On Jul 23, 2012, at 4:58 AM, cblitid@xxxxxxxx wrote: > > Today [19 July 2012] 'Kalenderblatt' passed over the sinking of the Mary > Rose, Had my book on swords been published--I doubt now that this will happen--you could have read about my encounter with the Mary Rose sword. Here's an excerpt: Leeds. I had lunch at Yates’ Wine Bar, where a poster explained that something called “the Blob” was “an unrivaled taste experience.” I thought about asking if it was “surprisingly good.” I ordered a pint of Boddingtons Ale and a steak and kidney pie, which I was enjoying immensely until it occurred to me that I’d not read anywhere that the mad cow disease scare was over. The first person I asked reassured me that it was over and that everything was now, “safe...just as long as you didn’t eat meat from certain parts of the animal, where was it exactly, near the bone perhaps?” I started imagining my own obituary in one of those peculiar English tabloid headlines, “Blade Buff Felled by Cut Too Near Bone.” From the center of the city, the pedestrian approach to the new museum passes along a canal and over a bridge by Tetley’s, a brewery where they charge for tours. The walk was very pleasant and the first sight of my goal equally so, for what is now the back of the armory building (the architects designed it to be the front but practical matters overcame aesthetic ones and they moved the door from the end where pedestrians walk, to the end where cars park) is marked by a large glass turret, containing a winding staircase with rows and rows of weapons decorating the walls. Like great halls in ancient fortresses it says in a casual way, “Welcome to our castle. You’ll notice we’ve got so many weapons in our armory here, we had to hang the surplus up. ” When I meet Graeme Rimer, Keeper of Department, a title that puts him in charge of the swords I want to see, he seems very much a man under siege. I mention to him that people in London are skeptical about the move of weapons from the Tower to Leeds and ask about how the decision was made. Why take weapons out of where people expect to go and see them and move them into a building in Leeds? The answers provided a brief lesson in the other side of real swords, the curator’s task of trying to make a fine collection pay for its upkeep while at the same time making the weapons available as a resource for study. Briefly, in the Tower there was a shortage of display space and the storage was, as one might imagine, in rooms spread here and there in a much modified and very old building. Preserving steel weapons in a porous stone building in Britain’s wet climate was difficult. Then there were the usual difficulties associated with government work--who was responsible for which kinds of decision and so on. The upshot was that when the Crown Jewels people wanted more display space, the weapons people started looking around for somewhere else they could show the collection. The best offers came from the English Rust Belt or whatever they call it, free-beer-if-your-company-moves-here zones. Rimer was justly proud of having secured financing, built a building and moved the collection all in a very short time. And he was aware of the old adage, uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. People were expecting the museum to fail. Literally and metaphorically, there was no free coffee for anyone here. When I visited they had just opened an exhibit on “Buffalo Bill and the Wild West.” Walking past it on the way in I thought I saw confusion of purpose--what on earth would be the connection between one of the great arms and armor collections of the world and Buffalo Bill? Had the Tower of London Armoury lost its head? But the longer I spent in the galleries, the more I came to like the place, and I was not alone. Among parents with children, the place is a hit. They come in droves, they come in hordes, they eat the sandwiches and real home-made Bakewell tarts and real home-made soup sold by the restaurants, watch real imitation sword fights and see the exhibits and the slide shows and the brief explanatory videos, all of which are well done. They buy things in the gift shop, which is one of those disappointing places that thinks a museum should sell toys and ice creams and sweatshirts, but stocks few books capable of taking the story further. Generally people who visit the museum come away pleased, more engaged than people were by the same collection when it was at the Tower because there is more context, more explanation. If this were as close to real swords as any person could come, it would be close enough. He or she would get the general idea of real swords and guns and so on and have plenty oddities to consider. One example, a German Extending Rapier from about 1590. The card accompanying the exhibit explains, “On 1 March 1557 Mary I decreed that no sword or rapier larger than ‘a yarde and a halfe quarter’ should be worn or sold. This sword could be made to conform, but it could also be lengthened when the wearer wished.” But for me there was one step closer to real, a visit to the inner sanctum, the vault where all the swords not currently on display are stored. They provided white gloves. I asked Peter Smithurst, my guide for the occasion, how common damage from acid on people’s fingers really was. He said that during the move they had found one or two examples of people who had clearly touched the blades with ungloved hands and left impressions, residual marks. I said I had never used gloves when handling swords and that it seemed somehow wrong to pussyfoot around holding in gloved hands weapons that big rugged men had worn in weather both fair and foul. He smiled. And then we both put gloves on, for after a bewildering journey through what seemed like a labyrinth designed for security purposes but actually, according to Smithurst, was just the architects and the building’s users miscommunicating somewhat about who needed to go where and by what routes, we had arrived in a cavernous room that was filled with rack after rack of splendid swords, halberds, pikes, all things bright and beautiful. Guns were elsewhere. What , Smithurst asked, would I like to see? “Scottish Basket Hilts.” To write or speak of “real” in relation to anything Scottish is difficult. Two recent authors call the problem the “legacy of tartanry.” Every nation suffers from a gap between how people who haven’t been there imagine it to be and how it “really” is for people who live there, but in Scotland’s case the problem is particularly acute. There are Scots and would-be Scots all over the world stirring the pot and coming up with images of a land of mists, heather and tales of the toughness of men who wear skirts. Bagpipe jokes. This is not a new problem. When Boswell visited the highlands in 1773 he wrote: "Wed 1 Sept...M'Queen walked some miles to give us a convoy. He had, in 1745, joined the Highland army at Fort Augustus, and continued in it till after the battle of Culloden. As he narrated the particulars of that ill-advised, but brave attempt, I could not refrain from tears. There is a certain association of ideas in my mind upon that subject, by which I am strongly affected. The very Highland names, or the sound of a bagpipe, will stir my blood, and fill me with a mixture of melancholy and respect for courage; with pity for an unfortunate and superstitious regard for antiquity, and thoughtless inclination for war; in short, with a crowd of sensations with which sober rationality has nothing to do." Thus it is with many people when they hear the massed bands at a Highland Games or the Edinburgh Tattoo or when they come across a basket hilted sword. And if the sword in question only looks a little like a Scottish sword and was made by low-wage workers in India, the question becomes, is this any more or less real than Japanese T.V. personalities or African Americans from Sacramento playing in a pipe band? (I mention the former because a student told me of a t.v. stunt in which a presenter attempted to ‘learn’ the bagpipes in three or four days; I mention the latter because at a recent Highland Games I caught their performance and loved it.) In clan parades at Highland Games in the U.S. it has become customary for men to march past dressed in some version of eighteenth century garb, shouting the clan rallying cry and saluting with replica swords. These are not quite reenactors, and they’re very much real contemporary people who feel Boswell’s non-sober, non-rational mixture of melancholy and respect. If all this semi-real stuff has the power to make us feel something, imagine the overwhelming power of the collection of swords that now was before me. A final ironic point. Anthony Darling attributes the decline of highland sword making art to two things: the Disarming Act of 1746, and the manufacture in Birmingham, England of poor imitations of the basket hilted sword which allowed Colonels to arm new highland regiments at a cost of only eight shilling and six pence per sword. Small wonder that one often comes across early eighteenth century hilts on late eighteenth century and even on nineteenth century blades. Scots knew a good thing when they saw it. How to convey the beauty of these broadswords? The blades vary, some relatively narrow, some up to three inches across, but they were all probably made somewhere outside Scotland--Solingen, Shotley Bridge, somewhere. The peculiarly Scottish art, the thing that holds the eye, lies in the variety of responses to the same problem: how to protect the user’s hand. Burton dismissed basket hilts as a bad design that restricted a man’s wrist movements. It may be that he was right. To me this doesn’t matter. It's about a craftsman's vernacular. Here an unknown smith pieced together what’s called a “ribbon hilt,” a simple set of pieces of iron whose decorative power comes from form alone. Pick up a sword from the other end of the spectrum and there’s a pommel of semi-precious stone, a red velvet liner, intricate wiggly bits, the same form more or less, but gone completely over-the-top baroque. A poor man’s sword, a rich man’s sword, both now called the same thing--basket hilt, both lie sideways in the dark, side by side like bones in a casket, bound together for as long as the museum stands, leveled by the passage of time, preserved by how we value what is real. Here is the standard, hearts and diamonds basket hilt, associated with Glasgow and crudely copied by makers in Birmingham. And here is a more wavy pattern, the peak of Scottish invention, the work of Walter Allan, freeman of the Incorporation of Hammermen of Stirling. I get permission to take photographs. As I click away the Hammermen, as hilt makers were called, come to me, a parade of ghosts: John Simpson, Thomas Gemmill, Robert Craig in Glasgow, John Simpson, Walter Allen, John Allen, James Grant in Stirling and a trailing host of clan armorers and local blacksmiths whose signatures, marks, styles, identities are lost. I take a photograph a blade marked, “Gott Bewar de Verechte Schotten,” which on the spot I guessed might mean, "The upright Scots have God on their side.” The horizontal Scots would, of course, already been in God’s protection. It turns out that "God protect the righteous Scots" would be closer. What else was there? The Mary Rose sword. The one and only sixteenth century English basket hilt, rescued from the bottom of the sea, right there on a short plank of wood. Would I like to hold it? Indeed I would. And there was a sword made by Monsieur Leparge in Paris, with a triangular blade on which was written Nelson’s famous message, “England Expects Every Man To Do His Duty,” and a list of Wellington’s victories in Spain and Portugal. I wondered what the Frenchman thought of the commission. Perhaps he was a royalist and happy to accept. There was a sword with a detailed calendar engraved on the blade. You’ve seen the movie of this in action: “So, finally we meet. Prepare to die.” “Right ho, fair enough. But why?” “Because it is your day to die.” “Oh... I see, how do you know?” “Because I’ve looked it up on this calendar on my blade.” And there was a rapier longer than any I’ve ever seen, five foot or more, so long it would seem impossible to use. In the library I met Jenny Connolley, the first female arms and armor specialist I’d ever come across. It’s my experience that many women are better at reading and understanding visual signs than I am so, I felt I had to ask her about sex. “What do you think of the notion that swords are some kind of penis substitute?” She said that it’s something of a commonplace among Art Historians that in Renaissance paintings and prints there is often a visual connection made between the sword and the codpiece or what’s inside it, and that if I were to look in J.R.Hale, Artists and Warfare in the Renaissance, I’d find all kinds of grist for that particular mill. We pulled out a copy of the book and looked. I had to agree. In many of these old pictures men do seem to be holding their sword hilts rather suggestively and blades do sometimes seem to be pointing rather...well... provocatively. But then, of course, people today are not used to seeing great bulging codpieces as normal and we don’t live in the world of Renaissance men. “Don’t forget the ‘ballock’ or ‘bollock’ dagger,” said Peter Smithurst, checking to see how I was getting on and wanting to introduce, Andrew Deane, one of the museum’s weapons demonstrators. We summarized the conversation for Deane. He said that while it may be true that artists developed a convention about how swords can be used to suggest sex sword fighting as he understands it isn’t sexual at all. It’s a different kind of energy altogether. “When I fight,” he said, “my energy peaks in intensity, but it’s definitely not sexual. I have to keep control of my weapon.” I don’t want it to seem like I’m making fun of Andrew here. He’s a very intense and straightforward kind of guy, a nice guy and he meant exactly what he said--that the two “intimacies,” sword fighting and sex, are quite different. But I report the words from my notes. I trust they’re exactly as he said them. I spent some time rummaging in the library. A newspaper article from 1904 caught my attention chiefly for how much it sounded like the turn of the century comic novel, Diary of a Nobody and Monty Python’s “Why accountancy isn’t boring.” The piece opened with what the author knew to be understood by all, but which was news to me--some towns in England have their very own civic sword, “There are very few towns in England which possess the privilege of having a sword carried before the Mayor. During the fourteenth century only seven cities and towns received it, Lincoln, York and Chester received their gifts from the King. Newcastle acquired its privilege by special Charter in 1391. London, the first city to which the privilege was granted, has held a sword almost from time immemorial...” or shortly thereafter...”while as to the use at Coventry and Bristol, no evidence is forthcoming, although the Bristol sword is believed to have been in use since 1373...” Now to the heart of the matter, whether Guildford had a sword too. To get the joke you have to think of any place along the train lines that feed New York or on the other coast, consider maybe Bakersfield. “Had Guildford a sword? There seems to be every probability that Guildford was one of the towns which had a similar privilege, but it is not at all clear how that privilege was acquired. Possibly... Probably from James II, when the King granted to the Mayor and Alderman the right of using the royal color, scarlet for their gowns...” David Ritchie, Portland, Oregon