The right image is of a display at the Kelvingrove Museum in Glasgow, UK that I took on a visit many moons ago when traveling and visiting cultural institutions was still a major part of my life. The left image is of my dog, about two years ago on his first vacation on Whidbey Island. Besides both pertaining to travel, they are also images of items named Haggis.
The first is a representation of the mythical wild haggis (with a butcher prepared one behind it), while the second is my adorable dog who I named Haggis in deference to my time living in Scotland. I imagine the person who added the right Haggis to the Kelvingrove’s collection was pretty pleased with this joke (same for the curator who put it on display). It made me curious what the object record for this object would be, and how much detail is included about its fabrication. Fortunately, Glasgow Museums has a large online collection, so I was able to look at their records and discover that the museum haggis was made from from the skins of a goat, a red fox, a rabbit, and a red grouse (while mine is 100% dog).
Haggis v. Haggis by Beth Sanders is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
At 7:08am last Saturday, I pulled into the Washington Navy Yard in Washington, DC. I normally don’t report to work for another hour, but today was special, today was the day that the former USS Barry was scheduled to depart the yard. The construction of a new, non-moveable bridge to replace the Frederick Douglass Memorial Bridge hastened the decision to get the Barry out of there; either she floated out now or she would be forced to leave in pieces. The ship had been closed to the public for some time now, but people still came to see her.
And on this beautiful Saturday morning, a crowd watched as Forrest Sherman-class destroyer DD-933 was pulled away smoothly with the assistance of three tugboats. The event reminded me of the significance of an artifact in plain sight. Those people watching might not have known there was a museum on the Navy Yard, or much about naval history, but they could see the Barry, they knew the ship was there, and they were sad to see her go.
Now we stand a week later, a navy yard without a ship; her absence is noted. Visitors express their frustrations, wondering how we dare not replace her, lest we be just Navy admin. But the Washington Navy Yard is more than just an administrative headquarters for a branch of the Department of Defense, it is a living representation of American history: from the burning of Washington in the War of 1812 to the last visit on President Lincoln’s itinerary before heading to the Ford Theatre, these buildings have witnessed history, and they keep watching.
And they watched as the Barry moved out of sight, as did I. I reminisced on the short time I had known her, and felt saddened. “They’re turning her into razor blades” was the common line being tossed around the yard, referencing her disposition to be scrapped in Philadelphia. Fortunately some objects were removed from the ship and added to the Naval History and Heritage Command’s collection. It will be fascinating years from now to see how these objects tell a story. They won’t just tell a story of Vietnam or of the Cuban Missile Crisis, but instead they will tell her story, the story of the USS Barry, which became “Display Ship Barry”, who taught millions of visitors about Naval history. And maybe they’ll end this future hypothetical exhibit with a razor blade, or a piece of scrap metal, to talk about her disposition and how people in the community, military and civilian, came together on Saturday 7 May 2016 to watch her go.
What is it with kids these days (gosh I sound old!)? When I hark back to my early visits to the American Museum of Natural History in New York City, I think about the large scale dioramas that served as a formative tool for influencing my interests in archaeology and museums which would eventually shape my career. But a recent visit with young family members to see the new exhibit on pterosaurs really illustrated to me just how differently children today see museum spaces, and made me quite grateful that I too believe that the future of museum spaces is in interactive learning.
Photo courtesy of Marina P. Kennedy on Playing Around (2014).
A large-scale, beautifully constructed diorama sat in the center of one room of this temporary exhibit. It featured flying pterosaurs in their 'natural habitats', along with several species of fish, the pterosaurs’ prey. In its large scale format, it is intended to give visitors a sense of the landscape these magnificent creatures would have lived in, yet I was the only one transfixed by it. The exhibit, filled with both adults and children, seems to have a mostly forgotten area in this diorama.
But why would visitors be paying attention to this display, when there are fossilized specimen and interactive activities around the corner? It seems that parents have forgotten how much these types of displays influenced their childhood museum experiences, and children would much rather learn how pterosaurs flew through interactive motion-sensor controlled activities (granted, they were really neat interactives!).
My question then is not what is the matter with visitors, but rather, why are these dioramas still finding such a large place in the museum if few are utilizing them as educational tools? Diorama usage at the AMNH reached a golden era in the 1940s and ’50s, when many of the famous paintings still in use today for the wildlife scenery were created to bring an understanding of nature to city-dwellers who would have then had less of an opportunity to see and appreciate it in the wild. Museum artists “worked to bring nature alive indoors” (O’Neill 2013).
So while there has been a shift away from dioramas in standard museum practice, as the above referenced city-dwellers have had more ease in transportation to interact with nature, perhaps the exhibits where they are still most relevant are in extinct environments. “Dioramas provide different anchor points and enable visitors to relate their previous experiences to the scenes presented and thus may facilitate learning” (Tunnicliffe & Scheersoi). If visitors focus on learning through what they do recognize in a scene, do the AMNH’s dioramas still function as educational tools?
Dioramas are effective story telling tools (Reiss & Tunnicliffe, 2011), and they do encourage inquiry based learning, raising questions amongst visitors. In displays where there are no interactive activities, I still notice this as well. Children look at a deep sea scene and begin asking their guardians what all the creatures are and where they live. But in an exhibit where the diorama has to compete, perhaps we need to think of new ways in which to connect with children to represent the greater natural scene of the time.
I for one, appreciate the capacity of a diorama to share a world with visitors, and do not want them fully replaced by video games where you walk through a CG version of that reality - but that has more to do with how I see the past than with the way the world is today. The American Museum of Natural History’s exhibit ‘Pterosaurs: Flight in the Age of Dinosaurs’ was exceptionally put together, with stationary and interactive exhibits to enthrall and educate all visitors. Visiting with children ranging in age from five to nine, and of course the adult-aged-children, there was something for everyone to enjoy and learn from.
So then maybe there is still a place for the diorama in a technologically advanced exhibit like this one - it’s there for people like me!
What do you think? Do you enjoy well-researched dioramas in museums? Leave a comment below!
Sources referenced:
American Museum of Natural History, ‘Pterosaurs: Flight in the Age of Dinosaurs’. [http://www.amnh.org/exhibitions/current-exhibitions/pterosaurs-flight-in-the-age-of-dinosaurs].
O’Neill, Claire [2013], ‘In The Background: Art You May Never Notice’. NPR. [http://www.npr.org/2013/12/14/250797697/in-the-background-art-you-may-never-notice].
Reiss, M. J. and Tunnicliffe, S. D. [2011], Dioramas as Depictions of Reality and Opportunities for Learning in Biology. Curator: The Museum Journal, 54: 447–459. doi: 10.1111/j.2151-6952.2011.00109.x
Tunnicliffe, Sue Dale and Scheersoi, Annette, Effective biological learning in museums: Natural history dioramas – Dusty relics or educational tool?. [http://care-aam.org/documents/vs/Sue_Dale_Tunnicliffe.pdf].
Entering the Favell Museum in Klamath Falls, Oregon, USA, the woman at the front desk excitedly tells visitors about the Museum they have entered. She explains about the origins of the collections, hands over an information sheet, and draws the visitor’s attention to the natural setting of the Museum and how it affected the Klamath tribes who lived here…and then she points out the use of artefacts in the structure.
Looking around at the surrounding walls, the stonework is interlaced with mortars and pestles, petroglyphs, and carved stones. These artefacts, it is explained, were found when excavating the Museum site. Sitting right on the Link River, local tribes would utilise this area as a summer habitation. At the end of the season, they would bury the supplies which were too heavy to carry to their wintering lands. This, she explains, is why they found quite so many tools in this spot on the riverbed.
But I found myself looking at this wall and the tools built into it, and feeling disgusted. Here were some of the few objects in this collection with a complete story to tell – and they have simply become architecture. Their current use seemed to strip them of their historical significance; I worried about visitors who do not receive the introductory talk and would never know their history. All of this caused me to step back from the wall, analyse my surroundings, and think – what makes for an appropriate use of objects?
Meandering through the Gamla Stan neighbourhood of Stockholm, Sweden, I was ecstatic to find a runestone built into the architectural base of a building – so what made this use of artefacts so different?
Museums are places to learn about and to respect our past through the objects that represent it, but museums themselves can also function as artefacts. In a world where museum spaces are built to conform to expectations of visitors, these structures do much more than simply hold historic and artistic objects. When modern art collections are housed in museums which are themselves works of modern art, why then should historical museums not be made of historical objects?
The reason, after stepping back to analyse the situation, comes down to the mission of museums. Summed up well by the Texas Historical Commission, “the primary mission of most history museums is to collect, preserve, exhibit and interpret objects of historical significance”, and it is due to that full statement that I cannot accept the use of artefacts as architecture. It is because museums are supposed to collect in order to protect and interpret. The Museum did not utilize these objects as building materials out of necessity and convenience, as in historic Stockholm, but rather they used them to make a statement, and this statement shows that the Museum cares more for the collection and exhibition of objects that it ever will for their preservation and interpretation.
The Favell Museum’s mission statement reads: “The Favell Museum is dedicated to the enhancement and the understanding of the history of the west, preservation of Native American artifacts and culture, and exhibits of notable contemporary western art.” With a collection built on arrowhead collectors’ out of context loot, the Museum has successfully made their building fit their collection, by taking objects out of context and missing the opportunity for their archaeological, rather than architectural, interpretation.
Favell Museum, http://www.favellmuseum.org/
Texas Historical Commission [2013] “Basic Guidelines for the Preservation of Historic Artifacts.” Web.
"Use, Repair and Adaptive Re-use and Discard." People and Things. ScARF. Web.
This past summer I had the opportunity to assist on archaeological pedestrian surveys in a national park. Some of the things we found were, in my mind, spectacular. For me, the above tool was the winner, bifacially worked and 13cm long; I wanted it to go in a museum.
But with the state of ever-increasing collections and decreasing space to store them, I could not argue with this being the correct decision. The find spot was well off the beaten track, it was an isolated find, and by taking its coordinates we ensured that we could find it again.
So what is worth keeping? While to me, as a lithics enthusiast, this was remarkable (plus, I found it!). To others who see drawer after drawer of stone tools already in collections, this one object would not tell a new story, and thus it is not unique enough to be collected.
How does this policy of non-collection change the face of museums? Distancing ourselves from universal collections policies, it allows curators and collections managers to truly hone in on the types of objects that will best represent their museums and their communities. And, as the finder, by leaving objects in situ we allow future archaeologists to come across them, in the same manner in which we leave baulks between our trenches when digging, and they too can be amazed by the skill and significance of these finds.
A few posts ago I discussed a display of paper cranes at the Albuquerque Balloon Museum. This display was highly symbolic, marking a commemoration of the balloon bombs constructed by school age children in Japan, and sent over the ocean, exploding mostly in forests of the Pacific Northwest. Only one of these bombs inflicted casualties on American soil, and this incident represents the only casualties in the contiguous United States during World War II. This balloon bomb detonated in Bly, Oregon
Today in Bly stands a monument known as the Mitchell Monument. It is named after the organisers of that day’s picnic, Reverend Archie Mitchell and his wife Elsie. While the Reverend was unloading food, one of the children found the bomb and called the others over in curiosity. Mrs. Mitchell and the five children were killed instantly from the explosion.
After thinking about H.M. Thorpe’s shoe brush, an object, as a memorial to those who perished in Flanders Fields, I wondered about this memorial’s status as an object. It is certainly on display, in a fenced off area with a pathway directing visitors to the memorial. Looking at the fence as a surrounding structure, the monument sits well positioned to take advantage of its space. Built in a trapezoidal shape of stone, the memorial is reminiscent of the CCC architecture at the nearby Bly ranger station. It has become part of the community, and it is constantly adorned with flowers, both recently picked and longer-lasting plastic ones.
Since this memorial is clearly seen as an object, in a special place, which is visited to experience, remember, and contemplate, is this space then a museum as well? The Museums Association defines a museum as a place that enables “people to explore collections for inspiration, learning and enjoyment. They are institutions that collect, safeguard and make accessible artefacts and specimens, which they hold in trust for society.” Similarly, the OED dictionary defines a museum as “a building in which objects of interest or significance are stored and exhibited”. The Mitchell Monument is not a building, nor does it collect, but it certainly is a place to explore an exhibited and significant artefact for inspiration. While this space as a museum wouldn’t likely receive accreditation, it certainly does illustrate similarities.
And all of this makes me wonder, what if people treated museums as memorials? What would curators say if visitors began laying out flowers out beside every display of an Egyptian mummy, or placing a pebble in commemoration on cases displaying grave goods. Most museums preserve objects and remains that serve as memorials, and most memorials can function as artefacts (some are even in museums now-a-days), so why must our actions towards them be so different?
Sometimes an object is so simple, but so personal, that it cannot help but to be intriguing. One such object caught my eye at the In Flanders Fields Museum, in Ypres, Belgium. Walking by case after case of artefacts lost by those who passed through Flanders Field during World War I, I noticed this shoe brush. Incised into the brush is the name “H.M. Thorpe”. The accompanying label identifies this as the “shoe brush of British soldier H.M. Thorpe”, but gives no further information. All of this caused me to question, who was H.M. Thorpe?
Using the In Flanders Field Museum’s online name list, I came across eight possibilities for my H.M. Thorpe. All from the British Empire forces, some from commonwealth infantries, all buried in the Flanders region.
The trench warfare of World War I devastated the country of Belgium, Europe as whole, and the families of those fighting on both sides of the conflict. Each object in the Museum tells the powerful and important story of this pain. As I walked away from the lost or forgotten shoe brush, I wondered whether anyone knew who used this. Unfortunately, as none of my eight H. Thorpe’s buried in the Flanders region have listed middle names, I too cannot identify this brush’s original owner. But instead, would like to think of it as a memorial to all eight men:
THORPE, H Private Duke of Wellington's (West Riding Regiment) 1st/4th Bn. Died 26.08.1915
THORPE, HAROLD Private Sherwood Foresters (Notts and Derby Regiment) 2nd Bn. Died 20.10.1914
THORPE HAROLD Private Australian Infantry, A.I.F.16th Bn. Died 04.08.1917
THORPE, HAROLD Driver Royal Field Artillery119th Bde. Died 17.10.1918
THORPE HARRY Private Border Regiment 2nd Bn. Died 20.12.1914
THORPE, HARRY Private Royal Munster Fusiliers 2nd Bn. Died 10.11.1917
THORPE, HENRY Private King's Own (Royal Lancaster Regiment) 1st Bn. Died 19.10.1914
THORPE, HERBERT Private Royal Warwickshire Regiment 2nd/6th Bn. Died 04.09.1917
Mixtec Ceremony: For when a bird is more than a bird
On a recent visit to the De Young Museum, I noticed this beautiful knife with a turquoise mosaic handle in the shape of a parrot or macaw profile. Seeing such an incredible piece of Mesoamerican mosaic work, I wondered about the Mixtec people and the choice of shape for this knife handle.
The Mixtec culture represents people who lived in the Mexican states of Oaxaca, Guerrero, and Puebla. The lowlands and highlands were often disunited, but they represented a key Mesoamerican civilisation and are well known for certain major polities including Tututepec, which rose to prominence in the 11th century. Their name, meaning “Cloud People”, alludes to the spiritual significance of the sky in their culture. The Mixtec were known for their mastery of jewellery, especially in gold and turquoise, but also for their pictorial language, documented in many codices as well as on ceremonial codex-style ceramic vessels. Their artistic “style was characterized by geometrical precision, standardization, and conventionalization of symbols, as well as the use of color to convey information” (Hernåndez Sånchez 2010). Thinking about this knife through their art of ceremony, we can ascertain a significance of this piece that far extends its physical beauty.
Labelled as a “Ceremonial Knife” (2007.97.3), this object derives from 13th – 16th century, pre-Columbian Mixtec Culture, and is almost passable amongst so many fascinating objects on display. Attention must be called, however, to the impeccable mounting technique utilized by the Museum for this object, with the mounts painted to nearly exactly match the colouration of the turquoise and obsidian it is supporting. The knife is comprised of an obsidian blade, turquoise and spondylus shell tesserae, and a tree-resin gum.
So what then is the symbolism of this stunning, ceremonial handle? The use of turquoise signifies water, rain gods, and the sky, and was a precious material, lending significance to the object. What is more interesting, however, is the bird shape. Birds, and specifically parrots and macaws, were very important in Mixtec culture. Thought to have been military symbols or insignias of war, this knife represents power in conflict. Birds, through their feathers, are also symbols of preciousness and nobility, and as a bird crafted in turquoise, it is clear that the bearer of this knife would have been instantly recognisable as important in Mixtec culture.
The types of ceremonies that this knife would have been used in could have been militarily-related, but also possibly associated with sun, agricultural fertility, the cult of the dead, or supernatural beings. What is certain is that this powerful people, who continued to preside over large territories under the rule of the Aztecs, held an important place in their ritual lives for bird imagery, and that this object should not be looked at as only aesthetically pleasing, but also as culturally intriguing and symbolically significant.
Hernåndez Sånchez [2010] “Vessels for Ceremony: The pictography of codex-style Mixteca-Puebla vessels from central and south Mexico.” Latin American Archaeology 21(3), pp. 252-273.
Hogarty, Sarah Bailey “Frame|work: A ceremonial knife from Mexico.” FAMSF Blog. De Young Museum, 29 June 2011. Web. Accessed 12 January 2014.
In Japanese tradition, cranes represent good fortune and longevity because of their fabled lifespan of 1,000 years. These glorious creatures, stretching five feet tall with a six-foot wingspan, have become part of mainstream Japanese society not only through legend and lore, but also through craft. By using origami, organisms are treated as “a transformed flexible sheet” (Maekawa 1994); the crane is one of the most popular animals to represent.
Investigating the display, I was able to learn about the production of the balloon bombs and the experiences of those school children taken from classes to work in this environment; they did not know what they were working towards. After the war, and as they grew older, these children became remorseful adults and sought to remedy the evil they inadvertently brought into this world. Through visits to the areas affected, they have become part of the local community and the history, and they are still involved in creating a more beautiful world to surround this story.
Walking into the exhibition space, visitors are greeted with a display of origami cranes. Beautifully arranged, strung together, in all different sizes, these cranes remind the viewer of the continuity of this tradition and this past. I had known that cranes represented a symbol of peace in Japanese culture, and that people do often make them for Japanese cultural events and in times of hope, but I never knew why. Looking into the history of this movement, I found that the tradition to make 1,000 cranes comes from making one for each fabled year of the crane’s life. By this belief, at the end of the construction, the maker receives a wish. They came to symbolise peace, however, only after WWII. Sadako Sasaki, a young girl diagnosed with leukaemia after exposure to radiation in Hiroshima, determined to fold 1,000 cranes to recover her health. Unfortunately, she did not finish nor did she survive this terrible disease, but her classmates picked up the challenge and folded the remaining 356 cranes in her honour.
How fitting then, to utilise these cranes to immortalise the lives lost in Bly in 1945, from remembering one child to remembering all loss. These every day items which symbolise honour, loyalty, and peace, form the perfect introduction to what was by far the heaviest exhibit in the museum. For that, I truly commend the display – as it brought historic pain and suffering into the modern day in a hopeful way.
‘Legend of the Crane’ Survivors of Suicide <http://www.sos-walk.org/sos/crane.htm>
Maekawa, J. [1994] ‘Evolution of Origami Organisms’. Symmetry: Culture and Science Vol. 5, No. 2: 167-177.
Origami and Crane [2011] Pacific Friend <http://www.pacificfriend.ca/html/origami_and_crane.html>.
When visiting The Collection in Lincoln, I noticed this small doll on display. The interpretive material challenged the viewer to ‘imagine a Roman child playing with this small doll around 2,000 years ago.’ 95mm in height and 16mm in width, this doll has moveable limbs attached by small loops of metal. The legs have become detached, but the doll is still complete and easy to imagine as a toy.
Image courtesy of The Collection: Art and Archaeology in Lincolnshire
Continuing on Greek tradition, Roman dolls were made of ivory, bone, wood, clay, cloth, marble, alabaster, and possibly also wax and leather. They are understood as children’s toys, and are specifically associated as girls’ playthings from burial evidence and decoration on sarcophagi. However, it is known from both literary and archaeological evidence that both boys and girls played with dolls, as they are found in sanctuaries, having been donated to respective gods in symbolising the transition to adulthood.
Nearly 500 objects have been identified as dolls throughout the Roman Empire (Dolansky 2012). A majority of these have breasts, hips, delineated genitalia, intricate hairstyles, and high levels of decoration. This makes the Lincoln example more unique, though it is not undecorated in hairstyle, and would likely have been dressed up by its owner. Dolls are often used in role-playing games, and are thought to reinforce the ideal femininity of society; however, Dolansky argues that dolls such as this, having moveable joints and being less feminine, would actually provide the opportunity for potential activity and give dolls the option to move in ways not socially acceptable for the girl.
“Play while [you] can since the Fates are inclined to take even pretty girls” (CLE 1167.5-6, quoted in Dolansky 2012:286). Bone and ivory dolls are common finds in Roman catacombs (Elderkin 1930), serving as important symbols for girls’ virginity and innocence. This prevalence in Christian burials as well evidences their status as toys and not idols, allowing such inferences for earlier findings like the Lincoln example.
This small, unique doll still complies with the general interpretation of dolls in representing childhood and innocence in ancient times. Interestingly, while much of the material culture of childhood found in museum collections in Britain represents an adult’s perception of childhood rather than children’s playthings (Brookshaw 2009), these dolls allow modern viewers to actually fulfil the wish of the curator. Looking at this doll, one does imagine a young child playing with it, dressing it, making it walk, and using it to understand their role in society, both as society dictates and beyond socially accepted boundaries. Whether a young boy or girl played with this toy and what gender it is intended to represent, I am sure that someone knows (perhaps even someone reading this – in which case, let me remind you of the comment section immediately following); however, to me, the important thing about this object is just how real it is. Not only does the curator challenge the viewer, but they challenge them successfully. It is not only an interesting object, but also an interesting story waiting to be told.
Brookshaw, S [2009] The Material Culture of Children and Childhood: Understanding Childhood Objects in the Museum Contexts. Journal of Material Culture, 14(3): 365-383.
Dolansky, F. [2012] ‘Playing with Gender: Girls, Dolls, and Adult Ideals in the Roman World’. Classical Antiquity, 31 (2): 256-292.
'Doll Reference Name LCNCC : 1926.726/92.' Lincs to the Past. Web. 15 Jan. 2013.
Elderkin, K.M [1930] ‘Jointed Dolls in Antiquity’. American Journal of Archaeology, 34 (4): 455-479.
Etquest [Dr. E] ‘Ancient Roman Dolls and Toys’. Doll Museum. Blogger, 7 October 2011. Web. 16 January 2013.
I have recently been working on a project with Glasgow Museums, helping to sort and re-catalogue a large antiquarian collection bequeathed by Ludovic McLellan Mann in 1955. The importance of this project has been to reorganise the artefacts, emphasising their provenience so that more can be learned about the distinct sites Mann collected from and excavated.
What has come out as most interesting to me throughout this project, has been a new understanding of the way collectors thought. Many of these objects have been labelled extensively, giving information about the object, where it is from, and sometimes who collected it. What I really wasn’t expecting however, even after working through this collection for six months, was a description of the weather. A.1955.96.ng, an axehead of grey-green polished stone with some black and brown iron discolouration, very regular in shape, with a slightly flattened but sharp blade and an unpolished broken butt. The axehead is marked ‘Kirklauchlan Stoneykirk Nov 1913 when raining’.
Why was the rain such an important aspect of the object, necessary to be permanently marked on the tool itself? It is in stepping in and examining such objects, that one can really understand the way the collector’s mind works. Such markings were not done for a museum, nor were they done for researchers to understand the conditions of finding. When Mann marked this object, he wanted to remember where and when he found it. Having worked extensively in Stoneykirk, and certainly collected from other locations in November 1913, it was important to him that he recollect the specific details of this find.
What does it mean to us now that it rained on that date in November 1913? Nothing. But it does allow for further understanding of this interesting character, who not only amassed an incredible collection of archaeological objects, but also had the capacity to recall how he came about them. In a time when the recording of archaeological contexts was not particularly significant, he created a collection documented to mirror a modern field journal. Despite the differences between antiquarians and archaeologists, it is clear that Mann held the values we too consider important.
While the rain falling in Kirklauchlan is not significant archaeologically, it is significant to understand how important provenance was to this collection. That he would mention the weather for this find lends credibility to the other markings. He recorded his finds, their contexts, and any other anecdotal information when he found them. And as such, the value of his collection rises archaeologically.
At the outset of this blog, I made a promise to myself and to my few readers that I would not use this as a venue to discuss what I already know, but instead to act as a catalyst for further learning about different object types than I was familiar with. For those who do know me, that may have sounded like a promise to not discuss stone tools. For those who were excited by this thought, I do apologise.
Visiting the Manx Museum in Douglas, Isle of Man this summer I noticed an unusual lithic tool described as a ‘missile shaft shaper’, object ‘F’ in the above image. Interestingly displayed amongst other stone tools, in a display on hunter-gather society on the island, this grey-brown flint tool, approximately 1.5 x 2 inches in height and width (depth uncertain as object was behind glass), has a crescent like shape, with a clear intentional rounded edge. Displayed alongside a replica wooden shaft, it gives a rather clear impression as to how the object was used, but I wondered if it was being suggestive.
As I analysed the tool, I thought as to whether I had seen any shaft straighteners quite like it before, and realised I had not. I decided to look at other arrow-shaft shapers from the archaeological record to determine whether this object was unique. Arrow shaft straighteners and shapers are very common in the North American archaeological record, and are often made of a stone of relative hardness that has parallel grooves running its total length. These tools are not only found in the Americas, however, as seen in the South African example illustrated below from the British Museum’s collection.
With the availability of hard stones, and the knowledge of how to make similar tools for straightening arrow shafts, I was forced to question what this tool might do differently from the grooved examples. Its rounded, but sharp, edge can run the side of an arrow shaft during preparation, and it is easy to imagine it removing excess material, helping to reduce the size of the shaft.
An analogous example was found in an experimental archaeology context, where such a tool is being used to scrape dried bark off of shoots being transformed into arrows. As seen in the image below, this tool as well has a sharp, narrow curved edge, similar to the shape of a shaft. It is a less perfect fit than the archaeological example above, but it is seen to be effective in the transformation witnessed.
Looking at this original tool next to an arrow shaft, it appears clear what it was used for, but to what effect? Comparing it with typical arrow shaft straighteners, it would seem quite ineffective in size, but rather would benefit more precise shaping, utilising its sharper edge effectively. I am willing to trust the terminology utilised by the Manx Museum, and agree that it could be a shaft shaper, but it would be interesting to know how these tools were first identified, how sound this identification is, what microscopic wear patterns the tool bears, and how those patterns compare to experimentally created tools. While answering no questions nor using this research to push forward the understanding of this tool, I hope that it is at least clear that little research has been conducted on such tools, are, while part of many museum collections, they are rarely on display. Perhaps in the future, I will have the opportunity to analyse one myself and compare the microscopic striations; for now, however, I am pleased to have found a stone tool type I can continue to research.
If you have read anything about these tools, please do post the reference in a comment!
Ascher, R. [1961] ‘Experimental Archaeology’. American Anthropologist 63: 793-816.
Stoneflake.net [2010] Basalt Flake Scraper For Scraping Arrow Shafts. [Accessed 23 September, 2012] Available from [http://stoneflake.net/2010/11/10/basalt-flake-scraper-for-scraping-arrow-shafts/].
Visiting the London Science Museum a few weeks ago, my eye was drawn to an interesting clock displayed as part of ‘Technology in Everyday Life c. 1820-1880’. The display is intended to discuss this period of worldwide communication and the profound changes it impacted on peoples’ lives. Suddenly technology was available to everyone and mass-production through steam-powered machines became common. The world was changing quickly and people struggled to keep up it.
This ornate clock grabbed my attention not just because of its beauty, but also because of its accompanying story. “This ornate clock was supplied by J Harper of Kensington and was part of the shop fittings at Tyler’s pharmacy, 87 Abingdon Road, Kensington, until 1962." This clock has survived the passage of time in pristine condition; it hardly looks its age, besides in style.
This then provoked my thoughts – when were clocks invented? Aware of sundial technologies in Ancient Egypt, I became intrigued as to the progression of this technology. How did sundials evolve into such a wide array of horological instruments?
Progressing from sundial technology, the Greeks invented water clocks, called clepsydra, which functioned similarly to hourglasses still recognisable as time-telling devices today. However, water does not fall at a constant pace, so it was not very accurate, and this tool was as equally useless as the sundial in cloudy, cold Northern Europe. Expanding from this type of technology, the first clock tower was constructed at the top of a 30ft tower in China in 1094CE by Buddhist monk Su Song, which was based on the weight of water falling when powered by a steady water wheel. The weights were based on fifteen-minute increments, and would cause figures to pop out and bells to chime on the hour. This as well, however, was not incredibly accurate.
The first recorded mechanical clock is known from 1283 at Dunstable Priory in Bedforshire, England. This advanced accuracy as an innovation was demanded by a growth in urban mercantile populations for whom time telling was an important aspect of their trade. However, as Richard the Englishman points out in a 1271 textbook, the “clockmakers are trying to make a wheel which will make one complete revolution” each day, but “they cannot quite perfect their work” (Gascoigne 2001).
It was not until 1660 that the pendulum was developed and clocks could be kept to the minute and the second. This in turn allowed the clock to become more of a staple in wealthy homes, and they began to develop a role as furniture. Regional styles, which still survive today, were developed in different regions of Europe and beyond.
This returns us then to the 19th century in the history of clocks. They have become quite accurate and various styles and sizes have developed, clocks now ranging the spectrum from pocket-watches to grandfather clocks. But the world has changed. As discussed, the early 19th century was a period of transition to mass-production. Clocks did not escape this trend and began to be mass-produced with interchangeable parts for sale at a lower cost.
This makes Tyler’s beautiful clock even more outstanding. He could have invested in a simple clock to tell time in his shop, instead Tyler’s pharmacy was equipped with a beautiful piece of craftsmanship – marked on the side with a maker’s mark of pride. At this time of transition, when life did not slow down but rather kept changing and becoming more uniform, this piece was invested in - and because of that we can still enjoy it today.
Leaving the 19th century, its 21st century display at the London Science Museum is effective at discussing the way the world moved forward at this time. Utilising an eclectic collection of artefacts scattered throughout a display case with small placards around – but not always easily identifiable, the display speaks to the antiquarian period it represents and the pieces combined force the viewer to think about the display in front of them and the connections between these objects. The accessibility of technology in this period changed the world. Even if the clock was not invented or perfected then, it still speaks to the importance of time in the lives of contemporary Brits and raises questions about how our perception of time has altered today. But that is for another day and another discussion…which could perhaps begin below if you feel so inclined.
Andrewes, W. [2012] ‘A Brief History of Clocks’ Scientific American. http://www.scienti ficamerican.com/article.cfm?id=a-chronicle-of-timekeeping&page=7
Gascoigne, B. [2001 – ongoing] “History of Clocks” HistoryWorld. http://www.historyw orld.net/wrldhis/PlainTextHistories.asp?groupid=2322&HistoryID=ac08>rack=pthc
As the first man-made tool to be used only as a weapon, swords are personal objects to their wielders and have associations with both positive and negative usage. The first swords were crafted over 4000 years ago of bronze and copper, though modern swords are most often steel, an alloy of carbon and iron, which has significant strength improvements over bronze, copper, and non-alloyed iron.
The main parts of the sword are the blade, hilt, and pommel. Blades are designed to be thinner so that the greater weight of the weapon is at the hilt, allowing sufficient propelling force in thrusting, while the pommel acts as a counterbalance, stopping the handle from slipping off. Swords, beyond technical form, are also cherished objects, which tend to be passed down through generations and reused almost as a ritual object. “For many cultures the sword is a deeply positive thing. To the Asante people of West Africa it was a symbol of authority and justice. To a Japanese samurai the sword embodied his very soul” (Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum).
Source: Scott 1981
On a recent visit to the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum I stopped to examine the ‘Conflict and Consequences’ gallery. With swords displayed in a case beside Andy Scott’s fighting steel figures, art and war interplay in design- just as in the weapons themselves. I am not incredibly fond of this display tactic as the figures are quite distracting, but its unique presentation does allow for the inclusion of a striking representation of sword types and periods. One in particular drew my attention: this arming sword (Glasgow Museum: A.1973.7) was found in the River Clyde near Hamilton during the M74 motorway project. I noticed it in particular as it was described as being ‘possibly Scottish’.
It is an early 15th century blade attached to what is more likely a 17th century hilt. The pommel is missing, possibly lost in its deposition or finding. (This sword was not excavated, it was found and yanked from the ground; thankfully it has been well cared for since!) The sword has three decorative pieces inserted into the blade near the hilt, which are brass or latten, and it has been suggested (Scott 1981) that they may have been consecration marks. Looking at this sword, however, made me wonder, why is this one Scottish? Clearly its straight, tapering, diamond-shaped section blade was not in itself a distinctive trait. Instead it is the improper fit of the sword that establishes its identity (Ralph Moffat, pers com, 8 June 2012). In a world where Germanic swords held distinction, it is the reuse of their blades in conjunction with Scottish-made hilts that establishes this provenance.
So why is this sword Scottish I asked; because it is imperfect. But it is also such imperfections that establish its exceptionality and beauty. That this blade was reused for generations returns to the uniqueness of the sword as a tool-type; swords are not actually only for killing - they are sentimental objects. The valuation of this 15th century blade, which led to its reuse, illuminates the importance of swords in people’s lives. As objects of beauty and pain this Scottish sword arose from traditions that dictated its use, but in its current display-life it is being shown as both weapon and art, combining both the negative and positive personalities of swords in general.
‘Axes, Swords and Knives’. [2002] The History Channel website. http://www.history.com/shows/modern-marvels/episodes/episode-guide. [Accessed 20 May, 2012]
“Conflict and Consequences” Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum. Argyle Street, Glasgow, G3 8AG. [Visited 13 May 2012]
McMillan Welch, A. [1917] ‘Scottish Arms’. The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, 12(12), pp. 250-251.
Robinson, W. [1982] ‘The corrosion and preservation of ancient metals from marine sites’. The International Journal of Nautical Archaeology and Underwater Exploration, 11(3), 221-231.
Scott, J. [1981] ‘Three Medieval Swards from Scotland’. In: Caldwell, D. (ed) Scottish Weapons and Fortifications 1100-1800, pp. 10-20. Edinburgh, John Donald Publishers.
Sincere thanks to Dr. Ralph Moffat, Curator of European Arms and Armour at Glasgow Museums, for discussing this object with me.
Last weekend I visited the National Museum of Iceland in Reykjavik. Upon entering the gallery, the visitor is immediately confronted with a small figurine sitting within a display case cutting into a wall section. From the outset, it is clear that this is an important object to the museum’s collection. Not only is it the first artefact one sees but that the museum also asks a question about it lets visitors know that this object is much studied, and still uncertain.
Why is this bronze figurine so important? Aside from its early date for Icelandic archaeology, dated to approximately 1000 CE typographically by style, it is also interpreted as representing either Þór or Jesus. Either interpretation, the character here is important within Icelandic society at a time of cultural shifts towards Christianity from the Norse religion.
Þór, pronounced Thor, is one of the major Norse gods. Typically depicted as the hammer-wielding god, he is associated with storms, oak trees, strength, protection and healing. His deity was most popular during the Viking period when, in the face of Christianisation, an emblem of his hammer was worn to symbolise deviation from what was becoming the accepted belief. This emblem is found in a lot of graves from the period contemporary with the above-mentioned figurine.
So why is it that this figurine’s identity is so debatable? As Þór, the object represents Mjöllnir, the hammer responsible for protecting the gods from giants; however, as a representation of Jesus, the object grasped by this figure is easily interpreted as a Christian cross.
Scholars (and, since its return to Iceland in 1930, visitors) have been debating the identity of this small figurine for generations…so who is it? While I cannot give an answer, after analysing representations of Þór, his hammer, and Christ from both contemporary and later periods of Icelandic history, I would lean towards this being a representation of Þór by nature of the way in which he is grasping the hammer, his seated stature, and the squarer face-shape. While the hammer is rounder than typically depicted of Mjöllnir, perhaps this representation of the deity was used in contact between Pagans and early Christians.
Icelandic history is rather unique in that there have been both Christians and Pagans since its initial settlement around 870 CE, and that they have lived in peaceful coexistence. That said, the communication and trade occurring between the two groups would allow for transfer of ideas and artistic expression which could give way to this cross-like hammer end.
There will likely never be an answer to this question; luckily I did not enter this analysis searching for one. This very small (probably about four inches in length) human figure has sparked academic controversy enough so that the museum asks visitors whom they think it represents. This questioning method is particularly productive towards inciting future discussion of the object at hand. So now that you have heard my thoughts in brief, or alternatively because you knew more to start, who do you think it is?
Barnes, G. and Ross, M.C. (eds) [2000] Old Norse Myths, Literature and Society: Proceedings of the 11th International Saga Conference 2-7 July 2000, University of Sydney. Sydney, Centre for Medieval Studies, University of Sydney.
Mayfield, J. "The Ancient Germanic Runic Alphabet and Runestones, Their Possible Civilization Origins, and Their Historic Influence." European Heritage Library - European History, Cultures, Historical Memory, and European and Immigrant Identities. European Heritage Library. Web. Accessed 17 Apr. 2012. <http://euroheritage.net/runestones.shtml>.
McTurk, R. [2005] A Companion to Old Norse-Icelandic Literature and Culture. Malden, MA: Blackwell Pub.
Thjodminjasafn Islands: National Museum of Iceland. Web. Accessed 17 Apr. 2012. <http://www.thjodminjasafn.is/>.
