.

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How do you decide whether you are going to spend £300 on products in Tesco’s or £300 on a unique piece of antique printed ephemera? You cannot decide that. The trouble is that I don’t know what I’m going to find. I spend £300 on a single item I need in Portobello Road, presumably then I’m not going to spend £300 in Tesco’s because I can’t afford to, there is a finite resource. What is your budget for a year? I don’t have a budget, and many things I collect come free – because they’re contemporary packets and advertising. But I do buy things: I might spend £5,000 one month and the next month only £50. It depends on the object that I’m looking at and its relative importance. But this is the constant dilemma, and it’s a dilemma for every museum. If they are confronted by an object that they actually have to have, then the acquisition will decide whether subsequent objects offered for sale can actually be bought. But the one object that I actually have to have may be offered to the Museum in the same year as something totally different, and on which I’ve actually already spent the budget. So I never know from one day to the next what is going to be offered, or what I might need. The dilemma arises if I’ve spent the £300 on one item, and then consider whether I should have ignored that item and spent £300 in Boots to buy a good range of toiletries. These are horribly expensive so I might with this mythical £300 be able to afford the latest anti-ageing cream, the latest whitening toothpaste and so on. These are probably more important to save than something that is 200 years old, but which I know has already been saved elsewhere. But I want to put the old and expensive object into my Museum to show its particular story: this way the Museum will give people a bigger buzz. For instance, I spent £300 a couple of weeks back on a Nazi potty. It was an anti-Hitler potty. I’ve got four miniature ones in my collection that are relatively common, but the full size ones are scarce. Now I could have said, because they are so scarce, that no one’s going to remember them, but I know when it goes on display, there are going to be more people pointing at that than they would if they saw something contemporary. So for instance, I’ve got some toilet paper in the same section of the Museum, it’s anti-Nazi toilet paper with one or two slightly crude jokes on it, and people love to see that. It’s extremely scarce as an item and at the time would have not been particularly common. No-one is going to come to the Museum especially to see that, but everyone will be interested in it because of what it represents. So I’m hoping that people will see how important these quite trivial objects are to understanding the mood of past eras. I sometimes have to ignore the present in favour of the past. Yet, in a hundred years time the things that I’m saving today are going to be more important than the things I’m acquiring from, say, the Second World War period.

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So how do you deal with the problems of preservation and conservation. What’s the difference between preservation and conservation? When do you buy baked beans or soap powder, how do you deal with long-term storage? This is a great problem. When I began to collect contemporary stuff, I didn’t have the space to store it, so I would buy the can of beans and take off the label, because the label takes far less space than a complete can. I probably at that time couldn’t afford to put away a complete can. So I ate the contents, took the label off, put a date on it, and kept it and stored it. That was brilliant. It didn’t take up a lot of space, the labels weren’t affected by the can. Now of course the can has changed. Technology moves on. Although a can is a can is a can, in fact a can now has a ring-pull lid, the weight of the can has changed, the longevity of the can has changed, and so on. So the can I might have put away in the 1960s with its contents would have survived longer than a can that I put away today, because a can of today may only last 6–10 years before it begins to leak. A can from the 1930s is going to survive potentially a hundred years. But at some point, and you never know when that 1930s can is going to start to leak. Now if you store a can with other cans that can is going to leak on to those other cans and destroy the labels. So what do you do? In theory what you do is to buy three cans. You keep one can full, you keep one can empty, opening it from the base so that you can’t see it’s been emptied, and you throw one can away but keep the label. But in fact I no longer keep full cans. So where do you keep the full can so that if it leaks it doesn’t do damage? Well, you keep it on its own. In fact, I had given up that, because I don’t think any can today is going to last that long and I can’t afford constantly to buy three cans, and I don’t have the storage capacity to buy three cans, so I buy one can and I empty it. Now whether I should be keeping the label on that can, or taking the label off but keeping the can close by, that’s a huge logistical problem so at the moment I’m keeping the label on the can because they are now incredibly difficult to take off the can without ripping the label, unless you want to go through a huge process of steaming it off and so on. So that’s where the time thing comes in. But at the moment I’m just keeping the can. People in the future are probably going to curse me for this. ‘He should have known better’ I can hear them say. But he didn’t know better, he’s doing the best he can, as it were. So what do you do about aerosols? When I was keeping aerosols, my father [Peter Opie 1918–1982 the folklorist and collector of children’s books] said to me ‘we don’t want those aerosols

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Figure 13.1. Robert Opie at work with his collection. Reproduced with permission of the Museum of Brands, Packaging and Advertising. See www.museumofbrands. com

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kept in the house because we don’t know whether they are going to explode or not.’ Just occasionally, aerosols will explode. Later I once went into a room in my house and I thought it had been snowing because an aerosol can of shaving foam had exploded. It looked as though snow had been coming in through the window. How old was that can? That aerosol dated back to the late 1950s or maybe 1960 and it exploded maybe ten years ago, so it would have been around for fifty years. It’s a good enough time but it’s new technology so you don’t know how long these things are going to last. But that’s what extreme collecting is all about. You are on the edge and you don’t know what is going to happen so you have to take precautions. For instance when I was saving chocolate, I went through an experimental stage taking the chocolate bar out of the wrapper and seeing what it looked like after ten years. Unfortunately there’s a nasty thing called a bread bug which takes a great fancy to chocolate, and a lot of my collection was destroyed by this wretched bread bug because it had got into my collection and was thriving on it. So it would bore itself through the packaging, eat the contents and then bore itself out again. So the package itself was radically destroyed. Mice and rats are a nuisance: even if you’ve eaten the chocolate the rodent can still smell the food. My collection of Easter eggs was pretty well decimated at one stage by rats. Because they smelt the chocolate and though there was no chocolate there, they decided to sample their way through it. They won’t just attack one Easter egg, they’ll go right the way through the collection, not simply destroying one particular packet but will nibble away at a lot of different packets, in their frustration, I suspect. What kind of other scientific sampling do you do, say, with what comes through the letter box? If you think of this logically you’re going to go mad pretty quickly. So the thing to do is not to think about it too hard, but nevertheless I have tried to save in some aspects perhaps more than I should. For instance, I’ve been saving perhaps for now twenty plus years everything that’s come through my letterbox. This gets divided into the unsolicited mail, on which I write the month and the year and the un-mailed stuff that comes through. These – the pamphlets and the leaflets and all those kinds of things – get put into a very large envelope every six months, so I have six months of what has come through the letterbox. Then there is another six months and so on and so on – so I don’t write the date on every single time. It’s a time thing and a question of remaining sane. The envelope sits by the front door, for me to fill on a daily basis.

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Tell me about trade catalogues, clothing catalogues and Argos catalogues. On my way back to the tube station today, I’ll be picking up the latest Argos catalogue. Catalogues are one of the best ways of preserving history. So if I’m looking at any year over the last two hundred, let us say 1924, I can go to my collection of catalogues and pull the relevant catalogues and get a very good idea of all the products that were on sale at that time. So I’m not

Figure 13.2. Ubiquitous cereal packaging from the 1950s provides a shared experience for many visitors. Reproduced with permission of the Museum of Brands, Packaging and Advertising.

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going to collect furniture but I have furniture catalogues, I’m not going to be collecting mirrors and utensils because they are represented in illustrated catalogues. I will not be collecting fashion particularly, although I do have fashion in my collection now, but so much of fashion can be seen through catalogues, as well as through general advertising. Catalogues give you a huge insight; they are usually dated, they usually have the price, hopefully they are illustrated and sometimes in colour as well if you are lucky. So how do you sample catalogues? Do you sit down and say I’m going to write to all producers of tents and sporting goods, or go online? There are both contemporary catalogues and historical catalogues. I don’t have the time to sit down and write to people, so I will just try to collect the ones that are most available. I mean one Argos catalogue is probably better than a hundred off beat catalogues because my focus is shopping for the masses and if it’s not in the Argos catalogue it’s less likely to be of interest. Which is putting a huge onus on Argos – they must put the right material into their catalogue! So how do you collect materials about tourism and travel? Well not as well as I should. But again look at it in the historic way that I collect it. I will occasionally go into a travel agent and will gather up a sample. Not that often, maybe once every five years, and to be honest, to me they are not that appealing in that they are totally photographic, relatively the same, but I do collect travel brochures going back as far as I can. So when you get to the 1930s they have much more of an interest because this is the beginning of mass travel. Of course when you get to the 1960s you get the package holidays coming in and people going further abroad. So if I were to do an exhibition of holiday travel I could do that. It’s a core area but I’m not going to over egg it because I’ve got to balance up my time with everything else. So what I’m trying to do all the way through is get a slice of life and yet each slice adds to the total cake. How do you deal with electronic advertising and web packaging? I’m a twentieth-century guy and I haven’t figured out how to really get to grips with the twenty-first century, and this is undoubtedly going to go down in the annals of history as my biggest failure. I’m going to leave that for some whiz kid to try and grapple with. Now, the business of sampling began from your father’s practice of collecting – in 1955? The many discussions with my father, which sounds as if it should be the title of a book, were never ever recorded in any way. We spent hours and hours and hours debating collecting policy and philosophy and understanding the whys and the woes, and the dos and the don’ts. One of the great ways of

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collecting contemporary subjects is to take an annual dip, or a biannual dip, or as my father did with comics, a five-year dip, or maybe actually it wasn’t a five-year dip it was actually a ten-year one – so every decade. So he started off in 1955 saving every single comic that was on the shelf at that particular moment in one week. And that’s a very difficult thing to do and a very brave thing to do. Because at the time it seems like a relative waste of time. It’s going to take up more time than you think. It’s not as easy as you think to do and if it’s something that’s more difficult to store than comics then it will take time and resources to put away. Comics are relatively easy because they go into two or three filing boxes and they’re flat and that way you can keep the free gifts that are in there. The big problem with doing that every ten years is that there will be comics that come and go within the ten years, and you don’t save necessarily the first issue of a new comic. Now I happen to have a relatively good collection of comics including number ones, from famous titles. How many comics do you have? I can’t find a good comic answer to that, but it’ll be several hundred, which won’t sound to comic collectors like a lot because it’s a sample, as ever, and there will be a lot of collectors of comics who tend to collect a particular era or they will try to collect a complete run of comics all the way through. I will only need one or two to be representative. And one of the cores of my collecting policy is that all it needs to be is representative. If the next one and the next one and the next one are sufficiently similar, you take the Dandy or the Beano, they’ve seemingly been the same since the date they first came on to the market in the late 1930s, then they have more recently started to change. But if you’re collecting every single one, it would be too much of an endurance test and there would be no point in doing it. Give me some examples of the specialist consumption of your collection? We talked about the police, and forensic use of packaging in criminal cases, but obviously designers would be very interested in your materials, and also of course manufacturers and advertising agencies. People often say to me ‘oh you’re a niche museum’ and to me that is exactly what I’m not. I feel that any person, of any persuasion, of any nationality, of any age, will resonate with what’s on display because it is the stuff that we are all totally engaged with every single day. I remember one time when we had a family from Mexico and they had decided that each person would nominate one thing to do in London, and for whatever reason, one of the children, he was probably about 15, had decided he wanted to come to the Museum of Brands and the others thought ‘ok, he wants to go, we’ll go’ with no great high hopes. They came out saying it was one of the best museums they’d ever been in. Now, this is a family of different ages from Mexico with no cultural connections in any way whatsoever but they found it the most

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enthralling place. I couldn’t really interpret their response any further. But it just made me realise that this was a subject which everybody, literally everybody, could get engaged in. And that to me has always been exciting. The exhibition at the V&A (The Pack Age. A Century of Wrapping It Up, 1975–1976) caused a huge amount of interest on every level. The warders who are usually sitting in the corners relatively bored, got up on their feet, and started talking to complete strangers about their own experiences. When you get two people standing and looking at one item, they can talk to each other as if they’ve known each other all their lives, because they’re looking at something that they both have a relationship with. That to me is the most exciting experience. Tell me about the police and when there are forensic uses for your collection? Well the funny thing is, most materials have been produced in the millions. Packaging pervades every part of our society, every part of the world, and I’ve had archaeologists writing me saying we’ve just been doing a dig and we’ve discovered this thing. Can you date it for me because we want to know when the last time this place was dug. Police need my help when they find a piece of packaging at a crime site and they need it to be dated. So it might be something like a toothpaste lid? It could be anything that survives. But it could also be something from South America, in the 1930s, and they then realise that no one’s been there since that time, or that’s their assumption. There’s a recent case where a police force sent me half a dozen photographs of things that had been found in a loft. And I don’t know, they haven’t told me, what this crime investigation is about, but they wanted me to date as far as I can that particular crime scene. And there happened to be a cigarette packet which I will be able to say, well it was only on sale between sometime in the late 1940s or 1950s. That way I can give them at least a ten-year window to work on. They didn’t know, originally, whether this crime scene was from the 1930s or the 1980s. Give me an example of somebody interested in art and design using your collection? One of my great worries about this nation is that we’ve looked at every possible subject over the last two hundred years. These include art and sciences and local history and natural history and all kinds of individual histories but no one has looked at the consumer world. And that’s one of the reasons I began to save this material, because I could understand not only its social importance but also its graphic significance. We don’t have in this country a single museum or gallery with a permanent collection of graphic art, commercial art. And the reason we don’t have that, I suspect, is we don’t

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give any credence. We don’t have a real understanding of the importance of trade and commerce. It’s always been looked down upon. So do advertising people come and see your Museum? Are they impressed and do they use the collection? The most exciting thing about having visitors is that they engage at every level. This includes pure nostalgia, from seeing their own place in history through to design inspiration and professional social history. The contents are obviously there for people to engage with. So not only do we get huge numbers of general public (30,000 a year) who visit for all kinds of different reasons, but they also love the point where they find themselves in the time tunnel. They engage with their past, and if they say ‘I must bring my mother’, then that to me is terrific. If they can bring a parent they will see and understand things that they never knew about their own history and about, of course, their parent’s history. So a visit to the museum is all about getting in touch with your roots. It’s hearing those stories, it’s putting yourselves into the context of this world, this extraordinary, unbelievable complex world. It’s like time travelling? It is totally like that. It is exciting to hear people engaging in that unbelievable way. They can see just one item, and they recapture a whole part of their life. And it can be as simple as a plastic mousse dish, where they remember the lid being taken off and then scraping out the contents, and slightly angling for that last little bit. But that trigger ‘moment’, you wouldn’t capture that very personal moment. To a lot of people that is emotional beyond belief. But then to bring their parents with them, and to hear the stories of their own past, which they don’t remember, that is really, really exciting. And you feel you are making a contribution. But the other contribution you are making is to the world of business and commerce and trade. You are getting people coming who want to be inspired, to find things that will give them new ideas, taking old ideas and updating them, perhaps making them better or perhaps joining two ideas together. And it’s just like a coffee shop used to be in the eighteenth century. It was bringing people together to talk and to think and to discuss and to generate new ideas – it’s a whole factory of inspiration. So you have helped with a chemist shop, and other exhibitions at the Science Museum? Yes. My whole philosophy about collecting is to be outward going. Some collectors tend to be introverted, I guess, and they do it purely for themselves. Other people, like me, tend to be more extroverted. My whole point of doing this is for other people to use it and to enjoy it and to engage with the materials. So all the time I’ve helped with other exhibitions, I’ve followed my own line in what actually matters. So now I’ve finally created my own

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Figure 13.3. Brands from the 1970s. At the Museum of Brands, visitors enter a chronological sequence of displays from Victorian times to the present day, including everything from toys to travel, royal events to style and fashion. This places the story of products and promotions in their historical context. Reproduced with permission of the Museum of Brands, Packaging and Advertising.

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Museum. This is not necessarily a good thing because it takes up a lot of time and resources, and it certainly doesn’t make you any money. But it’s been in my blood and I’ve pretty well said from day one that I’ve wanted to curate a museum. So, you know, eventually I had to do just that. It’s a hazardous thing to do, and I keep on meeting people who’ve said ‘I’d love to run a museum’. Actually I tend to dissuade them as much as possible. Do own your own museum in your own home but don’t get involved in the wider issues of Health & Safety – and all the other administrative rigmarole that you have to go through. But you’ve lent things to other exhibitions and museums? I’ve lent things to museums up and down the country, probably to half a dozen museums at this minute for special exhibitions. I had a letter in today asking could the Palace of Westminster borrow some items for the 150th anniversary of Big Ben, which is coming up in 2009. Tell me about your most recent exhibition, of commemorative ceramics in the early nineteenth century? Well today I’ve just put on an exhibition, it’s hardly an exhibition, a display of thirty items. These are pretty scarce commemorative ceramic pieces dating from the beginning of the French Revolution in 1789 and ending with the Reform Act of 1832. The idea is that it’s to show past political campaigns, at a time today of major political scandal. This needs to be put in the context that the Reform Bill of 1832 took thirty-five years to achieve. In contrast today’s people power – over parliamentary expenses in the summer of 2009 – can within thirty-five days make a government change its thinking. So it’s great fun to use history to compare with what’s happening today. And indeed today’s history is tomorrow’s exhibition, I guess, and marrying today with yesterday has always been part of my thinking. History never ends, it’s an evolving process. All I’m trying to do is show the evolution of our consumer society. This inevitably covers every facet of our daily society, from entertainment to travel to holidays to fashions to trade and commerce. Everything contributes towards how we live, and what I do is to record all the ordinary things with which ordinary people interact. That is why in just capturing the nature of the environment, we can discover the process of living. It is also a process of living in which we are all involved, whether we like it or not! Understanding history is a fundamental part of what I’m trying to do. And that Reform Act period started with major events like the Peterloo Massacre of 1819, which led to all sorts of changes? Yes, and it was close to the birthplace of the Manchester Guardian in 1821, which we still have today. It was also the period of the birth of the first reforming politicians, who stood up for change. This included the abolition of the rotten boroughs and all types of practice which today

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would be absolutely unheard of. We have thankfully moved on, but you know, this is part of political life and people’s rights, which were commemorated on pottery mugs and jugs. It’s difficult to quite understand why people produced these in the first place and indeed why they bought them in the second place. But they were there to mark your loyalty to that particular movement.

Figure 13.4. Toiletries and cleaners from the 1970s, especially when delivered by aerosol, present particular problems in terms of preservation and display; powders and liquids, such as bleach or soap powders are intrinsically unstable and potentially dangerous. Reproduced with permission of the Museum of Brands, Packaging and Advertising.

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So when did you first buy one of these commemorative pieces of china? Now there’s a question, comparatively recently, I would guess maybe twelve or thirteen years ago. And you just picked the idea up by chance? No, I’d visited people who’d dealt in commemorative ceramics. One of the difficult things to explain to people who don’t collect is how things survive. Everyone says ‘where on earth has it come from’ when they are going round the Museum, they cannot believe that (a) these things have survived (which even I find it difficult sometimes to understand), but also (b) how on earth I find it all. And they cannot imagine that one person has even collected everything which is on display. They are even more incredulous about the 98% of the collection which they don’t see. I daren’t tell them about the stored collection. What people find unbelievable is how on earth it’s possible to find these different things. But of course when you understand the process of collecting and know the places to go and the people to contact, then you also know that there are people who specialise in every one of the thousand subjects in which I’m interested. So what I do is to find one person whom I can trust and engage with, and then explain to them what I am looking for. That way they will, I hope, produce the items for me. So it’s about finding niche people, with whom you may have a sort of relationship. For instance, the people I mostly buy the ceramics from, I will see perhaps five or six times a year.

Figure 13.5. Magazines, booklets and advertising images create the atmosphere of the Second World War sentiment and style. Reproduced with permission of the Museum of Brands, Packaging and Advertising.

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So tell me about other niche people whom you see like this? I go to toy fairs, ephemera fairs, relatively general fairs but there will be specialist people amongst them. Thus, at the minute, I’m interested in taxation stamps and wristwatches. Those are the two subjects for this month. Why are you interested in wristwatches? Well, because I love technology transformations. Technology drives the economic world, it drives the daily world, and, you know, here we are sitting with a tape recorder which we certainly couldn’t have done a hundred years ago. Here we are watching television, listening to radio, all these things have changed the world in which we live. What prompted your interest in wristwatches, which were invented around 1900 and taken up by soldiers? What fascinated me was the way that changes come about. So you have a watch. Originally it is a large clockwork thing that you cannot possibly carry around with you, but somebody miniaturises it. And when you miniaturise a watch, suddenly you can carry a watch around with you, so the need for having public clocks, telling the time, disappears. So of course the whole time thing is interesting. Before the railway system got going, there was a difference in the time between London and Edinburgh. After the creation of the railway network, everybody had to synchronise their watches because otherwise the railway timetables wouldn’t work. But that took a relative long period of time. I forget exactly the year it changed but it was not so long ago. It was a long time after the railway system began, around 1847 that they adopted Greenwich Mean Time, finally backed by an Act of Parliament in 1880. The train service was getting faster and the differences caused more problems, so that it was getting complicated. And what I love to understand all the time is the information part of the collection. What I’m gathering is purely the evidence that things happened, but that’s not the final aim. A lot of collectors think the purpose is simply the acquisition. These people are just looking for the difference between this object and the next object. To me the most exciting thing is giving the object the context in which it lives, which is the reason that I’m interested in so many different things. It’s the information bubble that these things evolve in. So in the story of, and don’t get me too interested in clocks and watches because I’ll be off on the wrong track again and diverting my resources even thinner, but the fascinating thing is that there is a human story and a social story within the story of clocks and watches. It’s the mechanism I’m interested in, it’s the ability to miniaturise, so you get miniaturised clocks which people can wear, put them into their pockets on a chain, but then there comes a moment when they made it sufficiently small to put it on a wrist but originally that was only for women. And this is the wonderful thing about that story, is that men thought that it was for

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women putting it on their wrist, it was not for a man. And you get this inbuilt psychological difference between men and women, in that if a man was wearing a watch, it would be totally out of order, it would be prissy. So originally it would be unheard of for a man to wear a wristwatch. So what is it that forces men to wear a watch on his wrist? It was the First World War! It suddenly became imperative that a man – in the trenches, captain or sergeant perhaps, but mainly the officers – wear a watch. This meant that when they go over the top of the trench everything has to be synchronised. Of course they were blowing whistles and shouting, but it’s so much quicker and easier to see the time on your wrist than it is to follow the rigmarole of finding your watch and opening it up and looking at it. So that’s the crucial turning point. To me then, to find an exhibition at the British Museum showing the transformation of time, and showing the individual stages it took, is an absolutely vital and exciting thing. I’d always known about it, but I’d never really had the time to study it, but there it is laid out in front of you. Of course I’m now keener than I was before to try and find some of those transitional moments in time to tell that story, because in any technological story there are moments when that technology is changed. So for instance the story of roller skating, the first big craze in the 1880s was terrific, but the invention of ball bearings within roller skating made the excitement of roller skating much smoother and much easier. So the biggest craze of all was in the Edwardian period when that new technology had come through and every village had its roller skating rink. That’s the biggest moment for roller skating. Even though today there are children and adults roller skating round streets, it’s nothing like as big today as it was then. People didn’t have television to watch and all the other things to distract them. Society has moved on, so you have to see all the time how people and ideas change and evolve. This enables me to put the story into the context of that bigger picture. So as I’m collecting a thousand different stories, all the time I’m relating each piece to other things that I’m learning about. It’s all a huge learning curve, a process of discovery. Unfortunately inbuilt into me is the desire to actually have these things. Having and holding them gives you a far better feel than just looking and reading about them. Which is the most important part of your collection from your point of view? Well, it will always be the story of packaging and its attendant promotional things. That’s where I began and that is fundamentally the thing that I am known for. I’ve got to keep on track with that. All the ancillary things need to be there to help understand the social context, because packaging can be seen in so many different levels, from their graphics to the manufacturing technology. But at the centre is the social part of the story, the shopping and consumption. This is about the different types of products, the different

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ways of marketing them, the different forms of packaging, the different people involved in advertising. It is all of these issues, from the reaching of the hand to pick up a product to the storing and the display of that packaging in my Museum. The packs are the evidence that the product existed; it is the complete product that to me is the absolute pinnacle of my interest. Have you contributed to many books about packaging? All the time people are asking for books, and for images. The extraordinary thing is that because companies are bought and sold, and brands are bought and sold, and archives may or may not be kept, few packaging archives have survived. Many more have gone, they’ve been blitzed or flooded or whatever, or damaged by fire. A lot of company archives have been lost along the way and so often I end up with better archives than the companies themselves. But you haven’t bought any archives? Not as such. I’ve discovered bits of archives. And there is a story about the moment when a big chocolate manufacturer was chucking out stuff. This may or may not be true, but what I heard is that somebody decided to reduce their archives, and the managers just walked down the executive corridor saying ‘anyone want this stuff’. So I eventually picked up a bit of it through the antiques trade. This is just one example. But, you know, things disappear at various times, and you know, factories close down, stuff gets lost. A lot of people are just not interested or don’t see the point of keeping packaging. So you have a shelf of books to which you have contributed? Yes, and I write books myself of course. I write them as much for myself because I want to have the access to the information and it’s a good way of, you know, reminding myself of the resource I possess – that way I remember about the collection using my own publications. How many books have you written? Not as many as I should have done: I think I’m up to about 20 now. A picture tells a thousand words, and to me there’s no point in writing about something when you should be actually showing it. But unfortunately I’ve met so many people who have written, you know, sixty, seventy books, so there are many people who have been much more productive than I. The thing is that I’ve got another 200 books I could easily write and probably another 200 after that, but I don’t have the time. How I allocate my time, that’s another part of that time debate!

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Robert Opie in conversation with J.C.H. King

Figure 13.6. Packaging from the era just before the First World War. Tins and tin cans and their history are significant, as the first modern form of industrialised packaging. Cans arrived almost 200 years ago, initially used by the British navy and for expeditions. Reproduced with permission of the Museum of Brands, Packaging and Advertising.

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221

Figure 13.7. Detergent use developed during the 1940s, giving rise to innovative and interesting design in 1950s packaging and marketing, exploited in commercial television ads in the UK from 1955. Reproduced with permission of the Museum of Brands, Packaging and Advertising.

Can you tell me how you keep extreme collecting under control? Well it’s taken me many years to sort out the basic principles. Mostly it’s intuitive, but in the end there has to be a point and a purpose to each object. For the exercise of extreme collecting debate, I formulated an acronym, AWARE. These I consider as ‘Opie’s principles of collecting’. A is for Assemble – don’t just amass quantity, but understand what you are trying to do, understand your objective. W is for Write – by which I mean interpret, can you make a meaningful caption for an object, or a collection? A is for Add – so add context for the object – how does it relate to a story, or a moment? R is for Relate – relate your object to other objects, keep your mind open as to how one item relates to another. E is for Excite – ultimately if you don’t excite and inspire the audience, you’ve failed! So be AWARE – of what you’re doing because otherwise it can lead to disaster.

Note   1. The paper was transcribed by Laura Slack, in the Department of Africa Oceania and the Americas, British Museum. Jonathan King is Keeper of Anthropology, British Museum.

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Robert Opie in conversation with J.C.H. King

Partial bibliography: Robert Opie 1985. Rule Britannia. London: Viking Penguin. 1987. Art of the Label. London: Simon and Schuster. 1988. Sweet Memories. London: Pavilion Books. 1989. Packaging Source Book. London: Macdonald Orbis. 1995. The Wartime Scrapbook. London: New Cavendish Books. 1997. The 1930s Scrapbook. London: New Cavendish. 1997. Colgate-Palmolive in the UK: 75 Years of Care. London: ColgatePalmolive. 1998. The 1950s Scrapbook. London: New Cavendish Books. 1999. Miller’s Advertising Tins. London: Mitchell Beazley. 1999. Remember When. London: Mitchell Beazley. 1999. The Victorian Scrapbook. London: New Cavendish Books. 2000. The 1960s Scrapbook. London: New Cavendish Books. 2000. The 1910s Scrapbook. London: New Cavendish Books. 2002. The Edwardian Scrapbook. London: New Cavendish Books. 2002. The Royal Scrapbook. London: New Cavendish Books. 2003. The 1920s Scrapbook. London: New Cavendish Books. 2004. The 1970s Scrapbook. London: Pi Global Publishing. 2005. The Wartime Scrapbook: on the Home Front 1939–1945. London: Pi Global Publishing. 2006. Hovis: 120 Years of Goodness. London: Rank Hovis. 2006. Colgate-Palmolive: 200 Years of Care. London: Colgate Palmolive.

•

Notes on Contributors

Suzanne Bardgett is Head of Research at the Imperial War Museum. She led the teams that created the Museum’s Holocaust Exhibition (2000) and Crimes against Humanity: An Exploration of Genocide and Ethnic Violence (2002), and was later involved in the establishment of the Srebrenica Memorial Room at Potocari (2007). Paul Cornish has worked at the Imperial War Museum since 1989, having begun his career at the British Museum. Since the 1990s he has been involved in the study of the Material Culture of Conflict. He is currently a historian on the IWM’s new First World War gallery project. Brian Durrans is an anthropologist and former senior curator in Asian ethnography in the British Museum. His work on exhibitions, museology, time capsules and portraiture (e.g., Posing Questions: Being & Image in Asia & Europe, Brunei Gallery, SOAS, 2010) reflect a long-term scepticism of modernisms, identity and representational practice.  Jan Geisbusch holds a PhD in anthropology from University College London. His research has focused on popular religion within the RomanCatholic tradition. In particular, he is interested in the material aspects of religious practice and the cult of saints and their relics. Jonathan C.H. King writes about the art and material culture of Native North America, and is interested in wider issues of museum ethnography, cultural policy and the visual arts, and the collection of contemporary art, photography and ephemera. He became research Keeper of Anthropology at the British Museum in 2010. Susan Lambert worked for many years at the Victoria & Albert Museum where she was responsible for its first gallery of 20th century global design. She is now head of the Museum of Design in Plastics (MoDiP) at the Arts University College at Bournemouth, the only UK accredited museum with a focus on plastics. Henrietta Lidchi has worked in museums and on North American collections since 1994.  Trained in anthropology and development studies, publications include Imaging the Arctic (1998) and Visual Currencies (2009) as well as articles on museology, contemporary collecting and Southwestern jewellery. She is currently Keeper of World Cultures at the National Museums Scotland. Jack Lohman is Director of the Museum of London, Chairman of the National Museum in Warsaw and Professor in Museum Design at the

224

Notes on Contributors

Bergen National Academy of the Arts in Norway. Jack studied History of Art at the University of East Anglia and Architecture at the Freien Universitat in Berlin. Before taking up his present appointment, he was the Chief Executive Officer of Iziko Museums of Cape Town. He is Editor-in-Chief of UNESCO’s publication series ‘Museums and Diversity’. Natasha McEnroe is the Director of the Florence Nightingale Museum. Her previous post was Museum Manager of the Grant Museum of Zoology and Comparative Anatomy and Curator of the Galton Collection at University College London. From 1997 to 2007, she was Curator of Dr Johnson’s House in London’s Fleet Street. Robert Opie is the director of the Museum of Brands, Packaging and Advertising in Notting Hill, London. He has been saving examples of contemporary packs and promotion for the past forty years. In addition he has assembled material that tells the story of our consumer society and how it has evolved since Victorian times. Susan Pearce is Emeritus Professor in Museum Studies at the University of Leicester, and was a Senior Research Fellow at Somerville College, Oxford. She has written and lectured widely on the history and practice of collecting. Stephen Quirke is Edwards Professor of Egyptian Archaeology and Philology at the Institute of Archaeology, UCL, and curator at the Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology, UCL; he curated the digitisation and web database of the 80,000 objects. His research focuses on ancient Egyptian cursive writing; ethics and history of archaeology and collecting; and Middle Kingdom Egyptian history. Kathryn Walker Tubb lectures on antiquities, the law and ethics in UCL Institute of Archaeology. She has edited and contributed to a number of volumes, journals and conference proceedings on the trade in antiquities. Previously, she has worked extensively as a field conservator in the Middle East. Graeme Were is the director of the Museum Studies postgraduate programme at the University of Queensland. His current research focuses on material culture and ethnographic museums; digital heritage and source community engagement; and ethnomathematics in the Pacific. His recent publications include Lines that Connect: Rethinking Pattern and Mind in the Pacific (University of Hawaii Press, 2010), and Pacific Pattern, with S. Küchler (Thames & Hudson, 2005). Richard Wilk is Provost Professor of anthropology and director of food studies at Indiana University. He has done research with Mayan people in the rainforest of Belize, in West African markets, and in the wilds of suburban California. His most recent food-related books are Home Cooking in the Global Village and the edited Time, Consumption, and Everyday Life.

• Index

Abet, A.P. 150n2 access to objects access layers at Galton Collection 86–7 archives at Galton Collection 83–4, 85–7 art and market in Internet age 104 privileged access to relics 124 acquisition of artefacts for Holocaust Exhibition 19–22, 23–5, 28–9 British Museum policy on 7–8 and disposal Policy at IWM 166 mechanisms for relics 114 of plastic objects 169–71 Adair, J. 150n1 advertising, uses of collected items in 212 aerosols 205–7 Afghanistan Civil War in 60–61 Code for protection of Antiquities in (1958) 63 collecting unprovenanced antiquities 58–63 Law on Preservation of Historical and Cultural Artefacts (2004) 63 trafficking Afghan heritage 61–3 Ahmed Faud, King of Egypt 42 AHRC Research Workshops (Museums & Galleries) Scheme 4 Akhurst, S. 171 Alexandria, Library at 38, 40–41 Ali Jabri 42–3 Ali Suefi of al-Lahun 43 Allen, T. 46 Alpers, S. 119 Altshuler, B. 2, 5 ambivalent autonomy 39–41 American Air Museum, Duxford 161 American Eugenic Movement 85–6 Annfield, Caroline 200 Anning family, Lyme Regis 100 anonymisation 86 Anthropometric Laboratory 77–8 AOL Millennium Time Capsule (2000)

181, 200 Appadurai, A. 139 Archaeology, UCL Institute of 65 Archambault, J. 135 Archard, Yvonne 33 Arensberg, Walter 194 Argos catalogues 208–9 Armstrong, Neil 169 Art, Antiquity and Law Conference (Rutgers University, 1998) 64 art and design, uses of collected items for 211–12 art and market in Internet age access to 104 authorisation 109–10 classification and difference in 103– 5 collecting communities, differences in 103–4 common difference, concept of 103 computer-mediated communications, collecting through 105 condition, issue of 109 expert knowledge 104 genres and values 109–10 global market, free-for-all of 110 globalisation 109 Internet transformations 107–9 Japanese woodblock prints 105–7 market for, global qualities of 102–3 material hierarchies of value 104–5 performance ranking 103 social hierarchies of value 104 valuation 109–10 art collecting in Southwest US authenticity, ‘tricksterism’ and 149– 50 choices, dilemmas and 145–7 collecting native art 135 commodity exchanges 133–4, 142–3 curators 139, 140 dealers 139–40, 140–41 expectations, transactions and 148– 50 gift exchanges 133–4, 142–3

226

Indian Arts and Crafts Act (US, 1990) 146–7 jewellery of Southwestern US 131– 50 keeping-while-giving 142–3 knowledge, materials and value 139–44 makers 139 markets for, tourism and 131–50 ‘pawn’, distinctions in term 137–8 pawn system 137–8 portable property 132–4 Santo Domingo Labour Day Fair 143–4 sustained collections 149 traders 139–40 traditional exchange values 141–2 turquoise loop necklace 136–7, 143 value fixing 140–41 virtual circulation 142 see also Gallup, New Mexico Art Collection, Imperial War Museum (IWM) 160 Art Fund 3 The Art of Travel (Galton, F.) 77 Arthur, C. 116, 120 Asad, T. 120 Ashmolean Museum, Oxford 42 associations of objects, importance of 94 Astill, James 61 Atchinson, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway 134–5 Attenborough, Sir David 197 attestations 40–41 Auschwitz State Museum 23 authenticity of plastics 176–7 ‘tricksterism’ in Southwest US and 149–50 authorisation 109–10 AWARE collecting principles 221 Bamiyan Buddhas 61 Barakat Galleries, London 70 Bardgett, Suzanne 9, 19–35, 223 Barringer, T. 41 Basilevsky, Alexander 118 Batkin, J. 150n1 Batsford, S. 85 Baudouin de Grunne, Comte 71n6 Baudrillard, Jean 2, 6, 39 The Beatles 176 Beckham, David 203 Beinlich, H. 40 HMS Belfast 161 Belk, Russell 95, 103 Benjamin, B. 37 Bennett, T. 38

Index

Bergen-Belsen Information Centre 34 Besterman, Tristram 54 Biber, Taube 32 Blood Antiquities (Journeyman) 58, 61 Blue Peter (BBC TV) 195 Bogdanos, M. 66 Book of the Dead 46 Bopearachchi, Oshund 59 Borg, A. 166 Bourdieu, Pierre 103 Bourdon, David 94 Bourriau, J. and Quirke, S. 40 Bower, J. Fred 189–90, 200, 201n6 Bowker, G.C. and Star, S.L. 103 Bradbury, Ray 186 Brasher, B. 124 bread bugs 207 Breakall, Sue 200 British Library 63 British Museum 4, 6, 11–12, 117, 139, 145–6, 147, 151n12, 169, 175, 183–4, 218 acquisition policy 7–8 British Xylonite 177 Brodie, N. 60, 62, 65, 66 Brodie, N. and Renfrew, C. 60 Brown, P. 117, 121 Bsumek, E.M. 151n8 Buddhist manuscripts, traffic in 61–3 Bulmer, M. 76, 80 Burke, P. 121 Burke’s Peerage 77 Burnett, Andrew 7–8 Burton, A. 169 Butler, Louise 77 Cambridge Scientific Instrument Society 80 Cameron, F. and Mengler, S. 124 Campbell, J. 168 Cannell, F. 120 Canon Law relics, dealing with 115–16 Society of Great Britain and Ireland 115–16 capitalism and collecting 96–7 Carus, F. 174 Cascini, G. and Rissone, P. 169 Castle Howard 185, 187 Catastrophe! The Looting and Destruction of Iraq’s Past (Oriental Institute Museum) 66–9 Catholic Church 11, 18–19, 21–2, 115– 18, 124–5, 126–7, 127n1 CBBC Interactive 195 de Cenival, J.-L., Yoyotte, J. and Ziegler, C. 39 Cesarani, David 35n6

Index

Charman, Terry 23 Charters, David 201n6 Cherry, C. 186 Chesterton, G.K. 182 Chikanobu 108 Children’s Society 86 Chirac, Jacques 1 choices artefacts for Holocaust Exhibition 32 difficult decisions at IWM 165–6 dilemmas of collecting in Southwest US and 145–7 Churchill War Museum 157 Citro, J. and Foulds, D. 45 civic time capsules 194 Civil War in Afghanistan 60–61 Clarion (Liverpool) 189–90 Classen, C. 99 classification, art market in Internet age and 103–5 Clifford, J. 103, 123 cloth relics 113–14 clothing catalogues 208–9 Codes of Canon Law (1917) 115, 127n1 of Practice for the Care of Human Remains in Museums (DCMS) 50– 53 cognitive sciences 98–9 collecting collection space as physical threat to objects 37–9 communities, differences in 103–4 continuing collecting effort for Holocaust Exhibition 27–9, 33–4 control at Museum of Brands 221 for Holocaust Exhibition 19–34 items for Museum of Brands 203–4 native art in Southwest US 135 offensives on Egyptian archaeology 44–6 people and practices 95–6 popular collecting 95–6 process for Museum of Brands 216– 17 processes for contemporary collections of mass-produced materials 99–100 relics and logic of 114–16, 116–19 team at Holocaust Exhibition 23 through computer-mediated communications 105 The Collecting Challenge (Art Fund, 2006) 3 collecting unprovenanced antiquities 57–71 accounting for 63

227

Afghanistan 58–63 Art, Antiquity and Law Conference (Rutgers University, 1998) 64 Buddhist manuscripts, traffic in 61–3 Catastrophe! The Looting and Destruction of Iraq’s Past (Oriental Institute Museum) 66–9 Civil War in Afghanistan 60–61 cultural heritage of Iraq, destruction of 63–6 Cultural Property Policy, adoption by UCL of 65–6 diligence, exercise of 60 Going, Going, Gone: Regulating the Market in Illicit Antiquities (Mackenzie, S.) 58 ICOM Code of Ethics for Museums 61 illicit antiquities, network trafficking in 60 Iran 69–70 Iraq 63–9 Jiroft, chlorite vessels from 70 looting 57, 58, 60–61, 64 Magic Bowls, illegal removal of 65–6 market for Afghan artefacts 61 melting down of coins, threat of 59 Mesopotamian artefacts 66 Miho Museum in Japan 59–60 mining archaeological sites, market demand and 70–71 Mir Zakah, treasure of 59 Persepolis Fortification Archive 69–70 scholarly involvement, value of artefacts and 70–71 secrecy 57 smuggling 59, 60 Sumerian artefacts 66 trafficking Afghan heritage 61–3 UNESCO Convention on the Means of Prohibiting and Preventing the Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property (1970) 57, 63 Collections for the Future (Museum Association, 2005) 3 ‘Collectomania’ 95 colonial extreme, Egyptian archaeology collections and 41–3 Comaroff, J. and Comaroff, J.L. 122 comics 210 commemorative ceramics 214–16 commodity exchanges 133–4, 142–3 common difference, concept of 103 A Companion to Museum Studies

228

(Macdonald, S., Ed.) 176, 178 compilers of time capsules, influence on each other 181 computer-mediated communications, collecting through 105 condition, issue of 109 conflicting beliefs, dealing with 54 Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments 121 Conroy, K. 150n5 conservation requirements for plastics 175–6 consultation on displays and exhibitions at Galton Collection 85 contemporary collections of massproduced materials 93–100 associations of objects, importance of 94 capitalism and collecting 96–7 challenge of 100 cognitive sciences 98–9 collecting people and practices 95–6 collecting processes 99–100 contemporary value systems 93 defiance, spirit of 97 emotional reactions 99 Enlightenment 97 grids 97–8, 99 historicity, gathering feeling and 98 identity, creation through accumulation 99 intuition 99 marketplace values 97 materiality 97 modernist values, challenge to 93, 98 neurological processes 98–9 patterning 97–8 ‘People’s Shows’ 94–5 popular collecting 95–6 provenance 98 Raid the Icebox 1 (Andy Warhol) 94 similarities and differences between objects 97 social practice, shifts in 93–4 contents of time capsules 189–94 contested human remains 49–56 antagonism 53 ‘bones of contention’ 50–53 Code of Practice for the Care of Human Remains in Museums (DCMS) 50–53 conflicting beliefs, dealing with 54 cultural-spiritual principles of indigenous communities 50 distrust 53 enlightened self-interest 53–4, 56 moral legitimacy of indigenous claims 54

Index

natural science, value system of 49, 54–6 rationality of western science 50 sharing of knowledge 54 social-spiritual value of human relics 50 supernatural belief, value system of 49, 54–6 Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa, role and function of 53, 56 value systems, reconciliation of 49, 54–6 Conway, Sir Martin 158 Cornish, Paul 12, 157–66, 223 Cosentino, D. 116, 122 Crackenthorpe, Montague 78 Crime Museum, Scotland Yard 84 cultural heritage of Iraq, destruction of 63–6 Cultural Property Policy, adoption by UCL of 65–6 cultural-spiritual principles of indigenous communities 50 Culture, Media and Sport, Department for (DCMS) 50, 84 Culture without Context (Lundén, S.) 62 Cuno, J. 107 curation curatorial strategies for relics 117–18 curators of native art in Southwest US 139, 140 of Galton Collection at UCL 80–88, 89 Dagens Nœringsliv 66 Daily Telegraph 158 Darwin, Erasmus 76 Darwin, Horace 80 data protection, problem of 73–4 Daud, Muhammad abu 43 Davison, Sue 200 dealers in Southwest US 139–40, 140–41 defiance, spirit of 97 definition, handling and description of relics 116 degradation of plastics 174, 175, 176 Derrida, Jacques 124 Design Council 193 designation of plastic objects 170 destination of time capsules 188–9 detachment, ontology of 186–7 Diana, Princess of Wales 197 Dickens, Charles 132–3 Dierkens, Alain 116–17 diligence, exercise of 60 Dilworth, L. 135

Index

Dipper, C. 117 Directory on Popular Piety and Liturgy (Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments) 121 display extremes at IWM 159–60 strategies for relics 114, 116–18 Djanet 39 Djer, tomb of King 37–8 documentation of plastic objects 173 Doherty, M.K. 34 domestication of terror, problem of 32 Donne, John 193 Dossin Barracks Holocaust Museum, Mechelen 35n7 Douglas, M. and Isherwood, B. 132 Douglas, Mary 118 Drower, M. 42 Dubin, S.C. 178 Duchamp, Marcel 194 Duncan, C. 118, 120 durability of plastics 174 Durkheim, Emile 126 Durrans, Brian 12, 120, 181–201, 223 duty of confidence 88 Duxford Airfield 157, 161, 163 Earthlife News 197 Eastop, D. 191 eBay 11, 107–8, 110, 147 relics and 123–4, 125, 126, 127 Edward, Earl of Wessex 195 Edward VII 190 Edwards, Amelia 44 Edwards, F., Gosden, C. and Phillips, R.B. 120, 124 Efimova, A. and Manovich, L. 39 Egypt Exploration Society 42 Egyptian archaeology collections 37–46 ambivalent autonomy 39–41 attestations 40–41 Book of the Dead 46 collecting offensives 44–6 collection space as physical threat to objects 37–9 colonial extreme 41–3 excavated objects, resonance of 40 faking genealogy 38 finds distribution, system of 44 historical dislocation, collection creation and 44–5 historical effects of museum collecting 38–9 historical presence, naturalising of 38 human remains, displays of 45–6 language scripts 44 lyrical museums, potential for 39–40, 44

229

material confusions 38 material loss 37–8 object biography 39 object typologies, creation of 42 objects, mutual dependency of terms for 39 physical rupture, collecting practice as 37–9 political dislocations 38 politics, archaeological fieldwork and 42–3 pottery 40 private property relations 39 value of objects 41 Egyptian Museum in Cairo 39, 44 electronic advertising 209 Elsner, J. and Cardinal, R. 2 emotional reactions 99 Engs, R.C. 79 enlightened self-interest 53–4, 56 Enlightenment 97 ‘Enlightenment Catholicism’ 121 Environment Time Capsule Project (19942044) 198 environmentalism immanent future, time capsules and 196–200 plastics, concerns about 173–4 ephemera fairs 217 ephemeral items for display at IWM 163–5 ephemeral nature of plastics 173–4 epistemological position of relics 116 Epshtein, Mikhail 39–40, 44 equipment in Galton Collection 80 Erman, A. and Grapow, H. 40–41 ethics of eugenics, Galton Collection and 81–2, 83 issues in collecting for Holocaust Exhibition 25 ethnographic exhibitions and time capsules 181 eugenics Archive 85–6 Education Society 78–9, 84 eugenic movement 75 interpretation of history of, problems of 83 Record Office 77–9, 80 theory of, beginnings of 77 Eugenics Review 79 Evans-Pritchard, D. 149 evidence, fragility of 19–22 excavated objects, resonance of 40 Exhibits Department at IWM 165 expectations, transactions and 148–50 expert knowledge 104

230

extreme objects collecting at IWM 157–66 relics 112, 114–16, 126–7 Fabian, J. 119, 120 facsimiles, IWM policy on 28–9 faking genealogy 38 plastics 178 Farley, R.M. 187 Farrell, L. 77, 78 Fatima 117 Fernie, F. and Onians, J. 98–9 Fforde, C. 45 ffoulkes, Charles 159, 163–4 Field Collecting of Ethnographic Specimens (Sturtevant, W.C.) 145 Film and Video Archive 164–5 Financial Times 24 finds distribution, system of 44 First World War 161, 164, 218 Fisher, R.A. 76 Fisher, T. 176 Flandrin, Philippe 59 Flecker, James Elroy 201n7 Flickr 7, 124 Flyum, Ola 62 foodstuffs collection at IWM 164 forensic uses of collected items 211 formation of Galton Collection 75–6 forms of relics 112–13 Forrest, D.W. 76, 77, 78, 79, 80 Forster, E.M. 184–5, 200n2 Foster, B., Foster, K.P. and Gerstenblith, P. 66 Foundation Pit (Platonov, A.) 39–40 Franklyn Mint 95 Frederic, Prince of Wales 183–4 Freedman, Lawrence 65–6 Freedom of Information Act (FOIA, 2000) 83, 84 French Revolution 214 Freytag, N. and Sawicki, D. 121 Friedman, Gisele 33 Fuggle, Emily 35n9 Gage, N. 60 al-Gailani Werr, Lamia 66 Gallup, New Mexico 135–9, 146–7, 150n3, 150n5 Franciscan Fathers at St Michaels near Gallup 150n4 Gallup Intertribal Ceremonial 136, 146 Galton, Adele 76 Galton, Samuel and Violetta 76 Galton, Sir Francis 10, 45, 75–7, 77–9, 79–80, 89

Index

curating Galton 80–88 Galton Collection at UCL 75–89 access layers 86–7 access to archives 83–4, 85–7 anonymisation 86 Anthropometric Laboratory 77–8 consultation on displays and exhibitions 85 curation of 80–88, 89 data protection, problem of 73–4 duty of confidence 88 equipment 80 ethics of eugenics 81–2, 83 eugenic movement 75 eugenic theory, beginnings of 77 Eugenics Education Society 78–9, 84 Eugenics Record Office 77–9, 80 formation of 75–6 Hidden Lives Revealed Project (Children’s Society) 86 historical context 89 individual rights, issues of 75–6 International Health Fair, South Kensington (1884) 77–8 interpretation of history of eugenics, problems of 83 Nazi abuses and 83 personal data, protection of 75–6 provenance 80 responsibility for materials in 79–80 restrictions on ‘sensitive’ data 87–8 Gaunt, J. 45 Gavua, Kodzo 8–9 Geisbusch, Jan 4, 11, 112–27, 223 Gell, A. 7, 141, 187, 200n1 Geller, Mark 65 genres and values 109–10 Gerstenblith, P. 69 Gianfranco Moscati collection at Holocaust Exhibition 31–2 Gibson, McGuire 63–4, 66 Giddens, Anthony 10–11, 99 gift exchanges 133–4, 142–3 Gilbert, Sir Martin 35n6 Gill, David 60 Gill, G.P. 197 Gladstone, William Ewart 80 Gledhill, J. 85 globalisation art and market in Internet age 109 global market, free-for-all of 110 Going, Going, Gone: Regulating the Market in Illicit Antiquities (Mackenzie, S.) 58 The Goldfinch Independent (Stilitz, I.) 35n1 Gordon, Alexander 38 Goring, E. 134

Index

Gosden, C. and Larson, F. 3 Gotor, M. 121 Grajetzki, W. 41 Great Exhibition, Crystal Palace (1851) 159, 170 Great Expectations (Dickens, C.) 132–3 Great Synagogue, Sydney 35n12 Greenwich Mean Time 217 grids 97–8, 99 Griffith, F.L. 40 Griffith Institute, Oxford 42 Gryn, Rabbi Hugh 35n6 Guadalupe, Virgin of 117 The Guardian 53, 61, 116, 125, 174 Guildford Castle 194–5 Guillebaud, John 198, 200 Gulf Wars, First and Second 63–5 Gunthert, André 7 Hague Convention on Protection of Cultural Property in Event of Armed Conflict (1954) 63, 66, 70 Hanson, Duane 178 Hanson, Katharyn 66 Hare, Tom 40 Harte, N. and North, J. 77, 80 Harvolk, E. 125, 127n2 Hawker Siddeley Aircraft 193 Hayton, Brian 3 Hebditch, David 62 Hecht, Robert 60 Heidenstein sisters 30 Heimann, Lore 31 Helfgott, Ben 35n6 Hermitage Museum 118 Hidden Lives Revealed Project (Children’s Society) 86 Hillis, K. 123 Hiroshige 111n4 Hirsch, Lina and Ruth 31 historical context of Galton Collection 89 historical dislocation, collection creation and 44–5 historical effects of museum collecting 38–9 historical presence, naturalising of 38 historicity, gathering feeling and 98 Hokusai 107, 111n4 Holbrook, A. 169 Holocaust Exhibition (Imperial War Museum) 9, 19, 22, 85 acquisition of artefacts 19–22, 23–5, 28–9 Acquisitions Group 35n3, 35n6 administration of loans 28 appeal for materials 24–5 choice of artefacts 32 clues to artefacts 23

231

collecting for 19–34 collecting team 23 continuing collecting effort 27–9, 33–4 domestication of terror, problem of 32 ethical issues in collecting for 25 evidence, fragility of 19–22 facsimiles, policy on 28–9 gallery for 162 Gianfranco Moscati collection 31–2 help from USHMM staff 23–4 Kindertransport collection 29–31 large artefacts, dealing with 25–6 Majdanek State Museum and, mutually sustaining partnership 26–7 modest nature of collection 32 Nazi crimes, collecting evidence of 22–5 newsletter 24 Project Office (HEPO) 35n3, 35n9 sensitivity to significance of relics 32–3 Holocaust Memorial Museum, Washington (USHMM) 23–4, 28, 35n4 Holt, Frank 59 Homeric epics 39 Howard, K. and Pardue, D. 135 Howes, David 99 Hudson, Paul S. 200 human remains ‘bones of contention’ 50–53 displays of 45–6 reconciliation of value systems and 49, 54–6 social-spiritual value of human relics 50 human stories 217–18 Hussein, Saddam 157, 166 Hutter, Otto 30 Hvattum, M. and Hermansen, C. 170 hybridity, ontology of 189 ICOM 50, 169, 176 Code of Ethics for Museums 61 identity, creation through accumulation 99 illicit antiquities, network trafficking in 60 impact of plastics 177–8 Imperial Institute, South Kensington 159 Imperial War Museum (IWM) 12, 169 Acquisition and Disposal Policy 166 American Air Museum 161 Art Collection 160 atrium 161–2 HMS Belfast 161 Churchill War Museum 157

232

difficult decisions 165–6 display, extremes for 159–60 Duxford Airfield 157, 161, 163 ephemeral items for display 163–5 Exhibits Department 165 extremes of collecting at 157–66 Film and video Archive 164–5 foodstuffs collection 164 Holocaust Exhibition 9, 19, 22, 85 Holocaust Exhibition Acquisitions Group 35n3, 35n6 Holocaust Exhibition Project Office (HEPO) 35n3, 35n9 Holocaust gallery 162 Lambeth Road Site 157, 163 Land Warfare Hall, Duxford 161 large items for display 161–3 mission of 158 naval exhibits, collection of 161 origins of 158 preservation problems 164–5 Trafford Site 157, 163 War History (IWM) 160 Inbar, Yehudit 34 Independent 59 Independent on Sunday 66 Indian Arts and Crafts Act (US, 1990) 146–7 individual rights, issues of 75–6 Ingold, T. 186 insulation of time capsules from interim processes 188–9, 196 International Crusade for Holy Relics USA (ICHRUSA) 126, 127n4 International Foundation for Art Research 70 International Health Fair, South Kensington (1884) 77–8 International Task Force on Holocaust Education, Remembrance and Research 35n7 Internet 11 importance for religious practices 124–5 transformations, art market and 107–9 Iran 69–70 Iraq collecting unprovenanced antiquities 63–9 cultural heritage, destruction of 63–6 Italy, Ministry of Culture in 60 Jacoby, Ingrid 30–31 Janusza Regional Museum 29 Japanese woodblock prints 105–7 Jarvis, W.F. 195, 196 Jasenovacs Memorial Site, Croatia 35n7

Index

Jenkinson, Peter 94 Jenny Rubin et al. v the Islamic Republic of Iran et al. (2001) 69–70 jewellery of Southwestern US 131–50 Jewish Studies, UCL Institute for 65 Jiroft, chlorite vessels from 70 John Eskenazi Ltd., London 60 Jones, G. 77 Jones, Gwyn Edmons 34 Jones, J. 194 Jones, Kathy 24, 26 Judah, Gerry 162 Jüdisches Museum Vogelsberg 21 Kabuki theatre 105, 108 Kant, Immanuel 39 Kantaris, Sylvia 197, 198, 200, 201n7 Kantsaywhere (Galton, F.) 81 Karp, I. and Levine, S.D. 120 Kassow, S.D. 35n5 Kavanagh, Gaynor 158 Keane, Webb 114, 122, 142, 145 keeping-while-giving 142–3 Keneghan, Brenda 170 Kew Seed Bank 197, 198 Keys, David 59 Kindertransport collection 29–31 King, Jonathan C.H. 4, 12–13, 203–21, 223 Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, B. 134, 143, 151n10 Kita, S., Farquhar, J.D., Marceau, L.F. and Blood, K.L. 110–11n2 Knell, S. 2 Knowing things (Gosden, C. and Larson, F.) 3 knowledge expert knowledge 104 materials, value and 139–44 sharing of 54 Komlosy, Anouska 6 Krauss, Rosalind 13 Kutilainen, Sirpa 200 Labour Leader 189–90 Ladysmith Barracks 191–2 Laidlaw, Stuart 62, 72 Lambert, Susan 12, 168–78, 223 Lambeth Road Site, Imperial War Museum (IWM) 157, 163 Land Warfare Hall, Duxford 161 language scripts 44 large artefacts for display at Imperial War Museum (IWM) 161–3 Holocaust Exhibition, dealing with 25–6 Latour, Bruno 121, 126

Index

leaking cans at Museum of Brands 205 lending to other exhibitions and museums 213–14 Lerman, Anthony 35n6 Levene, D. 65, 72n10 Leverhulme Centre for Human Evolutionary Studies 45 Levy, Isaac 28 Lidchi, Henrietta 11–12, 131–51, 224 Linenthal, Edward 23–4 Lippard, L. 134 Lipsanoteca (Vatican relic depository) 125 Lithuania 35n7 Liverpool Anglican Cathedral 189–90 Liverpool Daily Post 201n6 Livingstone, E.A. 112 Lohman, Jack 6, 9, 11, 49–56, 223 looting antiquities 57, 58, 60–61, 64, 65–6 Lourdes 117 Lovatt, J.R. 94 Lovelock, James 197 Lowry, J.D. and Lowry, J.P. 140, 151n7 Lunar Society 76 Lundén, Staffan 62 Lynn, Dame Vera 195 lyrical museums, potential for 39–40, 44 Lyungberg, L.Y. 169 McDannell, C. 125 MacDonald, Norman 59 Macdonald, S. 119, 121, 176 MacDonald, Sally 65–6 McEnroe, Natasha 4, 10, 75–89, 224 McGirk, Tim 60 McIntosh, Roderik and Susan 71n6 Mackenzie, Simon 58 McNamara, L. 41 McRobb, Andrew 200 Magi, shrine at Cologne of 117 Magic Bowls, illegal removal of 65–6 Mahomed, F.A. 80 Mailer, Norman 168 Majd, M.G. 70 Majdanek State Museum 26–7 Malvern, S. 158 Manchester Guardian 214 Manchester Museum 54 Manuscript Collector (NRK) 61–2, 63, 65 market for Afghan artefacts 61 for art, global qualities of 102–3 marketplace values 97 for native arts, tourism and 131–50 Martin, P. 3 Marvell, Andrew 193

233

Masce, Laura 200 material confusions 38 material hierarchies of value 104–5 material loss in Egyptian archaeology collections 37–8 materialisation of prediction, time capsules and 189 materiality 97 materials and plastics manufacturing processes 171–2 Matsuura, Koichiro 63 Matthews, W. 150n1 Maynard, Michael 19–21 Meiji reforms (1868) in Japan 106 Melamed-Adams, Alicia 33 melting down of coins, threat of 59 Mémorial de la Shoah, Paris 35n2 Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, Berlin 35n2 Merci, Lucillo 31–2, 35n10 Mesopotamian artefacts 66 messages contained in time capsules 185– 6, 189–90, 193–4, 196, 198–9, 200 Methods and Aims of Archaeology (Petrie, F.) 43 Metropolitan Museum 60 Meyer, B. and Pels, P. 121 Microsoft 86 Miho Museum in Japan 59–60 millennial time capsules 187 Miller, D. 125, 134, 142 Miller, D. and Slater, D. 124 Miniaci, G. and Quirke, S. 40 mining archaeological sites, market demand and 70–71 Mir Zakah, treasure of 59 Miss Aniela 7 mobility of relics 112–13 modern world and plastics 169 modernity display of relics and 120–21, 126 modernist values, contemporary collections and challenge to 93, 98 time capsules and modernist dilemma 184–5 Modiano, Tilde 31–2 Mommsen, W., Schluchter, W. and Morgenbrod, B. 42 Moncrieff, A. 187 Montesquieu, Charles L., Baron de 99 Montserrat, M. 45 moral legitimacy of indigenous claims 54 Morgan, J. 174 Morris, Jane 53 Morris, William 176 Moscati, Gianfranco 31–2 Mossman, S. 169 Mr. Ed’s Elephant Museum 2–3

234

Muensterberger, W. 2 Murchie, Alison 24–5 Musée Dapper, Paris 71n6 Musée d’Art Sacré du Gard 116–17 Musée du Quai Branly 1, 2, 3 Musée Guimet 61 museological and religious perceptions of relics 117, 118–19, 120, 121–2 Museum Association 3 Museum Britannicum 38 museum collections of plastics 169–70 Museum of Brands, Packaging and Advertising 5–6, 203–22 advertising, uses of collected items in 212 aerosols 205–7 archives 219 Argos catalogues 208–9 art and design, uses of collected items in 211–12 AWARE collecting principles 221 books about collecting 219 bread bugs 207 budget 204 clothing catalogues 208–9 collecting items for 203–4 collecting process 216–17 comics 210 commemorative ceramics 214–16 control of collecting 221 electronic advertising 209 ephemera fairs 217 forensic uses of collected items 211 human stories 217–18 leaking cans 205 lending to other exhibitions and museums 213–14 outward looking collecting philosophy 213–14 packaging and promotional materials, importance of 218–19 police and forensic uses of collected items 211 preservation, problems of conservation and 205 sampling, beginnings of 209–10 sampling catalogues 209 scientific sampling 207 social stories 217–18 specialist consumption, examples of 210–11 taxation stamps 217 time, transformation of 218 time travelling 212 tourism and travel materials 209 toy fairs 217 trade catalogues 208–9 web packaging 209

Index

wristwatches 217–18 Museum of Design in Plastics (MoDiP) 12, 168, 169–70, 170–74, 175, 178 Museum of London 6, 11, 52 Museum of Mankind 2 Museum of Northern Arizona 146 Museum of Questionable Medical Devices 3 museums and time capsules 181–3 Myers, F. 134, 142 Nagel, Sandra 28 National Archives, London 88 National Museum in Kabul 60–61 National Museum of Baghdad 66–7 Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) 126 natural science, value system of 49, 54–6 naval exhibits, collection of 161 Nazis abuses of, Galton Collection and 83 crimes of, collecting evidence of 22–5 Ness Botanic gardens 198 neurological processes 98–9 New York World’s Fair (1938) 185, 187 Nicholson, G. 2 Noon, Ron 200 Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation (NRK) 61–2, 65 Nowakowski, Jacek 24 Obelkevich, J. 121 objects biographies of 39 mutual dependency of terms for 39 ‘Objects of Desire’ 95 re-contextualisation of 118 similarities and differences between 97 size and durability of, balance in 187 typologies of, creation of 42 O’Hanlon, M. 2 Olsen, K. 149 Omland, A. 62 O’Neil, Jim 200 ontology ontological ambiguousness 183 time capsules and 186–9 Opie, Peter 205–7 Opie, Robert 5–6, 12–13, 203–21 bibliography (partial) 222 Oriental Institute Museum 66–9 Ostler, J., Rodee, M. and Nahohai, M. 141 Ough, Norman 163 Oxford Concise Dictionary of the Christian Church 112

Index

Package for the Distant Future (Sylvia Kantaris) 197 packaging and promotional materials, importance of 218–19 Padilla, H.B. 150n2 Padre Pio of Pietrelcina 114, 117 Parezo, N.J. 135 Paris Primitive (Price, S.) 1 Parry, J. and Bloch, M. 122–3 patterning 97–8 Pattison, S. 121 pawn system in Southwest US 137–8 Pearce, Susan 2, 10–11, 39, 93–100, 163, 224 Pearson, Karl 45, 77, 78, 81, 82, 89 Peden, A. 41 ‘People’s Shows’ 94–5 People’s War (BBC online project) 19–21 performance ranking of art, market and 103 time capsules and 194–6 Persepolis Fortification Archive 69–70 personal data, protection of 75–6 Peterloo Massacre (1819) 214 Peters, Louis 122 Petrie, Flinders 37–8, 40, 42–3, 44–6 Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology (UCL) 4, 9, 40, 42, 44–6 Phillips, R.B. and Steiner, C. 6 Phillips, Ruth B. 1, 13, 135 Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society 174 physical rupture, collecting practice as 37–9 Pine, B.J. and Gilmore, J.H. 176–7 Pinney, Christopher 187–8 plastics 168–78 acquisition of objects 169–71 applications for 169 authenticity 176–7 conservation requirements 175–6 degradation of 174, 175, 176 designation of objects 170 documentation of objects 173 durability of 174 environmental concerns 173–4 ephemeral nature of 173–4 everyday associations 176 faking 178 impact of 177–8 materials and manufacturing processes 171–2 modern world and 169 museum collections 169–70 Museum of Design in Plastics (MoDiP) 12, 168, 169–70, 170–74, 175, 178 ‘Plastics Age?’ 168 societal evocation 172–3, 178

235

stability of 173–4 value-adding criteria 171–3 value in today’s world 178 Plastics Network 176 Plato 77 Platonov, Andrey 39–40 Pointon, M. 133, 134, 142, 143, 150n1 police and forensic uses of collected items 211 Poling-Kempes, L. 135 politics archaeological fieldwork and 42–3 political dislocations, collecting and 38 Polybus 39 Pomain, K. 2, 41 Pope, J. 39 popular collecting 95–6 portable property 132–4 posterity 183–4 pottery 40 Powers, W.R. 143 PR Newswire 60 praxeological dimension of relics 119–20 preservation problems at Imperial War Museum (IWM) 164–5 problems of conservation at Museum of Brands 205 Preserving Memory: The Struggle to Create America’s Holocaust Museum (Linenthal, E.) 23–4 Price, Sally 1, 2, 3 private property relations 39 Project 2045 (Design Council) 193 Prott, L.V. 60 Prott, L.V. and O’Keefe, P.J. 70 provenance contemporary collections of massproduced materials 98 Galton Collection at UCL 80 public engagement with time capsules 184, 186 Pullen, D. 169 Quant, Mary 175 Quirke, Stephen 4, 9, 37–46, 224 Qureshi, Soheil 62 Quye, A. and Williamson, C. 165, 170 Raheen, Sayed Makhdoum 63 Raid the Icebox 1 (Andy Warhol) 94 re-contextualisation of objects 118 Reach Advisors 177, 178 Reform Act (1832) 214 Reid, B. 80 Reid, D. 44

236

relics acquisition, mechanisms of 114 Canon Law and 115–16 cloth relics 113–14 collecting, logic of 114–16, 116–17 collecting and 116–19 curatorial strategies 117–18 definition, handling and description of 116 display strategies 114, 116–18 eBay and 123–4, 125 epistemological position of 116 extreme objects 112, 114–16, 126–7 forms of 112–13 International Crusade for Holy Relics USA (ICHRUSA) 126, 127n4 Internet, importance for religious practices 124–5 Lipsanoteca (Vatican relic depository) 125 mobility of 112–13 modernity and display of 120–21, 126 museological and religious perceptions of 117, 118–19, 120, 121–2 Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) 126 praxeological dimension of 119–20 privileged access to 124 re-contextualisation of objects 118 sacrilege, uses of 122–6 sensorial ordering 119–22 simony 125–6 social life of 123 symbolic perception of 118 ‘taboo materials’ 114–15 western sensorium 119–22 Remembrance (Ray Bradbury) 186 Renfrew, Colin 60, 65–6 Republic (Plato) 77 Rhode Island School of Design 93–4 Ringelblum, Emmanual 24 ritual of time capsules 195 Robbins, Daniel 94 Rochlitz, Joseph 35n10 Rodwell, T. 200 Rothfield, L. 66 Rothman, H.K. 134, 149 Rothschild, Edith 31 Roughgarden, J. 103 Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew 197, 198, 199 Royal Society 174 Rubenstein, Steven 5 Rubin, S. 2–3 Rumsfeld, Donald 66 sacrilege, uses of 122–6 St Oda 117

Index

St Theresa of Lisieux 113–14, 115, 116 Salcedo, Doris 5 Salter, Anne A. 200 Saltykov, Aleksei 118 Samou, Salome 8 sampling beginnings of 209–10 of catalogues 209 scientific sampling 207 San Giovanni Rotondo 117 Sandler, Linda 58 Santo Domingo Labour Day Fair 143–4 Saunders, Nicholas 165 Saving Antiquities for Everyone (SAFE) 67 Schieder, W. 121 Schnütgen, Alexander (and Schnütgen Museum of Medieval Art in Cologne) 118 scholarly involvement, value of artefacts and 70–71 Schopen, G. 118 Schott, S. 41 Schøyen, Martin 62, 65, 66 Schrader, R.F. 135 Science Museum 169, 201n5, 212–14 scientific sampling 207 The Scotsman 190 secrecy 57 Semper, Gottfried 169 sensorial ordering 119–22 serial time capsules 195 Setboun, Michel 59 Sewell, D. 5 Shaked, Saul 65 Shakespeare, Sir William 195 Shakespeare, William 193 Sharaku 111n4 sharing of knowledge 54 Shashoua, Y. 174, 175 Shashoua, Y. and Ward, C. 169 Shaw, Graham 63 Shelach, Menachem 35n10 Shelley, Percy Bysshe 201n7 Shibboleth (Doris Salcedo) 5 Shor, Sara 25 Shuker, R. 2 significance of relics, sensitivity to 32–3 of time capsules 186–7 simony 125–6 Skriftsamleren (NRK) 61–2, 63, 65 Sloane, Sir Hans 183–4 Smith, H. and Davis, S. 41 Smith, Kevin 174 Smith, Martin 24, 35n4, 35n6 Smith, Paul 193 Smithsonian Institute 71n6 smuggling antiquities 59, 60

Index

social hierarchies of value 104 social life of relics 123 social practice, shifts in 93–4 social stories 217–18 socialisation of embodiment in time capsules 195–6 societal evocation of plastics 172–3, 178 Society for the Preservation of Afghanistan’s Cultural Heritage (SPACH) 61 Sociological Society 77 South Africa, Truth and Reconciliation Commission in 9, 53–4, 56 specialist consumption, examples of 210–11 Srebrenica Memorial Room, Bosnia 35n7 St James’s Square, Edinburgh 190 stability of plastics 173–4 Stein, Gil 67–8 Steiner, C. 2, 6 Steinhardt, Michael 58 Steinmetz, Menahem 24–5 Stewart, S. 116, 118–19 Stilitz, Ivor 19–21, 35n1 Stimler, Barbara 33 Stone, Elizabeth 64 Stone, P. and Farchakh Bajjaly, J. 66 storage space in time capsules 187 Storrie, Robert 4 Sturtevant, W.C. 145 Sullivan, L. 118 Sumerian artefacts 66 supernatural belief, value system of 49, 54–6 sustained collections 149 Swann, Michael 187 symbolic perception of relics 118 ‘taboo materials’ 114–15 Tambiah, S.J. 121 Tate Gallery 169 Tate Modern Turbine Hall 5 taxation stamps 217 Taylor, James 23, 24 Teesside capsules 198–9 Thatcher, Margaret 166 Then, E. and Oakley, V. 169 Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji (Hokusai) 107 Thompson, M. 123 time, transformation of 218 time capsules 181–200 anticipation of future retrieval 182 AOL Millennium Time Capsule (2000) 181, 200 appeal (and absurdity) of 182–3 civic time capsules 194

237

compilers of, influence on each other 181 contents 189–94 destination of 188–9 detachment, ontology of 186–7 Environment Time Capsule Project (1994–2044) 198 environmentalism, immanent future and 196–200 ethnographic exhibitions and 181 familiarity of 182 hybridity, ontology of 189 idea of, backward projection of 185–6 insulation from interim processes 188–9, 196 invocation of the future 183–5 Kew Seed Bank 197, 198 materialisation of prediction 189 messages contained in 185–6, 189–90, 193–4, 196, 198–9, 200 millennial time capsules 187 modernist dilemma 184–5 modernist time 183 museums and 181–3 New York World’s Fair (1938) 185, 187 non-standard, unofficial capsules 191–4 ontological ambiguousness 183 ontology 186–9 origin of term 185 performance 194–6 posterity 183–4 public engagement 184, 186 relaxation 182 remembrance 186 ritual of 195 serial capsules 195 significance of 186–7 size and durability of objects, balance in 187 socialisation of embodiment of 195–6 storage space 187 time capsule-as-activist environmentalism 197–8 time-span 196 trust, holding objects in 184 use of, overview of 185–6 Virtual Reality (VR) 187–8 The Times 116, 159 time travelling 212 tourism and travel materials 209 Townsend-Gault, C. 134, 142 toy fairs 217 trade catalogues 208–9 traders in Southwest US 139–40 traditional exchange values 141–2

238

Trafford Site, Imperial War Museum (IWM) 157, 163 Trent, Council of (1545-63) 121 True, Marion 60 trust, holding objects in 184 Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa 9, 53–4, 56 role and function of 53, 56 Tubb, Kathryn Walker 4, 10, 57–72, 224 Turgel, Gina 32 turquoise loop necklace (Southwest US) 136–7, 143 ukiyo-e Japanese prints 11, 102, 105–7, 108, 110 UNESCO 50 Convention on Cultural Property (1970) 57–8, 63, 66, 70, 71n6 UNIDROIT Convention on Stolen or Illegally Exported Cultural Objects (2005) 63, 66, 70 United Nations Security Council 66 University College London (UCL) 10 Cultural Property Policy 65–6 Galton Collection and Archive 75–6, 79–80, 83, 89 Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology 4, 9, 40, 42, 44–6 valuation art and market in Internet age 109–10 fixing value of artefacts in Southwest US 140–41 human remains and reconciliation of value systems 49, 54–6 of objects in Egyptian archaeology collections 41 today’s world, value of plastics in 178 value-adding criteria for plastics 171–3 Van Beek, Walter 71n6 Van Krieken-Pieters, Juliette 60–61, 71n1, 72 Van Os, H. 118 Vatican Council, Second (1962–65) 238 Vergo, P. 1 Victoria & Albert Museum 12, 169, 170, 175, 211 Virgin Mary 117

Index

Virilio, Paul 188 virtual circulation of artefacts 142 Virtual Reality (VR) in time capsules 187–8 Waifs and Strays’ Society 86 Walsall Museum 94–5 Wanamaker, Zoë 195 War History (IWM) 160 Warhol, Andy 94, 95 Watson, P. and Todeschini, C. 60 web packaging 209 Weber, Max 41–2, 121 Weigle, M. 135 Weigle, M. and Babcock, B.A. 135 Weinberg, Jeshajahu ‘Shaike’ 24 Weiner, A. 134, 148, 200n3 Wellcome, Henry 45 Wellcome Library 84 Wellcome Trust 52 Wengrow, David 41 Were, Graeme 1–13, 224 western science, rationality of 50 western sensorium, relics and 119–22 Wilk, Richard 11, 102–11, 224 William Fagg lecture (British Museum, 2008) 1 Williams, R. 149 Willson, Major Henry Beckles 158 Wilson, C. 134 Wilson, Sir David 183–4 With Hidden Noise (Marcel Duchamp) 194 Witherspoon, G. 142, 150n1 Woodard, A. 150n1 World Environment Days 198 Wright, M.N. 150n1 wristwatches 217–18 Yad Vashem, Jerusalem 25, 26, 28, 34, 35n2, 35n10, 35n12 Yarsley, V.E. and Couzens, E.G. 168 Zakir, Mohammed 61 Zamboni, Guelfo 31 Zola, Emile 80