"Everest Through The Lens" - Exhibition Review

 

Climbing Mount Everest. Under the auspices of the Mt. Everest Committee: the cinematograph record of the Mount Everest Expedition of 1922. EE/6/5/60 (RGS-IBG Collection)

Exhibition Review: Everest through the lens (Royal Geographical Society (with IBG), 1 Kensington Gore, London, SW7 2AR, UK: 5 October 2022-20 January 2023) - this review was originally written for the Other Everests Research Network. 

NB - the exhibition is currently back on display at the RGS from 20 January 2025 - 15 April 2025 (10.00am-5.00pm, Monday-Friday), free entry. Click here for more information.

Everest through the lens was an exhibition marking the centenary of the first two British attempts to climb the world’s highest mountain in 1922 and 1924. It examined the expeditions as seen through the lens of official expedition cinematographer, Captain John Noel. Focussing on the two films he made, Climbing Mount Everest (1922) and The Epic of Everest (1924), the exhibition set out ‘to unpick the uncomfortable and complex social, racial and geopolitical dynamics that shaped the expeditions – from their beginning to enduring legacy.’ Utilising a range of photographic and documentary sources, as well as a handful of well-chosen objects – such as a kinomatograph camera, similar to the one Noel used at high altitude, and Noel’s own Remington portable typewriter – exhibition visitors were guided through the various stages of the two expeditions, from their meticulous preparation, through their actual execution, to their final presentation in both print and film media.

 

As a documentary filmmaker, Noel’s lens was far from an objective one. The narrative of both films gives a distinctly colonialist view of the ‘heroic’ exploits of the British climbers, whilst the far larger entourage of local porters and other indigenous labourers who were key to enabling the endeavour are lost somewhere in the flickering side-lines, obscured by the simultaneous glare of the white snows and the reflected imperial glory bestowed upon the films’ British protagonists. Viewing the expeditions in the context of their times, this was a period when empires and nations vied to best one another in epic feats of exploration in harsh and extreme environments. Notably the British had lost out in the races to be the first to reach the North and South Poles, hence the summit of the world’s highest mountain – or the ‘Third Pole’ as it was then dubbed – represented a last chance at attaining pre-eminence. Together, the Royal Geographical Society and the Alpine Club formed the Mount Everest Committee, which tasked itself with recruiting a team of elite mountaineers and geographers. Naturally these men were all British born and bred, privately educated and recruited through a network of mutual contacts. Letters and medical appraisals show that social considerations of class and military background counted as much as aptitude and experience in mountaineering. We are told that George Finch, as an Australian, was a lone exception to this rule, but that consequently he ‘was looked down on by some team members.’

 

A far more overtly condescending view was expressed with regard to the indigenous communities whom the expeditions encountered as they made their way through Tibet. An intertitle card from one of Noel’s films gives a clear example, stating that: ‘The men and women exist from the cradle to the stone slab, on which their dead bodies are hacked to pieces, without a wash the whole of their lives.’ The British expedition members were genuinely fascinated by the cultures they encountered in the Himalaya. Noel filmed scenes described in another intertitle as: ‘the weird and fantastic devil dances at the sacred monastery of the Rongbuk.’ A Tibetan cymbal brought back by the expedition leader, Brigadier-General Charles Bruce in 1922, included in the exhibition, shows how the British climbers were particularly struck by Tibetan music which must have seemed very different to their unaccustomed ears. Climber and surgeon, Howard Somervell transcribed Tibetan folk songs into Western musical notation, and Noel later had bands perform this music as an evocative accompaniment to the screenings of his silent films.

 

Trailer for Noel's "The Epic of Everest" (BFI)

              

Social hierarchies shaped the expeditions. Base Camp was effectively a small village, run by the British along familiar colonial lines, with clear demarcations according to social, racial and class considerations. The selection process for local porters may have been less careful to note down details, but everyone recruited – ‘from bootmakers to botanists’ – had a role with set expectations and was renumerated accordingly. Ranked highest in this hierarchy were the high-altitude porters, who were very skilled and often more adept mountaineers than the British, who nicknamed them ‘tigers.’ It is notable in many of the photographs of the expedition that there is a marked discrepancy in the size and weight of the loads which these men were charged with carrying compared to the British members of the team. Without their efforts, lugging huge quantities of supplies, equipment and oxygen tanks to the various camps ascending the mountain, the British climbers would have struggled in their attempts to reach the summit. These efforts were not without genuine risk, as a disaster in 1922 made only too apparent. Seven porters – six Sherpa, Thankay, Sangay, Temba, Lhakpa, Pasang Namgya, Pema, and one Bhotiya, Norbu – lost their lives in an avalanche. George Mallory, seen as the hero of Noel’s films, felt himself responsible. Writing to a friend, he stated that the men who died were ‘ignorant of mountain dangers, like children in our care. And I am to blame.’ However, the loss of these men’s lives was dealt with in a bureaucratic manner, with their families in Tibet, Nepal and Darjeeling being financially ‘compensated.’

 

In Noel’s film, the disaster was edited out of the final cut for fear of a negative backlash from viewers. A poignant memorial of this fact is embodied in a small bronze figure of the goddess Tara, which was on display in the exhibition. This was given to the British climbers on their return from Everest by Dzatrul Rinpoche, the Head Lama of Rongbuk Monastery, to commemorate the lives of the seven men who died. This action was filmed by Noel, but in the final version of his film Noel edited and placed these scenes at the start, representing the exchange as though it were a gift given to bless the expedition when it was first setting out.

 

Similarly, Noel appears to have had no qualms about appropriating an image of a deity depicted in a mural at the monastery in order to accentuate the sense of drama. A deity which the British stylised as ‘a mountain goddess angrily destroying the bodies of white climbers.’ As it is well-known, the 1924 expedition resulted in the loss of the lives of climbers, George Mallory and Andrew Irvine, who disappeared from view while making a bid to reach the summit and never returned.

 

The names of Mallory and Irvine, like those of Robert Falcon Scott and his men in Antarctica, were of course duly added to the roster of ‘heroic defeats’ which now characterise the annals of British Imperial exploration. A vision of heroism and self-sacrifice which Noel’s films did much to crystallise. As the final sections of the exhibition showed, this was not without controversy however.

 

Noel very actively sensationalised Tibetan culture as a marketing ploy for his films. He was personally invested in them, having funded much of the 1924 expedition himself in order to retain the rights to his footage. He hired and brought to London a troupe of seven Tibetan dancers to perform at screenings. These ‘dancing lamas’ were in fact Tibetan novice monks rather than lamas. The publicity stunt deeply offended the Dalai Lama and Tibetan government, such that they banned all Westerners from entering Tibet to climb Everest for the next ten years. Despite the fact the British mountaineering community knew that the controversy of the ‘dancing lamas’ was the real cause of the ban, the Everest expeditions were meticulously stage-managed operations, consequently they drew ranks and found a convenient scapegoat in John Hazard, who undertook an unauthorised survey expedition in Tibet also in 1924, pinning the blame on his activities instead.

 

For a small exhibition, Everest through the lens, explored a number of less well-known faces of the two earliest attempts by British mountaineers to ‘conquer’ the world’s highest peak very effectively. It elucidated a number of often overlooked themes, incorporating a rich array of written and visual documentation; particularly Noel’s film, The Epic of Everest, which was screened on a continuous loop as part of the exhibition. Shining a light on the lives of those whose names are well-known to history, such as Mallory and Noel, but more importantly it also highlighted the indigenous team members who have stood, obscured in the background for far too long. Recovering some of those names which otherwise might have been lost to history in the panel and label texts, as well as listing them in the leaflet accompanying the exhibition. In doing so, Everest through the lens showed that there is still much to be learned about cultures of imperial exploration. By taking a closer look, information which has lain hidden in the archival shadows cast by the official record which the two British expeditions carefully created as their own legacy can begin to emerge. Much like the unnamed Sherpa who can be seen steadying the camera tripod, if one looks very carefully, at the well-known photograph of John Noel, seated on a kit box, shooting the first of his films at high altitude in 1922.

Captain Noel kinematographing the ascent of Mt. Everest from the Chang La [one of his Sherpa porters can be seen steadying the tripod] MEE22/0602 (RGS-IBG Collections)

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'Other Everests: One Mountain, Many Worlds' Edited by Paul Gilchrist, Peter H. Hansen & Jonathan Westaway (MUP, 2024)

For more information on my involvement with the 'Other Everests' Research Network, and my chapter in the forthcoming (open access) edited volume of essays which the network will publish in 2024, see here.

Also on 'Waymarks'

'Other Everests' - A New Research Network

Himalaya - The Heart of Eurasia

Betrayal in the High Himalaya

The Abominable Snowman of the Himalayas (1957)

Exploring "Other Everests" - One Mountain, Many Worlds

100 Views of Mount Fuji

 

The Great Wave, Kanagawa - Hokusai (British Museum)

There are certain threads which run through our lives. Interests which never seem to diminish with the passing of time. If anything, they tend to get stronger and develop deeper meanings for us as we get older. My love of Japanese art is one such thread. I first encountered Japanese paintings and prints when visiting the British Museum as a child. I remember at the time I bought some postcards of prints by Hokusai and Hiroshige in the museum shop, postcards which I treasured for many years thereafter. I’d often look at them and sometimes I’d try to imitate their style in my own pencil drawings.

 

View of Fuji from Hakone - by Hiroshige (British Museum)

Exactly twenty years ago, during the summer of 2001, there was a small exhibition in the BM’s Japan gallery titled, 100 Views of Mount Fuji. I lost count of how many times I went to look at it during my lunch breaks. I found it mesmerising. It showcased works drawn from the BM’s collection dating from the 17^th century to the present – from the traditional schools of Kanō, Sumiyoshi, and Shijō to later and more personal interpretations by individual artists, such as Katsushika Hokusai and Utagawa Hiroshige. The exhibition catalogue, by Timothy Clark, succinctly describes the undying fascination for this enormous yet graceful and compelling landmark: “Mount Fuji is renowned worldwide as Japan’s highest and most perfectly shaped mountain. Serving as a potent metaphor in classical love poetry and revered since ancient times by mountain-climbing sects of both Shintō and Buddhist faiths, Fuji has taken on many roles in pre-modern Japan.”

 

  

A Pair of Hanging Scroll Paintings of Fuji - by Hiroshige ?III (British Museum)

The beauty of Mount Fuji is truly majestic in whichever season you view it. I’ve seen it in Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. The first time I saw it though was from a high-rise hotel in Tokyo’s north-eastern neighbourhood of Ueno in October 2003, just two years after the 100 Views of Mount Fuji exhibition. It was a tiny but perfectly white, snow-clad triangle glimpsed in the far distance on the horizon above the vast metropolis of buildings. I saw it on the last day of my first trip to Japan, and it felt like a final gift from the Gods, marking the end of a wonderful journey. I was very fortunate to have Tim Clark as my travelling companion on that first journey. We were accompanying a BM exhibition to Tokyo’s Metropolitan Art Museum. On our arrival we’d had a long wait at Narita Airport before loading the trucks and finally rolling out onto the road. Jetlag was getting the better of me. I dozed off while the truck was motoring along, lulled by the motion of the wheels on the road. Tim gently nudged me awake, saying: “Sorry to wake you, but I’m sure you won’t want to miss this.” I looked out of the window to find we were still driving along the highway, but now the road was arching gracefully up onto the Rainbow Bridge, crossing Tokyo harbour. The bridge, as befits its name, was lit up brightly in the night sky, changing slowly through a myriad cycle of multifarious colours. And there, beyond the bridge and the Odaiba Ferris Wheel, I could now see the glittering cityscape of Tokyo itself. Tim was right. It was a stunning and unforgettable introduction to the city which I’d read and heard so much about. It was probably no surprise that I fell irrevocably in love with the place during that first trip. The fact I came down with a streaming cold at the end of our time there didn’t dampen my enthusiasm at all.

 

Biru no tanima ni - by Hagiwara Hideo (British Museum)

My second trip to Japan a few months later was when I managed to get much closer to Mount Fuji. I’d read about Kawaguchi-ko in my guidebook and it seemed like the perfect spot to get some scenic photos of Mount Fuji with the five lakes area in the foreground. Back in 2001, I’d spent hours studying Tim’s exhibition catalogue, and I’d turned my own hand to painting views of Mount Fuji in watercolours. Some were modelled on the paintings and prints in Tim’s exhibition, others were more free-form efforts, inspired by the styles and schools he described. One painting which evidently struck me was a view painted by Niwa Kagen (Yoshitoki), titled ‘Mount Fuji Seen from Hara, Fourth month, 1770.’ Kagen’s painting looks perhaps more Western than Japanese, which is surprising (as Tim’s book notes) given that Kagen’s later works are much more influenced by Chinese styles of painting. It’s thought that this view was probably painted from life while Kagen was travelling along the Tōkaidō, one of Edo-era Japan’s main trunk roads, from his native city of Nagoya. My version differs in the foreground, where I’ve added a scattering of trees and used more green tones in the landscape at the foot of the mountain, attempting to echo the styles of later artists such as Ishibashi Richō, Oki Kangaku, and Suzuki Nanrei.

 

A View of Fuji from Kawaguchi-ko - by Hokusai (British Museum)

At the time I painted this picture I never dreamed I’d ever go to Japan, at least not so soon after I’d painted it. I’d always hoped I get the chance to go someday, so when I boarded a bus at Shinjuku during the Christmas and New Year holidays of 2003-2004, and found myself journeying alone out to the foothills of this stunningly sublime mountain which I’d seen so much of in Tim’s book, life seemed to have heeded my heart and effortlessly followed my dreams, magically taking me along too, transporting me there. When I got off the bus, just as I was about to set off, an old man who’d been a fellow passenger hailed me and asked where I was going. In a mixture of my broken Japanese and his broken English I managed to convey I was there to view Mount Fuji. He asked if I was staying the night here in Kawaguchi-ko, or heading back to Tokyo the same day. I said I was heading back later that day, and so he motioned for me to follow him. He then sought out the bus stop I’d need to return to and checked the timetable, telling me what time the buses departed and most importantly when the last one would leave. This was exceptionally kind and very thoughtful of him, I realised, because he knew better than I did that the last bus of the day would be leaving in just a couple of hours’ time. If I missed it, I’d be stuck there for the night! – I thanked him very much and we both bowed low and then went our separate ways.

 

I took the cable car up the side of a small hill, called Mount Tenjo, overlooking the town and the lake. There I managed to get some stunning photos of the wintry sun setting beside Mount Fuji in a crystalline blue sky. I had a 35mm film SLR camera with me, plus the first digital camera I’d ever owned, which I’d bought just a week or two before in Tokyo’s electric town, Akihabara. Reviewing some of the photos I’d taken with this little digital marvel in the darkness during the return bus ride to Shinjuku, I saw I’d managed to get some decent shots, firstly through the bus window whilst on the highway travelling out and also at the top of Mount Tenjo too. My 35mm photos later came out rather well too. These images seemed to live up to those I’d seen and studied so intently in Tim’s 100 Views book. In my mind, while sitting on the bus, driving through the night back to Tokyo, I recalled the small painting I’d done after Niwa Kagen’s and I decided that the smaller peak in my rendering of the scene was perhaps a foreshadowing of this trip to Mount Tenjo, as if it were fated that one day – this day, in fact – I’d reach this particular place, a region far distant from home, where my imagination had been transformed into my present reality.

 

My painting of Fuji, after Niwa Kagen - by Tim Chamberlain, 2001

View of Fuji from Hara - by Niwa Kagen, 1770 (British Museum)

I have seen Mount Fuji many times since during my subsequent travels to Japan, either from the highway or from the bullet train, or from other tall buildings in Tokyo and the countryside thereabouts, during the times when off-and-on I’ve been staying or living in Tokyo for extended periods. But I never imagined that one day I’d be able to see Mount Fuji from the balcony of my very own home here. A home in which my own little painting of this magnificent mountain now hangs upon the wall. Yet each morning and evening I make a point of parting the curtains to see if Fuji-san is visible and not hidden by clouds. It’s always such a magical sight to behold when the sky is clear, I love to stand on the balcony and gaze at it. Fuji often seems to hang in the air, emerging from the sky with the most elegant of lines as if ever so lightly traced by the sharp edge of a soft brush, just like in the paintings and prints in Tim’s exhibition which I’d first seen exactly twenty years ago back in London. I was very lucky to have travelled to Japan that first time with Tim, and again on several subsequent occasions too. He understood and shared my affinity for Japan, he also encouraged me to learn the language. Tim retired from the BM last year, and although I told him during our first trip together to Japan how much I’d enjoyed his exhibition, I’m not sure if I myself really knew at that time just how deeply his 100 Views of Mount Fuji had affected and influenced me, because looking back on that time now, I can see Mount Fuji has certainly remained a constant presence, abiding with me ever since.

 

View of Mount Fuji from our balcony, 2021

Like the sacred ropes seen in certain Shintō shrines here in Japan, that eternal perfect view of Mount Fuji has become a thread running through my life – tugging me back to the past, now anchoring me to the present, and very likely pulling me towards the future. Each time I look at Fuji-san, I thank the Gods (the Shintō Kami) and my lucky stars that I have been so fortunate to have found myself allied to this great mountain, like a totem. Perhaps, in some transcendental sense – Mount Fuji is synonymous with the Japanese character 縁 – ‘en.’ Meaning a sense of fate or destiny, something unseen yet strong which joins and binds two living things to one another – a bond which cannot easily be broken. Such are the threads which run on and on through our lives, after all, leading us wherever we will ourselves to go.

Also on 'Waymarks'

Walking the Tokaido

The Dancing Girl of Izu

A Visit to the Temples of Hiei-zan

A Poetic Pilgrimage to Matsushima

Health & Safety at Work - Handling Japanese Swords

Click on the images of the original Japanese artworks above to link to more information on the British Museum's website

A Gentleman & A Scholar - Ian Jenkins

Dr Ian Jenkins OBE

I've just heard the very sad news that Dr Ian Jenkins OBE, Senior Curator in the Greek & Roman Dept. of the British Museum, passed away just over a week ago on Nov 28th.

 

Ian had lived valiantly with Parkinson’s disease for many years. I say ‘valiantly’ because it certainly never seemed to slow him down at all! – He was a genuinely dynamic individual, with one of the sharpest minds I have ever known. And to know and have the good fortune of spending time with him, chatting to him, was always a real pleasure. Always enlightening and amusing in equal measure. He'd always been very supportive of me since I first joined the Greek & Roman Dept. around 20 years ago, and I was lucky enough to continue working closely with him, as well as travelling the world together, with his 'Body Beautiful' exhibition, long after I'd left the Dept. We toured the ‘Body Beautiful’ exhibition in its various iterations over a period of almost ten years from China, Hong Kong, Taiwan, South Korea, and Japan, to the USA, Mexico, and Australia, as well as to Spain and Switzerland, before it opened in its final form at the BM itself. Throughout the tour he charmed, delighted, and enthralled all of the audiences he spoke to – his wit and intelligence when speaking publicly always seemed so effortless, yet his words let you in and gave you a glimpse through an acute eye which saw the world in a different light to most of the rest of us. He delighted in discovering unusual connections, and, as such, he could often confound you by revealing something so obvious that you couldn’t fathom why it had always gone unseen before. In that sense he was truly brilliant. To chat with Ian was to always have your mind-blown wide open – in a nice way! – Plus, he had a wicked sense of humour, and was an endless fount of funny and often highly irreverent stories. It’s a genuine truth to say that I am forever recounting his stories to friends. He may have left us, but I am sure that amongst his colleagues and his friends, his anecdotes and his bon mots will long live on hereafter.

Ian Jenkins speaking at the opening of 'Body Beautiful' in Australia in 2014

Ian was, of course, best known for his association with the Parthenon sculptures (and the controversial issues which surround their current location). Classical sculpture and architecture were his specialism, but the culture of modern museums, and academic-yet-accessible curating for a well-informed popular audience was his forte. He was one of those intellectuals who simply assumed you were just as well-informed as he was, and if you weren’t (and who was?!) – no matter – you soon absorbed the information he was imparting and took flight with him because it was simply too infectious not to! – In that sense, as a scholar, as a colleague, and as a friend, he was always generous with all that knowledge and experience which he possessed, he was always open, always had time for you, and, always was supportive.

 

I feel I was especially fortunate. He and I clicked hugely after I wrote a short piece for the BM Magazine in 2005 about John Keats and the possible sources of inspiration for Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn - so much so, in fact, that he suggested we should co-author a book together about classical sculpture and harmony (with him writing about classical music, and me writing about Keats). I said we should perhaps give it a go once I'd finished writing my PhD, but sadly that will never happen now – life's too short.

 

He was over the moon though, when I very excitedly told him, several years after my article had come out, that, having done some research into my family tree, we'd discovered I had the joint family names of Keats and Jennings in my direct ancestry (Jennings being Keats' mother's maiden name), and so he was absolutely certain that this was a sign from the Gods, there must be some sort of mystical *cosmic connection* and that I must be related to the poet! – As ever, Ian’s encouragement was nothing if not enthusiastic!

 

Ian at the National Museum of Korea, 2010 

The last time I saw Ian though leaves me with quite a magical (and a rather fitting) memory of him. It was just before we (the staff of the BM) were all sent home ahead of lockdown at the start of the pandemic earlier this year. I already knew I was soon to be leaving the BM but hadn’t yet announced this fact to my colleagues, when I bumped into Ian in the Great Court. It had been a while since we’d last seen each other, so we stopped for a quick catch-up. It was super early in the morning, before the BM opened to the public, and he suggested we should take a stroll around the Duveen Gallery together, where the Parthenon sculptures are on display – so we wandered off in that direction. The Duveen was totally empty except for the two of us. This is one of the real privileges of working in such a museum, walking around the galleries out of public hours, when the place is totally peaceful and you have it all to yourself. You can stand and look at the sculptures, the artefacts, and the artworks in total silence, uninterrupted, and really lose yourself in contemplation of them. Walking with Ian through the museum’s galleries was always a treat even when they were bustling with visitors, as he could never resist, all those thoughts and ideas just came tumbling out as he’d share with you a running commentary on all the things around you, always asking and interested in your thoughts, and always fascinated as to how his ideas and yours might bounce off of one another.

 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

We made sure we took a moment to say 'hello' to the panel which it seems clear inspired in part some of John Keats’ most famous lines, indeed, quite definitely some of the most famous of all lines of the finest English poetry that have ever been written, lines about truth and beauty – the panel which the painter Benjamin Robert Haydon saw John Keats standing in front of, utterly transfixed: the one with "that heifer lowing at the skies." Even then, after all those years, Ian was still telling me new facts and theories, fascinating things which I never knew, nor most likely would I ever come to know, about the sculptures had he not told me. He was a real Renaissance man – a true gentleman and a scholar, and a jolly good laugh too! – RIP Ian.

The photos above are a selection of objects from the British Museum's "Body Beautiful" exhibition taken by me at various venues around the world.

Friend & fellow former-colleague from the BM, Andrew Burnett's tribute to Ian Jenkins in The Guardian (15 December 2020)

Click on the images of Ian to link to their original source.

Transporting Treasures

The Art of Transporting Ancient Artefacts Around the World

This article first appeared on the Museums + Heritage Advisor website in 2013, but as the original article has since been archived on that site and seems to have lost its illustrations and author attribution I thought I'd re-post it here for posterity ...

Conservation of a 2^nd century Roman statue of Dionysos, part of the first major British Museum exhibition to travel to China

The British Museum has an extensive loans programme which sees us staging major exhibitions both at home and abroad. We are now lending more of the collection than at any other point in the museum’s history, enabling more people than ever before to encounter the wide range of material culture that the museum has in its care. Objects of all types, and of all shapes and sizes are being seen beyond the confines of Bloomsbury, but how does this happen? How does a two ton sculpture or a delicate piece of jewellery find itself transported from London halfway around the world?

Arriving in China, unloading at the Airport

Every month objects from our collection leave the museum travelling far and wide. Often the preparation for such journeys begin months or even years in advance of an exhibition’s opening. Whether the exhibition is to be held in a museum on the other side of London or on the other side of the world the logistics behind transporting fragile objects requires careful planning. Before leaving the British Museum all objects must be assessed by our conservators to see whether or not they are stable enough to travel, and, if they are particularly fragile we have to decide what needs to be done in order to transport them safely. A detailed photographic record is made of each object so that its condition can be carefully monitored as it journeys from London to its intended venue. Our photographers also create stunning, high quality images of each object which will be used to illustrate the exhibition catalogue and other publicity material promoting the exhibition. Our curators write or contribute towards the accompanying text for the catalogue, information panels, and object labels helping to tell the individual stories of each artefact, setting them in the relevant context of the exhibition’s theme. Our museum assistant and heavy object handling teams make the individual mounts which are used to support the objects while on display, and they will also attend to the careful packing which ensures each object reaches its destination safely. Parallel to all this activity there’s plenty of communication passing back and forth between the shipping agent, the borrower, and the British Museum as our project team liaise with all partners in order to ensure the exhibition is a success. 

Completing import procedures with Chinese Customs Officers

When it comes to preparing our objects for transportation and display all aspects are done by hand. Object mounts and packing are feats of bespoke tailoring. No two objects are alike, not even if they are of the same type. One ancient Greek vase will have repairs in areas where another has none. When crafting mounts or packing an object we always have to begin with a blank sheet on the drawing board. Object mounts are often intricate marvels of exact model-engineering. Clear acrylic is cut and shaped to size, then heated and bent to the appropriate form. The perfect mount is the mount which best supports and safeguards the object, displaying that object in whatever manner the exhibition requires, whilst also remaining as discrete and unobtrusive as possible. Packing materials must also best fit the object. Nearly all categories of object are packed in foam, but foam comes in a variety of types. The appropriate grade or density must be selected; soft enough to cushion the object, but firm enough to give it support. The foam then needs to be cut and shaped around the object, avoiding contact with delicate or protruding areas where such close contact could cause damage, yet sufficiently bedding the object in so that it won’t shift during transport. The factors to be considered and the techniques used are often as varied and unique as the objects themselves; necessarily it is a painstaking and time consuming task. Large and heavy sculptures are often mounted on specially constructed modules for increased safety in both handling and display. Occasionally certain kinds of objects – for instance delicate ivories, such as the Lewis Chessmen – will require special conservation materials to be included in order to maintain steady environmental conditions whilst in transit, and, of course, all objects are wrapped in protective inert materials.

Condition checking objects with colleagues at the Capital Museum, Beijing

Once on the move the crated objects are escorted at all stages of their journey by British Museum staff. Whether by road, rail, air, or occasionally by sea, our couriers supervise the safe loading and unloading of whatever mode of transport is being used. If a considerable distance must be covered the transportation can often be a long and arduous journey that requires an equal amount of patience and stamina. Travelling at odd hours of the day or night in all weathers, crossing time zones, or, waiting through long hours in airport cargo sheds for customs paperwork to be processed is all part and parcel of the couriers’ role. “A five hour stopover in Azerbaijan!” one courier still marvels of a journey which effectively spanned three very long days. 

Installing a 9^th century Indian sculpture of the Goddess Chunda

Once arrived, we work with our counterparts at the exhibition venue, checking the condition of each object in forensic detail as it is unpacked. After which we install the artefacts in their showcases, attending to the final adjustments of display, ensuring that everything is safe and secure, before the exhibition opens to the public.

Visitors queuing to see the British Museum’s ‘Treasures of the World’s Cultures’ exhibition at the Capital Museum, Beijing, 2006

Working with our colleagues in other institutions is always a mutually rewarding experience, enabling a close collaboration thereby sharing and expanding our skills and knowledge at all levels. Together we can gain a better understanding of material culture through making academic comparisons of our collections side-by-side, but on a practical level we can also learn and share our technical knowledge of different techniques for the safest handling, display, and storage of such objects. Likewise, such collaborations are a way of strengthening international relationships on a variety of different levels. It is a genuinely positive endeavour.

Visitors to the Capital Museum in Beijing admire the 2^nd century statue of Dionysos

A programme of touring exhibitions enables us all to engage with the past and learn more about the diversity of cultures. It is a way for us to reflect on our world, how it has changed, and how it is changing. It’s about the past and the future as seen from the here and now.

Tim Chamberlain joined the British Museum in 1991 and has worked in several different antiquities departments. Since 2005 he has been the BM's project coordinator for international touring exhibitions.

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