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What the British Empire Did on Their Summer Vacation Tip – the British Museum is a large brownstone building situated in a charming section of Bloomsbury, a suburb of central London. Its modest exterior, replete with a self-effacing fourty-four ionic columns and an unassuming sculptured pediment of tastefully draped nudes, blends subtly in with the various townhouses and posh residences surrounding it; the back entrance opens out onto a shady square, with a small park providing a refuge from the hustle of London daily activity. Inside the museum, one can find housed a vast collection of relics from all eras of man, from the furthest reaches of cultural memory to indigenous artwork from the modern day. A trip through these hallowed halls is a journey through time itself, viewed through the lenses of the field glasses of the royal society of colonial collectors - indeed, this building is an imperialist leviathan capable of engulfing the unsuspecting tourist and dragging them down into the depths of historical detritus; a visit here should be done only with the utmost caution, and a good deal of skepticism. We start in the reading room. What better place to begin than the room that frames the inceptive course of this temple to history – here Marx sat, at this desk the manifesto composed, surrounded by a circular enclosure of literature, walls of spines reading names definitive; history written within the stacks of history, capped by arches of pure, capitalistic color and form. Here are the gospels, see the illuminated foxes chasing the illuminated hounds across a thinly glowing parchment, in a divine hue and cry for truth. Here lies the sole remaining copy of Beowulf, the hero’s bloody barbaric feats hermetically sealed in a glass showcase. A lovely room, with an impressive collection of original texts by highly famous people. Very valuable. From the original library, we move outwards, into the grand atrium, a vast hall (now roofed over for the convenience of modern visitors in immodest London weather), anchored at the four compass corners by near-megalithic statuary. Now, to the top! Up the stairs, notice the lovely tiled frescoes on the right. The most recent, albeit less impressive, collections lay here: porcelain and pottery from the courts of Spain and France, the images of kings and queens on them vying for attention as they sit in their gold-leafed finery; displays of past power and wealth through glassware and gilt baubles; the cracked and rusted helmet of a Viking conqueror. This one is not so good, but the Vikings didn’t leave much behind for us to choose from. Inconsiderate. Down, now, and along the silk painting route, past panels of calligraphy, wend and wind through a basalt maze of krishnic limbs frozen in an eternal terpsichore, for Rome awaits! We enter the collection, and find ourselves on display. Rome is ever watchful over its legacy – from all facets of the exhibit eyes stare blankly out at us, ides upon ides of them. Cameos of elegant nudes and reclining ladies peer at visitors, scrutinizing, studying to see if perhaps we, the scholars, can tell them where and why they are. Bronze heads of cherubic child-gods goggle in bewilderment at the idea of their decapitated display. From round stamped coins, august emperors gaze imperiously around the room, their lack of refined contractile apertures defining the regal glare. Now, down this hall, between the ranks of statues, politely ignore the arms, legs and noses lost during shipping (remember, they are watching us!), and descend this staircase to the great hall. Through Greece we walk now. Past the galleries of sculpture, graceful limbs and chiseled fabric skirling about mathematically ideal bodies, stay close, or you’ll miss the famed Elgin marbles – to think, these once graced the Parthenon, hanging hawk-like in the hills above the city. Looking down, as benevolent Athena upon her populace, they stood as observers to the glory of Pericles, spectators to Aeschylus’ tragically beautiful works, silent witnesses to the trial of Socrates. Now, its walls defaced, its mouldering shrines removed, the sanctuary lies bare and stripped, the empty stone countenance the sole onlooker as time rages onwards and upwards, a tempest of history rushing past that dissembled temple on the hill. Alone it watches, as change clings fast and pulls down the facades of archaism and legend, with swift, sure force, to crumble into ancient dust beneath the feet of revolution – no, the marbles have been saved from this fate, and we see them now, caustically restored to a brilliant birth-white shine, above a single, small placard reading “originally part of the Pantheon [Athens].” And here, a room. Wooden shelves rise three stories high, layers of ledges, paneled with glass covers – curio cabinets, hundreds; behind each a single vase, nameless, anonymous, with immeasurable value. And through this archway we have the most impressive gallery. Towering above, sitting, standing, sprawling onyx giants! We have entered into Egypt, flat-footed, tight-wrapped, iconic Egypt, land of the pharaohs and the monuments they left behind. This granite statue, hued crimson, such a rare material. This sarcophagus, the detailed face engraved atop, the lips forever curved into a sad smile of death. Here in the middle, the famous Rosetta stone – you know, it took ages to unearth this from the banks of the Nile. The silt and soil claim all the refuse of life; the river slowly snakes across the waterbed and the sands shift in humpbacked desert dunes, as time ebbs and flows. Every year new middenheaps are unearthed, bringing fresh treasures up from the depths: a cache of mummified cats, an ozymandian foot, a scribe’s horde of demotic erotica, complete with anthropomorphic illustrations. Now, at last, we have come to stand outside the gates of Nimrud. Stern faces stare impassively down at us, the intruders, the massive boars’ bodies arching up into wings of eagles, stone feathers meticulously carved, tattooed with cuneiform warnings against trespass. Skulking inside the reconstructed palace, we enter a room lined with stone frescoes; kings and gods parade in disjointed order, their path broken where the panels were pried loose to be shipped back to England. Their bodies stand severed, impossibly hanging on the walls, this leg forever spliced from that adjacent panel’s torso. Raggedly attempting to unify the reduced monarchs, a ribbon of inscription runs across the pieces, blessings to the great king, now gone into dust, who raised this palace. There’s the exit, just past the gift shop. Ah, one last, lost statue, a small, worn one, just an ancient fertility goddess, rounded hips and pendulous breasts framing a swelling stomach. Her feet and hands, broken, gone, but her head remains, hazy features marred by twin furrows across the face. Perhaps the carving weeps in memory of her wholeness, her home, now gone, razed by time and imperial archaeology. Note the donation box! The museum is free, for everyone to learn, look, here comes a school group, the cherubs. Even they are awestruck and stilled into mature admiration at such wonders! Like little adults they look, how impressive that our great exhibitions can tame even the most unruly youngsters. Surely you will leave an offering at this shrine to history? back |