With 26 lines and 472 staÂtions, the New York City subÂway sysÂtem is pracÂtiÂcalÂly a livÂing organÂism, and way too big a topÂic to tackÂle in a short video.
ArchiÂtect Michael WyetÂznÂer may not have time to touch on rats, crime track fires, floodÂing, night and weekÂend serÂvice disÂrupÂtions, or the adults-in-a-Peanuts-speÂcial sound qualÂiÂty of the announceÂments in the above episode of ArchiÂtecÂturÂal Digest’s BlueÂprints web series, but he gives an excelÂlent overview of its evolvÂing design, from the staÂtions themÂselves to sideÂwalk entrances to the platÂform sigÂnage.
First stop, the old City Hall staÂtion, whose chanÂdeÂliers, skyÂlights, and GuasÂtaviÂno tile archÂing in an alterÂnatÂing colÂors herÂringÂbone patÂtern made it the star attracÂtion of the just-opened sysÂtem in 1904.
(It’s been closed since 1945, but savvy tranÂsit buffs know that they can catch a glimpse by ignorÂing the conductor’s announceÂment to exit the downÂtown 6 train at its last stop, then lookÂing out the winÂdow as it makes a U‑turn, passÂing through the abanÂdoned staÂtion to begin its trip back uptown. The New York TranÂsit MuseÂum also hosts popÂuÂlar thrice yearÂly tours.)
Express tracks have been a feaÂture of New York’s subÂway sysÂtem since the beginÂning, when InterÂborÂough Rapid TranÂsit ComÂpaÂny enhanced its existÂing eleÂvatÂed line with an underÂground route capaÂble of carÂryÂing pasÂsenÂgers from City Hall to Harlem for a nickÂel fare.
WyetÂznÂer effiÂcientÂly sketchÂes the open excaÂvaÂtion design of the earÂly IRT staÂtions — “cut and covÂer” trenchÂes less than 20’ deep, with room for four tracks, platÂforms, and no frills supÂport columns that are nearÂly as ubiqÂuiÂtous white subÂway tiles.
For the most part, New YorkÂers take the subÂway for grantÂed, and are always preÂpared to beef about the fare to serÂvice ration, but this was not the case on New Year’s Day, 2017, when ridÂers went out of their way to take the Q train.
(The masÂsive drills used to creÂate tunÂnels and staÂtions at a far greater depth than the IRT line, were left where they wound up, in prepaÂraÂtion for Phase 2, which is slatÂed to push the line up to 125th St by 2029. (Don’t hold your breath…)
The designÂers of the subÂway placed a preÂmiÂum on aesÂthetÂics, as eviÂdenced by the domed Art NouÂveau IRT entrance kiosks and beauÂtiÂful perÂmaÂnent platÂform signs.
WyetÂznÂer also name checks graphÂic designÂer MasÂsiÂmo VignelÂli who was brought aboard in 1966 to stanÂdardÂize the inforÂmaÂtionÂal sigÂnage.
The white-on-black sans serif font directÂing us to our desired conÂnecÂtions and exits now seems like part of the subway’s DNA.
PerÂhaps 21st-cenÂtuÂry innoÂvaÂtions like countÂdown clocks and digÂiÂtal screens listÂing real-time serÂvice changes and alterÂnaÂtive routes will too, one of these days.
If WyetÂznÂer is open to filmÂing the folÂlow-up viewÂers are clamÂorÂing for in the comÂments, perÂhaps he’ll weigh in on the new A‑train cars that debuted last week, which boast secuÂriÂty camÂeras, flip-up seatÂing to accomÂmoÂdate ridÂers with disÂabilÂiÂties, and wider door openÂings to proÂmote quickÂer boardÂing.
(Yes, they’re still the quickÂest way to get to Harlem…)
Since at least the nineÂteen-fifties, when teleÂviÂsion ownÂerÂship began spreadÂing rapidÂly across the develÂoped world, movie theÂaters have been laborÂing under one kind of exisÂtenÂtial threat or anothÂer. Yet despite their apparÂent vulÂnerÂaÂbilÂiÂty to a variÂety of disÂrupÂtive develÂopÂments — home video, streamÂing, COVID-19 — many, if not most, of them have found ways to solÂdier on. In some casÂes this owes to the dedÂiÂcaÂtion of small groups of supÂportÂers, or even to the efforts of indiÂvidÂuÂals like ShuÂji TamuÂra, who operÂates the cenÂtuÂry-old Motomiya Movie TheÂater in Japan’s FukushiÂma preÂfecÂture sinÂgle-handÂedÂly.
You can see TamuÂra in action in My TheÂater, the five-minute docÂuÂmenÂtary short above. “The JapanÂese direcÂtor Kazuya Ashizawa’s charmÂing obserÂvaÂtionÂal porÂtrait capÂtures TamuÂra as he screens old movies for an audiÂence of stuÂdents and cinephiles, and gives behind-the-scenes tours of the cinÂeÂma,” says Aeon. Those tours include an up-close look at the thorÂoughÂly anaÂlog film proÂjecÂtor of whose operÂaÂtion TamuÂra, 81 years old at the time of filmÂing, has retained all the know-how. Though he offiÂcialÂly closed the theÂater in the nineÂteen-sixÂties, it seems he keeps his threadÂing skills sharp by holdÂing screenÂings for tour groups young and old.
Though lightÂheartÂed, a porÂtrait like this could hardÂly avoid an eleÂgiac underÂtone. Already sufÂferÂing from the depopÂuÂlaÂtion that has afflictÂed many regions of Japan, FukushiÂma was also badÂly afflictÂed by the 2011 TĹŤhoku earthÂquake and tsunaÂmi and their assoÂciÂatÂed nuclear disÂasÂter. In 2020, the year after AshizaÂwa shot My TheÂater, a typhoon “caused the AbukuÂmaÂgawa rivÂer and its tribÂuÂtaries to flood,” as the Asahi ShimÂbun’s Shoko RikiÂmaru writes. “The Motomiya city cenÂter was inunÂdatÂed, sevÂen peoÂple died, and more than 2,000 housÂes and buildÂings were damÂaged.” Both TamuÂra’s theÂater and his home were floodÂed, and “half of the 400 film cans on shelves on the first floor of his house were drenched in mudÂdy water.”
In response, help came from near and far. “A manÂuÂfacÂturÂer in KanaÂgawa PreÂfecÂture sent 10 boxÂes of film cans to the theÂater, while a movie theÂater in MorioÂka, Iwate PreÂfecÂture, delivÂered a film-editÂing machine. About 30 peoÂple affilÂiÂatÂed with the film indusÂtry in Tokyo showed up at the theÂater to help clean and dry the film. The effort led to the restoraÂtion of about 100 films.” Alas, TamuÂra’s planned re-openÂing event hapÂpened to coinÂcide with the spread of the coroÂnÂavirus across Japan, resultÂing in its indefÂiÂnite postÂponeÂment. But now that Japan has re-opened for interÂnaÂtionÂal tourism, perÂhaps the Motomiya Movie TheÂater can become a desÂtiÂnaÂtion for not just domesÂtic visÂiÂtors but forÂeign ones as well. HavÂing been charmed by My TheÂater, who wouldÂn’t want to make the trip?
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities, the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles and the video series The City in CinÂeÂma. FolÂlow him on TwitÂter at @colinmarshall or on FaceÂbook.
The hope is that such uncanÂny facÂsimÂiÂles might finalÂly conÂvince museÂum Trustees and the British govÂernÂment to return the origÂiÂnals to Athens.
Today, we’ll take a closÂer look at just how these treaÂsures of antiqÂuiÂty, known to many as the Elgin marÂbles, wound up so far afield.
The most obviÂous culÂprit is Thomas Bruce, the 7th Earl of Elgin, who iniÂtiÂatÂed the takeover while servÂing as Britain’s ambasÂsador to the Ottoman Empire from 1798–1803.
PriÂor to setÂting sail for this postÂing, he hatched a plan to assemÂble a docÂuÂmenÂtary team who would sketch and creÂate plasÂter molds of the Parthenon marÂbles for the evenÂtuÂal ediÂfiÂcaÂtion of artists and archiÂtects back home. BetÂter yet, he’d get the British govÂernÂment to pay for it.
The British govÂernÂment, eying the masÂsive price tag of such a proÂposÂal, passed.
So Elgin used some of his heiress wife’s forÂtune to finance the project himÂself, hirÂing landÂscape painter GioÂvanÂni BatÂtista Lusieri — described by Lord Byron as “an ItalÂian painter of the first emiÂnence” — to overÂsee a team of draftsÂmen, sculpÂtors, and archiÂtects.
As The NerdÂwriter’s Evan Puschak notes above, politÂiÂcal alliances and expanÂsionÂist ambiÂtion greased Lord Elgin’s wheels, as the Ottoman Empire and Great Britain found comÂmon cause in their hatred of Napoleon.
British efforts to expel occuÂpyÂing French forces from Egypt genÂerÂatÂed good will sufÂfiÂcient to secure the reqÂuiÂsite firÂman, a legal docÂuÂment withÂout which Lusieri and the team would not have been givÂen access to the AcropÂoÂlis.
The origÂiÂnal firÂman has nevÂer surÂfaced, and the accuÂraÂcy of what surÂvives — an EngÂlish transÂlaÂtion of an ItalÂian transÂlaÂtion — casts Elgin’s acquiÂsiÂtion of the marÂbles in a very dubiÂous light.
Some scholÂars and legal experts have assertÂed that the docÂuÂment in quesÂtion is a mere adminÂisÂtraÂtive letÂter, since it apparÂentÂly lacked the sigÂnaÂture of SulÂtan Selim III, which would have givÂen it the conÂtracÂtuÂal heft of a firÂman.
In addiÂtion to givÂing the team entry to AcropÂoÂlis grounds to sketch and make plasÂter casts, erect scafÂfoldÂing and expose founÂdaÂtions by digÂging, the letÂter allowed for the removal of such sculpÂtures or inscripÂtions as would not interÂfere with the work or walls of the AcropÂoÂlis.
This implies that the team was to limÂit itself to windÂfall apples, the result of the heavy damÂage the AcropÂoÂlis susÂtained durÂing a 1687 morÂtar attack by VenetÂian forces.
Some of the disÂlodged marÂble had been harÂvestÂed for buildÂing mateÂriÂals or souÂvenirs, but plenÂty of goodÂies remained on the ground for Elgin and comÂpaÂny to cart off.
In an artiÂcle for SmithÂsonÂian MagÂaÂzine, HelÂlenist author Bruce Clark details how Elgin’s perÂsonÂal assisÂtant, clerÂgyÂman Philip Hunt, leverÂaged Britain’s supÂport of the Ottoman Empire and anti-France posiÂtion to blur these boundÂaries:
SeeÂing how highÂly the Ottomans valÂued their alliance with the British, Hunt spotÂted an opporÂtuÂniÂty for a furÂther, deciÂsive extenÂsion of the AcropÂoÂlis project. With a nod from the sultan’s repÂreÂsenÂtaÂtive in Athens—who at the time would have been scared to deny a Briton anything—Hunt set about removÂing the sculpÂtures that still adorned the upper reachÂes of the Parthenon. This went much furÂther than anyÂone had imagÂined posÂsiÂble a few weeks earÂliÂer. On July 31, the first of the high-standÂing sculpÂtures was hauled down, inauÂguÂratÂing a proÂgram of sysÂtemÂatÂic stripÂping, with scores of locals workÂing under Lusieri’s enthuÂsiÂasÂtic superÂviÂsion.
Lusieri, whose admirÂer Lord Byron became a furiÂous critÂic of Elgin’s removal of the Parthenon marÂbles, endÂed his days believÂing that his comÂmitÂment to Lord Elgin ultiÂmateÂly cost him an illusÂtriÂous career as a waterÂcolÂorist.
He also conÂcedÂed that the team had been “obligÂed to be a litÂtle barÂbarous”, a gross underÂstateÂment when one conÂsidÂers their vanÂdalÂism of the Parthenon durÂing the ten years it took them to make off with half of its surÂvivÂing treaÂsures — 21 figÂures from East and West pedÂiÂments, 15 metope panÂels, and 246 feet of what had been a conÂtinÂuÂous narÂraÂtive frieze.
Clark notes that although Elgin sucÂceedÂed in reloÂcatÂing them to British soil, he “derived litÂtle perÂsonÂal hapÂpiÂness from his antiÂquarÂiÂan acquiÂsiÂtions.”
After numerÂous logisÂtiÂcal headaches involved in their transÂport, he found himÂself begÂging the British govÂernÂment to take them off his hands when an acriÂmoÂnious divorce landÂed him in finanÂcial straits.
This time the British govÂernÂment agreed, acquirÂing the lot for ÂŁ35,000 — less than half of what Lord Elgin claimed to have shelled out for the operÂaÂtion.
The so-called Elgin MarÂbles became part of the British Museum’s colÂlecÂtion in 1816, five years before the Greek War of IndeÂpenÂdence’s start.
They have been on conÂtinÂuÂal disÂplay ever since.
The 21st-cenÂtuÂry has witÂnessed a numÂber of world class museÂums rethinkÂing the proveÂnance of their most stoÂried artiÂfacts. In many casÂes, they have electÂed to return them to their land of oriÂgin.
Greece has long called for the Parthenon marÂbles in the British MuseÂum to be perÂmaÂnentÂly repaÂtriÂatÂed to Athens, but thusÂfar museÂum Trustees have refused.
In their opinÂion, it’s comÂpliÂcatÂed.
Is it though? Lord Elgin’s ultiÂmate motiÂvaÂtions might have been, and Bruce Clark, in a brilÂliant ninÂja move, sugÂgests that the return could be viewed as a posÂiÂtive stripÂping away, atoneÂment by way of getÂting back to basics:
SupÂpose that among his mixÂture of motives—personal aggranÂdizeÂment, rivalÂry with the French and so on—the welÂfare of the sculpÂtures actuÂalÂly had been Elgin’s priÂmaÂry conÂcern. How could that purÂpose best be served today? PerÂhaps by placÂing the AcropÂoÂlis sculpÂtures in a place where they would be extremeÂly safe, extremeÂly well conÂserved and superbly disÂplayed for the enjoyÂment of all? The AcropÂoÂlis MuseÂum, which opened in 2009 at the foot of the Parthenon, is an ideÂal canÂdiÂdate; it was built with the goal of evenÂtuÂalÂly housÂing all of the surÂvivÂing eleÂments of the Parthenon frieze….If the earl realÂly cared about the marÂbles, and if he were with us today, he would want to see them in Athens now.
New YorkÂers can be a madÂdenÂingÂly closed-mouth bunch, selfÂishÂly guardÂing our secret haunts lest they be overÂrun with newÂcomÂers and tourists…
So we invite you to bring a friend, posiÂtion yourÂselves in oppoÂsite corÂners, facÂing away from each othÂer, and murÂmur your secrets to the wall.
Your friend will hear you as clearÂly as if you’d been whisÂperÂing directÂly into their ear…and 9 times out of 10, a curiÂous onlookÂer will approach to ask what exactÂly is going on.
OnasÂsis wrote to MayÂor AbraÂham Beame in 1975, hopÂing to enlist him in the fight to spare midÂtown Manhattan’s jewÂel from an affront that the LandÂmarks PreserÂvaÂtion ComÂmisÂsion called an “aesÂthetÂic joke:”
Is it not cruÂel to let our city die by degrees, stripped of all her proud moments, until there is nothÂing left of all her hisÂtoÂry and beauÂty to inspire our chilÂdren? If they are not inspired by the past of our city, where will they find the strength to fight for her future?
(Amtrak’s long disÂtance lines operÂate out of Penn StaÂtion…)
Spend some time in Grand CenÂtral’s iconÂic Main ConÂcourse.
Gaze up toward the great arched winÂdows to see if you can catch a tiny human figÂure behind the glass bricks, passÂing along one of the high up hidÂden catÂwalks conÂnectÂing office buildÂings anchorÂing Grand CenÂtral’s corÂners.
PerÂhaps you’ll be privy to some intrigue near the famous four-sided clock, a time-honÂored renÂdez-vous spot that’s appeared in numerÂous films, includÂing The GodÂfaÂther, Men in Black, and North by NorthÂwest.
Admire the upside down and backÂwards conÂstelÂlaÂtions adornÂing the vaultÂed ceilÂing, marÂveling that it not only took five men — archiÂtect WhitÂney WarÂren, artist Paul Helleu, muralÂist J. MonÂroe Hewlett, painter Charles BasÂing, and astronomer Harold JacoÂby — to get it wrong, their celesÂtial boo-boo has been embraced durÂing subÂseÂquent renÂoÂvaÂtions.
If your walÂlet’s as fat as a Park Avenue swell’s, head to the CampÂbell ApartÂment atop the West StairÂcase. ForÂmerÂly the priÂvate office of Jazz Age financier, John W. CampÂbell, it’s now a glamÂorous venue for blowÂing $20 on a marÂtiÂni.
(Hot tip — that same $20 can fetch you sixÂteen Long Island Blue Points durÂing HapÂpy Hour at the OysÂter Bar.)
As for the East StairÂcase, nearÂly 100 years younger than its seemÂing fraÂterÂnal twin across the Concourse’s marÂble expanse, that one leads to an Apple Store.
Browse varÂiÂous options for Grand CenÂtral TerÂmiÂnal guidÂed and self-guidÂed tours here.
Like LeonarÂdo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, it’s been reproÂduced on all manÂner of improbÂaÂble items and subÂjectÂed to libÂerÂal reimagÂinÂing — someÂthing Sarah Urist Green, describes in the above episode of her series The Art AssignÂment as “numerÂous crimes against this image perÂpeÂtratÂed across the interÂnet.”
Such repurÂposÂing is the ultiÂmate comÂpliÂment.
The Great Wave is so graphÂiÂcalÂly indeliÂble, anyÂone who co-opts it can expect it to do a lot of heavy liftÂing.
For those who bothÂer lookÂing closeÂly enough to take in the three boatÂloads of fishÂerÂmen strugÂgling to escape with their lives, it’s also narÂraÂtiveÂly gripÂping, a terÂriÂfyÂing woodÂblock still from an easÂiÂly imagÂined disÂasÂter film.
It’s also an homage to Mount Fuji, one of a series of 36.
ThouÂsands of prints were proÂduced in the earÂly 1830s for the domesÂtic tourist trade. VisÂiÂtors to Mount Fuji snapped these souÂvenirs up for about the same price as a bowl of nooÂdle soup.
Green, a curaÂtor and eduÂcaÂtor, points out how the water-obsessed HokuÂsai borÂrowed eleÂments from both the RinÂpa school and WestÂern realÂism for the Great Wave. The latÂter can be seen in the use of linÂear perÂspecÂtive, a low horiÂzon line, and PrussÂian blue.
Hell, there’s even a Lego set and an offiÂcial SanÂrio charÂacÂters greetÂing card showÂing HelÂlo KitÂty nonÂchaÂlantÂly surfÂing the crest in a two piece bathing suit, more interÂestÂed in disÂportÂing herÂself than conÂsidÂerÂing the sort of extreme oceanÂic events we can expect more of, owing to cliÂmate change.
The world has heard much about the aging and shrinkÂing of JapanÂese sociÂety, a process that has creÂatÂed ghost towns like those we’ve preÂviÂousÂly feaÂtured here on Open CulÂture. But howÂevÂer seriÂousÂly Japan’s popÂuÂlaÂtion may be conÂtractÂing, its love of cats abides undiÂminÂished. Hence the replaceÂment of peoÂple by felines — effecÂtiveÂly, anyÂway — on the island of AoshiÂma, visÂitÂed in the CBS SunÂday MornÂing segÂment above. “Here, cats outÂnumÂber humans more than ten to one,” says corÂreÂsponÂdent Seth Doane. Its “tiny fishÂing vilÂlage once had a popÂuÂlaÂtion of 800 peoÂple, but the sarÂdine fishÂeries depletÂed, jobs moved to cities, and human resÂiÂdents left the island.”
Such is the way, it seems, of any post-indusÂtriÂal sociÂety — but as always, Japan has ways of setÂting itself apart. On AoshiÂma, Doane says, “the big moment of the day is when the tourist boat shows up. It’s 45 minÂutes of bliss for all involved,” includÂing the cat-lovers bearÂing treats as well as all the peckÂish aniÂmals awaitÂing them at the dock. But AoshiÂma is only one of ten such “cat islands” around Japan. The much largÂer (but still small) TashiroÂjiÂma boasts not just over 100 resÂiÂdent cats, but also Neko-jinÂja (猫神社), litÂerÂalÂly “Cat Shrine,” one of a host of such feline-dedÂiÂcatÂed reliÂgious sites in the island’s MiyaÂgi PreÂfecÂture.
Whether Japan’s attiÂtude toward cats amounts to worÂship remains a matÂter of debate. But the fact remains that cats have proven to be the salÂvaÂtion of more places in Japan than a few of its islands: take Tama (litÂerÂalÂly “ball,” but the JapanÂese equivÂaÂlent of “KitÂty”), a calÂiÂco whose assumpÂtion of the posiÂtion of “staÂtion masÂter” brought a train stop in WakayaÂma PreÂfecÂture back from the brink of cloÂsure. In the old days, JapanÂese cats did the dirty work of killing rodents that would othÂerÂwise infest fishÂing boats and destroy silkÂworm farms; today, their ancesÂtors drum up tourism. The JapanÂese may love cats with an enthuÂsiÂasm unknown in the rest of the world, but clearÂly they still expect them to earn their keep.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities, the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles and the video series The City in CinÂeÂma. FolÂlow him on TwitÂter at @colinmarshall or on FaceÂbook.
The world, we often hear, used to be bigÂger. Today, if you feel the faintest twinge of curiosÂiÂty about a disÂtant place — BeiÂjing, Paris, CamÂboÂdia, Egypt — you can near-instanÂtaÂneousÂly call up countÂless hours of high-qualÂiÂty video footage shot there, and with only a litÂtle more effort even comÂmuÂniÂcate in real-time with peoÂple actuÂalÂly livÂing there. This may be the case in the earÂly twenÂty-first cenÂtuÂry, but it cerÂtainÂly wasÂn’t in the earÂly twenÂtiÂeth. If you’d wantÂed to see the world back then, you either had to travÂel it yourÂself, an expenÂsive and even danÂgerÂous propoÂsiÂtion, or else hire a team of expert phoÂtogÂraÂphers to go forth and capÂture it for you.
Albert Kahn, a sucÂcessÂful French banker and specÂuÂlaÂtor, did both. A few years after makÂing his own trip around the world, takÂing stereÂoÂgraphÂic phoÂtos and even motion-picÂture footage along the way, he came up with the idea for a project called Les archives de la planète, or The Archives of the PlanÂet.
DirectÂed by the geoÂgÂraÂphÂer Jean BrunÂhes (and influÂenced by the philosoÂpher HenÂri BergÂson, a friend of KahÂn’s), Les archives de la planète spent most of the nineÂteen-tens and nineÂteen-twenÂties disÂpatchÂing phoÂtogÂraÂphers to varÂiÂous ends of the earth on fewÂer than four conÂtiÂnents: Europe, AmerÂiÂca, Asia, and Africa. And if you click on those links, you can see the proÂjecÂt’s phoÂtos from the relÂeÂvant regions yourÂself.
HavÂing been digÂiÂtized, the fruits of Les archives de la planète now reside online, at the web site of the Albert Kahn MuseÂum. You can browse its colÂlecÂtion there, or on this image porÂtal, where you can view feaÂtured phoÂtos or access whichevÂer part of the world in the earÂly twenÂtiÂeth cenÂtuÂry you’d like to see. (Just make sure to do it in French.) The online archive conÂtains a large chunk of the 72,000 autochrome picÂtures takÂen in 50 counÂtries by KahÂn’s phoÂtogÂraÂphers before he was wiped out by the stock marÂket crash of 1929. Made freely availÂable in high resÂoÂluÂtion a cenÂtuÂry after the height of his project, these vivid and evocaÂtive picÂtures remind us that, howÂevÂer small the world has become, the past remains a forÂeign counÂtry.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities, the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles and the video series The City in CinÂeÂma. FolÂlow him on TwitÂter at @colinmarshall or on FaceÂbook.
I nevÂer use a metÂal detecÂtor and I often walk litÂtle more than a mile in 5 hours, yet I can travÂel 2,000 years back in time through the objects that are revealed by the tide. PreÂhisÂtoric flint tools, medieval pilÂgrim badges, Tudor shoes, GeorÂgian wig curlers and VicÂtoÂriÂan potÂtery, ordiÂnary objects left behind by the ordiÂnary peoÂple who made LonÂdon what it is today.
As she says in the short film above, her first find has become one of her most comÂmon — a clay pipe fragÂment.
The term mudÂlark was inventÂed to describe the poverÂty strickÂen VicÂtoÂriÂans who scoured the foreÂshore for copÂper, wire, and othÂer items with resale valÂue, as well as things they could clean off and use themÂselves.
Today’s mudÂlarks are priÂmarÂiÂly hisÂtoÂry buffs and amaÂteur archeÂolÂoÂgists.
The hobÂby has become so popÂuÂlar that The Port of LonÂdon AuthorÂiÂty, which conÂtrols the Thames waterÂway along with the Crown Estate, has startÂed to require foreÂshore perÂmits of all prospecÂtive debris hunters.
PerÂmitÂted mudÂlarks can claim as souÂvenirs howÂevÂer many VicÂtoÂriÂan clay pipes and blue and white potÂtery shards they dig up, but are legalÂly obligÂed by the Portable AntiqÂuiÂties Scheme to report items of potenÂtialÂly greater hisÂtoric and monÂeÂtary valÂue — i.e. TreaÂsure — to a museÂum-trained Finds LiaÂson OffiÂcer:
Any metalÂlic object, othÂer than a coin, proÂvidÂed that at least 10 per cent by weight of metÂal is preÂcious metÂal (that is, gold or silÂver) and that it is at least 300 years old when found. If the object is of preÂhisÂtoric date it will be TreaÂsure proÂvidÂed any part of it is preÂcious metÂal.
Any group of two or more metalÂlic objects of any comÂpoÂsiÂtion of preÂhisÂtoric date that come from the same find (see note below).
Two or more coins from the same find proÂvidÂed they are at least 300 years old when found and conÂtain 10 per cent gold or silÂver (if the coins conÂtain less than 10 per cent of gold or silÂver there must be at least ten of them). Only the folÂlowÂing groups of coins will norÂmalÂly be regardÂed as comÂing from the same find: Hoards that have been delibÂerÂateÂly hidÂden; SmallÂer groups of coins, such as the conÂtents of pursÂes, that may been dropped or lost; Votive or ritÂuÂal deposits.
Any object, whatÂevÂer it is made of, that is found in the same place as, or had preÂviÂousÂly been togethÂer with, anothÂer object that is TreaÂsure.
How did all this hisÂtoric refuse come to be in the Thames? MaikÂlem told ColÂlecÂtors WeekÂlythat there are many reaÂsons:
ObviÂousÂly, it’s been used as a rubÂbish dump. It was a useÂful place to chuck your houseÂhold waste. It was essenÂtialÂly a busy highÂway, so peoÂple acciÂdenÂtalÂly dropped things and lost things as they travÂeled on it. Of course, peoÂple also lived right up against it. LonÂdon was cenÂtered on the Thames so housÂes were all along it, and there was all this stuff comÂing out of the housÂes and off the bridges. It was the biggest port in the world in the 18th cenÂtuÂry, so there was all the shipÂbuildÂing and indusÂtry going on.
And then of course, there’s the rubÂbish that was used to build up the foreÂshore and creÂate barge beds. The riverbed in its natÂurÂal state is a V shape, so they had to build up the sides next to the rivÂer wall to make them flatÂter so the flat-botÂtom barges could rest there at low tide. They did that by pourÂing rubÂbish and buildÂing spoil and kiln waste, anyÂthing they could find—industrial waste, domesÂtic waste. When they dug into the ground furÂther up, they’d bring the spoil down and use it to build up the foreÂshore, and cap it off with a layÂer of chalk, which was soft and didn’t damÂage the botÂtom of the barges.
One of the reaÂsons we’re findÂing so much in the rivÂer now is because there’s so much eroÂsion. While it was a “workÂing rivÂer,” these barge beds were patched up and the revetÂments, or the woodÂen walls that held them in, were repaired when they broke. But now, they’re being left to fall apart, and these barge beds are erodÂing as the rivÂer is getÂting busier with rivÂer trafÂfic.
There are numerÂous social media groups where modÂern mudÂlarks can proudÂly share their finds, and seek assisÂtance in idenÂtiÂfyÂing strange or fragÂmentÂed objects.
Maiklem’s LonÂdon MudÂlark FaceÂbook page is an eduÂcaÂtion in and of itself, a reflecÂtion of her abidÂing interÂest in the hisÂtoric sigÂnifÂiÂcance of the items she trufÂfles up.
WitÂness the pewter buckÂle plate datÂing to the 14th or 15th-cenÂtuÂry that she spotÂted on the foreÂshore in late NovemÂber, turned over to her Finds LiaiÂson OffiÂcer and researched with the help of hisÂtoric pewter craftsÂman ColÂin Torode:
PriÂor to c.1350 pewter belt fitÂtings seem to have been rather rare, although a LonÂdon Girdlers’ Guild CharÂter of 1321 which banned the use of pewter belt fitÂtings does show that the metÂal was cerÂtainÂly in use. In 1344 the Girdlers’ guild again reitÂerÂatÂed the ban on what they felt were infeÂriÂor metÂals such as pewter, tin and lead. In 1391 howÂevÂer, a statute recÂogÂnized that these metÂals had been in use for some time and that their use could conÂtinÂue withÂout restricÂtion
This ornate plate would have had a sepÂaÂrate buckÂle frame attached to it and is probÂaÂbly a cheapÂer copy of the more upmarÂket copÂper alloy or silÂver verÂsions that were proÂduced at the time.Although the the openÂwork design is simÂiÂlar to those found in in furÂniÂture or church screens, it’s not reliÂgious or pilÂgrim relatÂed.
MaikÂlem also chalÂlenges fans to play along from home with “spot the find” videos for such items as a Tudor clothes hook, GeorÂgian cufÂflink, and a GerÂman salt glazed, stoneware bottle’s neck embossed with a human face.
The rivÂer also spews up plenÂty of drowned rats, flushÂing them out with the sewage after a heavy rain. OthÂer potenÂtial hazÂards include hypoÂderÂmic neeÂdles and broÂken glass.
In addiÂtion to such safeÂty preÂcauÂtions as gloves, sturÂdy footwear, and remainÂing mindÂful of incomÂing tides, MaikÂlem advisÂes novice mudÂlarks to look for straight lines and perÂfect cirÂcles — “the things that nature doesn’t make.”
It takes pracÂtice and patience to develÂop a skilled eye, but don’t get disÂcourÂaged if your first outÂings don’t yield the sort of jaw dropÂping disÂcovÂerÂies MaikÂlem has made — an intact glass VicÂtoÂriÂan sugÂar crushÂer, a 16th-cenÂtuÂry child’s leather shoe and Roman era potÂtery shards galore.
SomeÂtimes even plasÂtic comes with a comÂpelling stoÂry.
I’m still feelÂing quite gidÂdy over this bit of plasÂtic. I came to CornÂwall this week to write and to beachÂcomb. I hoped I might find a small piece of Lost Lego, but I wasn’t holdÂing out much hope. Calm weathÂer means less plasÂtic: good for the beach, bad for the Lego lookÂer. Then I found this wedged between two boulÂders. It’s one of the black octoÂpusÂes from the Lego spill of 1997 when, 20 miles from Land’s End, a huge wave hit the carÂgo ship Tokio Express. It tiltÂed 45 degrees and 62 conÂtainÂers slid into the water. One conÂtainÂer was filled with nearÂly 5 milÂlion pieces of Lego, much of which was sea themed. LitÂtle scuÂba tanks, flipÂpers, octoÂpusÂes, cutÂlassÂes, life rafts, spear guns, dragÂons and octoÂpusÂes like this still wash up on the beachÂes of CornÂwall and furÂther afield.
Stay abreast of Lara Maiklem’s mudÂlarkÂing finds here.
Try your hand at mudÂlarkÂing the Thames in perÂson, durÂing a guidÂed tour with the Thames ExplorÂer Trust.
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