It turned out we had two eggs, and now they are fat little squabs (see in order of events, Pigeon culture, Pigeon news 2 and And now we have an egg). I’ve been photographing the nest every morning. If you click on the first image, you can follow through the days. We realised we had two eggs on July 6, saw the first shell fragment on July 17 (17 or 18 days after laying) and two squabs the following day. Most of the time there seems to be only one adult in evidence, until on July 23 we saw them change duty – the relieved bird promptly disappeared.
There are some things about Stonehenge that are taken for granted by those who know the place well, yet are not known by a wider public. One of these concerns how some stones in the past were propped up with wooden poles, and later re-positioned in concrete footings – a topic picked up by ND Wiseman and the Heritage Trust commenting on my previous post.
The full details, recorded in photos, drawings and documents, have yet to published, but here are some pictures that illustrate ND Wiseman’s point about the curious vertical stripes on the lintels above the sarsen uprights either side of the solstice axis.
Photos, of which there are large numbers, are particularly useful here. The V&A and in particular English Heritage have put quite a few online. Here is a quick photo story, with a couple of postcards from my own collection.
The first modern scaffolding was a wooden “trilithon” supporting the lintel over stones 6 and 7. These two shots were apparently taken by Godfrey Bingley in 1892.
By around 1910, that wooden frame had gone, but several long larch poles had appeared to the north-east, supporting sarsen uprights.
In this technical drawing done by the Office of Works in 1919/20, you can see how the three lintels over stones 29, 30, 1 and 2 (the uprights working from the left) have been thrown out to the north by the leaning stones, held up by the larch poles.
Comparing this with another photo taken by Godfrey Bingley (below), it appears that little movement had occurred since 1892. The key difference is the appearance of the custodian’s hut near the Heelstone, introduced after the site was fenced in 1901, and a couple of larch poles visible behind stones 30 and 1; in the middle distance between stones 29 and 30 on the left, you can make out the milestone as it was then sited. In both photos, you will note the absence of any pale stripes on the lintels. (As an aside, these photos almost exactly overlap, suggesting they were taken with a similar camera or lens from the same position.)
Of special interest in the postcard, however, are the wooden pegs in the turf, which appear to mark out at a little distance the standing and fallen stones. Indeed, if you compare their positions with the trench that William Hawley excavated around these stones in 1920, they seem to map it out as closely as we might expect, given the likelihood that the trench was not excavated on precisely those points, and also that the modern plan (published by Cleal et al in 1995) does not precisely map the trench edges. In this detail from the plan (below), I’ve coloured in trench C2 and labelled the four upright sarsens. Note especially the two small extensions to the south-west, reaching out to the two bluestones there.
If my interpretation of this photo is correct, then it was very likely taken almost immediately before Hawley’s works began. I know of no photos of paint being applied to the lintels by engineers. But this may be as close as we get to a smoking gun.
In these details from a different Office of Works postcard set, on sale in the 1930s, you can see some of those pale vertical stripes: on the left on the lintel over stones 1 and 2, on the right over stones 6 and 7.
Having said that, my case about Hawley’s trench may be undermined by this postcard:
From the same set as the one above with the ranging pole, it shows little pegs around stones 10 and 11. As far as we know, Hawley did not dig there. So perhaps they were to do with surveying and not digging. More info needed, though the survey is likely to have occurred at the same time as the restoration project.
Is anyone watching out for early depictions of Stonehenge? Like illustrations of Easter Island, they come and go through salerooms, and every so often something pops up that can help us understand part of the story. My friend Paul Stamper has directed me to a new catalogue from RG Watkins Books & Prints in Somerset. Among the lots are an early photo of Stonehenge, and two little sepia and wash sketches.
The latter (no 132, £250 the pair) are described as “Signed, titled and dated ‘S. Wilson R.M. Academy 5 April 1845 and 16 Nov 1845”. Sylvester Wilson, says Watkins, was appointed cadet at the Royal Military Academy in 1843, but was “discharged at the request of his friends” in July 1846. So he would have been in the army when he drew Stonehenge, based in Woolwich, London. “It is scarce”, says Watkins, “to find early dated drawings which were obviously made from direct observation of the monument.” Yet all may not be what it seems.
Chris Chippindale was thoroughly on the Stonehenge trail in the 1980s. He published two paintings by James Bridges (1802-65) that were clearly the models for Wilson’s works.
Wilson’s wider scene, above (November 1845), is a copy of a watercolour by Bridges which Chippindale (1983, Pl IV) dates to early-mid 19th century, private collection (below).
Wilson’s interior view (April 1845) is a simplified copy of Bridges’ watercolour in the collection of Devizes Museum, which Chippindale (1986) dates to c 1820.
Devizes has other paintings attributed to Bridges, including this one below.
And Salisbury Museum has a nice view with barrows (at top).
Chippindale (1983, Pl V) illustrated a further interior view by Bridges, also in a (the same?) private collection.
James Bridges’s Stonehenge, by C Chippindale, Wiltshire Archaeological Magazine 80 (1986), 230–32
Stonehenge Complete, by C Chippindale (Thames & Hudson 1983)
1. It’s beautiful
The best analysis of the statue is by TGH James. An Egyptologist at the British Museum, he described it in full, for the first time, in 1963, after someone had tipped him off about it (“The Northampton statue of Sekhemka”, Journal of Egyptian Archaeology 49, 5–12).
According to James, the man is identified by an inscription on the base beside his left foot (“Inspector of scribes of the house of the master of largess, one revered before the great god, Sekhemka”). By his right foot sits Sitmeret (“She who is concerned with the affairs of the king, one revered before the great god, Sitmeret”). She is carved, it seems, as a real woman, her left arm wrapped affectionately behind Sekhemka’s right leg, the hand protruding below his knee – the other half, as it were, of his identity. No relationship is described, but James felt “the intimate posture” means she is probably his wife.
While Sitmeret’s beauty is displayed in full sculptural glory, Seshemnefer (“The scribe of the house of the master of largess, Seshemnefer”), is represented as a more stylised two dimensional frieze, standing beside Sekhemka’s left leg. The facts of his position and that he is named, unlike the other men around the seat, suggested to James that Seshemnefer may be Sekhemka’s son.
On the open papyrus scroll which Sekhemka holds on his knees, says James, is a list of 22 offerings, “those normally found at the beginning of the standard offering-lists of the Fifth and Sixth Dynasties”. They include such things as “festival perfume, one jar” and “Breakfast: bread and beer”.
Around the sides of the square seat are five men in the same style as Seshemnefer. Three on the back carry jars of ritual liquids, an incense censer and strips of cloth. On the left side (as seen from the front) one carries a goose and two, long-stemmed papyrus flowers; the other a calf. On the right two men each old a goose.
Viewing the statue for the first time on the landing at Christie’s, where it was superbly lit and surrounded by an eclectic group of masterworks in an atmosphere of reverence and superior quality, I was struck by the sculpture’s presence. The soft, warm limestone, the extensive paint, the composition, the manner of carving and the style – a fine execution of Old Kingdom conventions around 2400–2300BC – make this a stunningly beautiful and moving object. James concurs, if holding back a little: “It may be the case that the Northampton statue of Sekhemka cannot be included in the small group of master sculptures which especially distinguish Old Kingdom art; it remains, nevertheless, a piece of fine quality.”
2. The Brooklyn Museum has one too
The statue was recorded for James by the Northampton photographers H Cooper & Son. Somehow, James says, some of the prints erroneously arrived on the desk of Bernard Bothmer, another prominent Egyptologist, at the Brooklyn Museum. This chance, if so it was, allowed James to describe a statue of Sekhemka at the Brooklyn – we’ve got one too, said Bothmer! James agrees that it is the same Sekhemka , though this “is not susceptible of absolute proof” – the top half of the man is missing, and overall the sculpture, made in harder “diorite”, is less elaborate. James goes on to discuss the possibly of matching either sculpture to one of the tombs known at Giza and Saqqara also attributed to a Sekhemka, in particular mastaba C19 at Saqqara. But he rejects the idea, on the grounds that C19 was found late in 1850, while the Marquess of Northampton was there in the same year, but earlier (and see below on the statue’s history). But he does accept the attributed provenance of both statues to Saqqara.
3. The statue seems to have been well looked after
On the limited evidence of James’ photos published in 1963 and my own taken this week, there seems to have been little if any damage to the stone or the fragile paintwork, at least over the last 50 years. In a couple of points there are differences that seem to have something to do with the paint, though it’s difficult to know what these mean. In the photos below, I’ve reduced mine to monochrome (to the right in both cases) to make comparison easier. In the first pair, there is a dark line between the legs that appears not to have been there in 1963. And in the second, a small blob below the belt of the left figure.
4. Northampton Borough Council did not have a clear right to sell the statue
But they believe they had bought that right – for a combination of £40,000 of legal advice, and £6.3m given to Lord Northampton. An expensive purchase.
In 1880 the fourth Marquess of Northampton and the Borough of Northampton signed a Deed of Gift. The Museums Association has put the entire, short document online, from which I’ve extracted some key passages (see above).
The gift was huge, mostly of fossils in cabinets (“a great number of specimens”): it is titled “Deed of Gift of Geological Collection”. There was also, it says inside, “a collection of Egyptian Antiquities including four framed specimens of Wall painting and papyrus and other objects”. The statue is not mentioned.
In 1963 TGH James wrote that the Northampton Museums and Art Gallery records “contain no precise information concerning [the statue’s] acquisition, but it is known that it was presented in about I870 by the third Marquis of Northampton.” He notes a press cutting, dated 1899, describing the contents of the Abington Museum (which until shortly before James wrote his article, had displayed the statue “in relative obscurity”). This says that “in the Egyptian Room are specimens of papyri… a case of small Egyptian articles collected by Spencer Joshua Alwyne Compton, President of the Royal Society, and other Egyptian figures”. Compton was the second Marquess of Northampton and a founder member and president of the Royal Archaeological Institute. He travelled to Egypt in I850. “It was on this journey in all probability”, says James, “that he collected the Egyptian antiquities which eventually found their way to the Abington Museum.” “There seems to be no good reason”, he concludes, “for doubting that the statue of Sekhemka, presented by the third marquis, was acquired by his father on the same journey.” The fourth marquess then gifted the statue, already in the borough’s collection, in 1880.
There may be “no good reason” for doubting that the statue was acquired by the second marquess in Egypt. But is there good reason to believe it was?
The second marquess was in Egypt in 1850. The third marquess is said to have presented the statue to the Borough of Northampton around 20 years later. A decade after this the fourth marquess gifted a collection of geological specimens and Egyptian antiquities to the borough. A further two decades on, a newspaper reports that the borough was exhibiting “specimens of papyri… a case of small Egyptian articles collected by Spencer Joshua Alwyne Compton [the second marquess] … and other Egyptian figures”.
Christie’s translate that as follows:
“Acquired by Spencer Joshua Alwyne Compton, 2nd Marquess of Northampton (1790-1851), in Egypt between December 1849 and April 1850. Presented to the Northampton Museums and Art Gallery by either Charles Douglas-Compton, 3rd Marquess of Northampton (1816-1877) or Admiral William Compton, 4th Marquess of Northampton (1818-1897).”
However, none of this is provable, at least on the evidence we have. Nowhere is the statue specifically mentioned in the early records, including the 1880 deed of gift: all we have is James’s assertion, made in 1963, that the statue was then “known” to have been presented by the third marquess, in about I870. The press cutting is of dubious relevance. We all know how easy it could be for a press journalist or subeditor to confuse one marquess with another. In fact, taken literally, the piece seems to imply that the statue was NOT part of a Northampton bequest. It refers to “a case of small Egyptian articles collected by [the second marquess] … and other Egyptian figures”. The statue is arguably unlikely to have been inside “a case of small Egyptian articles”, and if not, was among “other Egyptian figures”, whose source is unstated.
On the face of it, the council has no documentation to prove its ownership of the statue.
By 2013, however, it’s clear that both the council and the current Marquess of Northampton believed it did own it. For in January last year, the marquess threatened the council with legal action if it sold the statue – on the grounds that the deed of gift says it can’t sell anything without the collection reverting to the fourth marquess’s family. The council was then understood to be saying that as the statue wasn’t mentioned in the deed, it wasn’t included in the gift.
So, the council’s right to sell the statue depends on it being able to show that it owns it as a result of a gift in 1880. But to get around the fact that the deed actually says they can’t sell it, they argue the deed did not include the statue. But in that case… no, this is getting too confusing for me.
What seems clear, however, is that the council got the marquess’s approval by offering him a load of dosh – 45% of the sale proceeds. That turned out to be a good deal for the marquess, who surely was not expecting to get £6,300,000 out of the deal (or “around £6million” in the words of a council for whom mere thousands are presumably too trifling to worry with)
Certainly, it worked out better than the marquess’s attempts so far to make money from the Sevso treasure. As British Archaeology reported in 2007, this fabulous hoard of late antique silverware, valued at £100m, was caught up in an unfortunate history of illegal excavations and export (from Hungary). Lord Renfrew wrote recently, setting the hoard into context, of a “tangled tale of greed and irresponsibility by ‘collectors’ in high places who might have known better, seeking a quick and easy profit and showing little respect for the world’s archaeological heritage”. The Marquess of Northampton bought the hoard in 1987, hoping to sell it to his advantage: but his plans ran into trouble when the hoard’s history became public. This is the same man of whom the council’s chief executive has said, “We know Lord Northampton and his son Lord Compton very well, they are true supporters of ours and they have already given to our work around alleviating food poverty”.
In fact the marquess was so pleased with the sale of the Egyptian statue, he gave £1m back to the council! Thus everyone wins. The marquess trousers £5.3m for something that he could never have touched, had not the council, as it saw it, broken the terms of a deed of gift made by an ancestor of his. And the council gets £1m from the sale it can spend on whatever it likes: this didn’t come from their part in selling the statue, so it’s not “ring-fenced for the Museum Service” and can instead be spent on “essential funding for some of our smaller voluntary and charitable groups providing excellent community cultural activity across our county”. These might include, said council chief executive Victoria Miles, “a world war memorial group, a community choir, volunteer networks supporting a heritage site or local museum, young people engaging with arts and music activities or any number of good causes in the arts and heritage field”. So you can sell your statue promising to spend all the proceeds on a new museum extension, and still get a million quid for a community choir.
I’m not sure if the council’s thinking on this statue over the years has been entirely consistent.
5. The Museums Association did not approve of the sale
Initially, the council told the Museums Association’s Ethics Committee in 2012, it wished to sell the statue, then valued at £2m, to raise funds for “the restoration of Delapre Abbey, improvements to the museum service and/or other cultural or heritage projects”. The committee said that plans for spending the money were too vague for it to advise fully on the proposed sale.
Later in 2012 the committee told the council off over a public consultation about the sale. The council had asked people if the £2m sale proceeds should be spent on the restoration of Delapre Abbey, the expansion of Northampton Museum and Art Gallery, the establishment of a National Shoe Museum or the development of Abington Park Museum. It didn’t ask if it should sell the statue in the first place. And neither did it tell people about something they were unable to see (the statue not being exhibited). I have strong doubts that had the people of Northampton been able to see what I saw in Christie’s last Friday, they would have wanted their statue sold.
In January this year, by when the statue’s estimated value had risen to £4m–6m, the Museums Association “urged Northampton Borough Council to rethink its sale”. Unless the council sought “alternative sources of capital funding”, said David Fleming, chair of the ethics committee, “the MA cannot endorse the sale.” There is no sign that the council undertook such a search. Thus the sale was not “endorsed” (recognised/validated/approved, take your pick) by the Museums Association.
5. The Art Fund did not approve of the sale
In a statement issued the day after the sale, the Art Fund said:
“We remain strongly opposed to deaccessioning any item for financial reasons except in exceptional circumstances, where the funds will directly benefit the museum collection and only after all other options have been explored. This is not the case with the sale of Sekhemka and as such, having gone against the sector’s ethical guidance, it risks being stripped of its accredited status.”
[Added July 15] And Arts Council England is no more impressed. “Those who choose to approach the sale of collections”, said Scott Furlong, director of ACE’s acquisitions exports loans collections unit, “cynically or with little regard for the sectoral standards or their long-term responsibilities, will only further alienate both key funders and the public who put their trust in them to care for our shared inheritance.”
With the Museums Association, the Art Fund and ACE unhappy about the sale, Northampton’s chances of raising money through conventional funding streams may now be lower than they were. In the long run, the sale could cost them more in lost grants than it made in the auction room. The impression one gets is that the council was more impressed with the promise of a big sale cheque, than they were inspired by the idea of putting in the work to come up with well thought out imaginative projects that would attract suitable sponsors. If only… they would have had the most beautiful Egyptian statue to show off, that somehow – I’m guessing the story will be out there, it’s just waiting for an obsessive researcher – is at the heart of the borough’s 19th century history.
6. Christie’s did a good job
One might be tempted to cast Christie’s as a villain in this story, but really they were doing what was right for their client, in a legal sale. They displayed the statue proudly in London for public view (I imagine better than it had ever been displayed before), described it in a well illustrated catalogue on public sale (and free online), and achieved a remarkable price. They handled a protest during the sale with quiet dignity. It would not have been in their client’s interest to have noted the continuing debate about the ethics of the sale, and they duly did not.
They got well paid for all this. The statue sold for £14m. “Buyers commission” took that up to £15,762,500 – the buyer paid Christie’s an additional £1,762,500. On their standard prices, Northampton council will have paid Christie’s at least £4,700 for the catalogue entry (photos on the front cover and six full pages, plus eight further images at the smallest charge size). More significantly, they will be paying Christie’s an undisclosed seller’s commission. By any standards, those fees add up to a good profit – and the sale will have brought the auction house good PR where it counts.
When Northampton Borough Council said in a statement after the sale that it “will retain around £8million” after paying off the marquess, it hadn’t apparently worked out its sums in the rush. Firstly, 55% of £14m (the council’s agreed share) is £7.7m, not £8m. Then it has to pay Christie’s for the catalogue, its commission (typically 10%) and any other agreed costs such as marketing or transport. Let’s say that gets us to about £6,925,000. For most of Northampton’s tax payers I’d wager that’s a big difference from £8m. Of course, I’d be very pleased to correct and revise these estimates if someone would like to help me out with real figures.
This story has only just begun. We don’t yet know who bought the statue (Christie’s has promised to tell us in due course). The Museums Association has to make up its mind whether or not it would have advised the marquess not to sell, had the statue not already been sold. The effect of the sale on prospective grant givers has yet to be seen, as has its effect on the antiquities market as a whole (though I’d say the argument by ICOM that the sale of the statue “may result in an increase of illicit excavation and trafficking of antiquities in Egypt” is an odd one; the statue might still have been in the ownership of the marquess’s family, and have gone out as a private sale which the law, and most observers, would regard as legitimate – the issue is less that the statue has been sold per se, than that it was held in trust by a public body which should have been above such action). Importantly, we do not yet know what will happen to the statue: will it disappear from sight (and researchers, for whom there is apparently much still to learn), or be exhibited somewhere?
[Added July 15] And for those who like to take care of their money, whether it’s their own or held on behalf of others, it’s worth bearing in mind an important fact. Sekhemka has now been valued at £14m. It used to belong to the people of Northampton. It no longer does, and in return they received probably less than £7m. Does that sound like good housekeeping to you?
As always, unless otherwise noted, all photos are mine.
Here’s a thing. And that’s not a lazy entry, I mean it literally. It’s a half-house, a symbolic home left unfinished as a record of a moment of bonding, a useless thing in itself but an essential tool made to accompany complex thought. By a pair of pigeons.
We have a very small garden, so it’s been curious to watch a couple of these fat birds stake it out as their territory. In the spring they made a nest, but it didn’t last, and the one egg we know they laid ended up broken on the ground. Over the past couple of days they’ve been active again, perching in the honeysuckle and apparently nipping at the flowers. This morning, when she should have been getting ready for school, my daughter and I watched the two birds start a nest in a climbing rose.
While one sat in the rose, waddling around a bit and fiddling with the twigs (for no particular reason we decided this was the female), the other (we called it he) collected sticks. The rose is close to a bit of flat roof. He stood on the edge, fell off, opened his wings and went in search of a new twig – they were thin sticks, almost like grass. In a minute he’d return to the roof, stand on the edge for a few seconds, then flop over to the rose, where he’d struggle to squeeze in, hand over his prize, turn round and escape back to the roof, usually standing on the other pigeon’s back as he did so. While he was gone, she would arrange the stick.
They were still doing this when we moved on, and there was a lot of pigeon action in the garden all morning. And then it stopped. All that remained was a light foundation of twigs in the rose.
Now you could say this was just a first attempt at nest making, in a not particularly appropriate site that was soon abandoned. Perhaps it is. But it feels like more. It feels like a material thing that was created and used in a process of ritualised and partly mechanical behaviour, a rehearsal for a real nest, a test of loyalty and DIY compatibility, an evocative – for pigeons – sticky twiggy metaphor for bonding and sharing. It feels like these birds are telling us, it’s not only people, or chimpanzees, or even crows, who use things to think with: we do, too.
There’s an entertaining piece about Richard III in the new BBC History magazine, by Chris Skidmore (which also contains a nice review of my book, by Francis Pryor). Was he thinking of Horrible Histories?
One of the TV series’ great features was a Measly Middle Ages pop ballad parody called The Truth About Richard III. “Tudor propaganda it‘s all absurd”, sang Jim Howick, “Time to tell the truth about Richard the third”. Then a refrain that I guess Sondheim would have been proud of:
“Can you imagine it?
I’m the last Plantagenet.”
It seemed to go down well at the Richard III Society of New South Wales, where Dorothea Preis recommended it to fellow Ricardians: “…certainly we all agree with his assessment that there was a ‘special ruler – King Richard the Third’, who was a ‘nice guy’. Have a look at the clip of the ‘Richard III Song‘ and enjoy it.” I’m sure they all realised it was a spoof.
You can watch it here: Horrible Histories Richard III Song
Series 3, Episode 6, 7 June 2011
Performed by Jim Howick, composer Richie Webb
Produced for CBBC by Lion Television with Citrus Television
I’m going to post some photos I took yesterday on a perfect day on the Kennet & Avon canal. The day before, I gave my first Richard III talk, at the National Portrait Gallery (to a full house, after which we ran out of copies of my book during the signing session…). I’d prepared for that immediately after finishing the new British Archaeology, so it was great to step out into the Brazil Day celebrations in Trafalgar Square, and the next day walk in the sun in Wiltshire.
This banner hangs in the south aisle. The text is from Galatians chapter 6: “Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ./For if a man think himself to be something, when he is nothing, he deceiveth himself./But let every man prove his own work, and then shall he have rejoicing in himself alone, and not in another.”
It seems an appropriate thing to illustrate now, in view of the British Folk Art exhibition which has just opened at Tate Britain in London. It has a Methodist feel about it, but with its fine depiction of the church was presumably made for that or one of its schools, apparently before the mid 19th century restoration.
A quick bit of online research suggests it may have been painted between 1843 and 1853, when the antiquarian John Ward was vicar (there will of course be more information about this, and I welcome any updates). As Ward himself describes in his article about Bedwyn in the Wiltshire Archaeological Magazine (1860), when the west front was rebuilt in 1843 (“in consequence of the ruined condition of the former wall”), a new doorway was inserted into the north aisle and the main door enlarged (they found the buttresses had been built of recycled stone coffins, and the same thing occurred when the transepts were restored in 1854–55). The roofs were renewed 1853–54 “and made to follow the original pitch, traces of which were clearly marked on the tower”; north and south porches were removed, and a doorway at the west end of the north aisle was blocked.
Comparing the image on the banner with the church today, the former fits in between these two restoration events: the west wall, with its door into the north aisle, looks in pretty good condition, suggesting the view post-dates 1843; but the roofs are lower and the porch and aisle door are still there, suggesting it pre-dates 1853.